THERE'S a spot in the mountains, where the dew, dear,
Is laden with the odours of the pine,
Where the heavens seem unbounded, and their blue, dear,
Is deepest where it mirrored seems to shine.
There, at morn and eve, with rapture old and new, dear,
The thrushes sing their double song divine,
And the melody their voices breathe, of you, dear,
Speaks ever to this happy heart of mine.
There's a cabin in the mountains, where the fare, dear,
Is frugal as the cheer of Arden blest;
But contentment sweet and fellowship are there, dear,
And Love, that makes the feast he honors—best!