JUNE. 135 



The green and breezy hills — away ! 



My heart is light, my foot is free, 

 And, resting on the topmost peak, 

 The freshening gale shall fan my cheek, — 



The hills were ever dear to me ! 



I stand upon the mountain's brow, 



A monarch in this region wide ; 

 I and the grey-faced mountain-sheep 

 The solitary station keep, 



As living thing were none beside. 



Tis summer eve, a gentle hour ; 



The west is rich in sombre sheen ; 

 And 'mid the garden's leafy trees, 

 Springs up a cool refreshing breeze, 



And the pale stars are faintly seen. 



The white owl with his downy wings 



And hooded head goes slowly by ; 

 The hawk- moth sits upon the flowers ; 

 And through the silent evening hours 



The little brooks make melody. 



And walking 'mid the folded blooms 



At summer midnight shalt thou feel 

 A softened heart, a will subdued, 

 A holy sense of gratitude, 

 An influence from the Source of Good, 



Thy bitterest griefs to heal. 



