CHILDLIKE IN THY INNOCENCE.
177
For the beings we have made
Still inhabit those lone hills;
And their spirit-voices ring
From the depths of shaded rills!
And their pinions wave above
Like a thin, transparent cloud:
And the air is hushed and still,
And the stately pine is bowed.
Still inhabit those lone hills;
And their spirit-voices ring
From the depths of shaded rills!
And their pinions wave above
Like a thin, transparent cloud:
And the air is hushed and still,
And the stately pine is bowed.
Oftentimes, within our hearts
Will those spirit-voices sound,
For their place of birth to them,
Must be consecrated ground.
When their known and solemn tread
Through each dreaming bosom thrills,
We will wander back again
To our own familiar hills.
Will those spirit-voices sound,
For their place of birth to them,
Must be consecrated ground.
When their known and solemn tread
Through each dreaming bosom thrills,
We will wander back again
To our own familiar hills.
