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SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND.
SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND.
Hills!—my hills!—whose outline dear
O'er the morning mist doth peer,
Blessed hills! whose wings outspread,
Seemed to follow while we fled,
When our parting glance was bent
On our country's battlement,
As with white sails set we sped
Far away, o'er ocean dread,
How our glad return ye greet
With a smile of welcome sweet!
He, who fashioned earth and sea,
Made no hills more fair than ye.
Spires! that break the rolling tide
Of man's worldliness and pride,
Asking with your Sabbath chime
For his consecrated time,
And with holy chant and prayer
Soothing all his woe and care,
Minster and cathedral high
Ne'er have shut ye from mine eye,
With your church-yard's grassy sod,
Where my musing childhood trod,
