Classic Poem

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER .

Come to the hills with me!
Come tread the green and flowery paths, that wind
'Neath many a stately tree
That, ages lost, hath lined
These airy summits of our Western Land!
The stars are fading, and the breeze is bland.

Come to the hills with me!
The fresh-lipp'd Morn is breathing glorious life.
Don thy calash, and flee
The city's dust and strife:
Leave thy prunelle and silken hose, and take
Calf-skin and worsted! — quick, thy toilet make!

Here — take the garden's pride:
Thy cheek, like it, will soon be rosy-fair.
Now for the green hill-side,
And the pure upland air!
Death floats in every breeze that fans us here.
Ready? In sooth thou look'st the mountaineer!

So — we are winding up;
The fair stars have not all yet left the sky:
There — pluck that honey-cup!
Thy slender hand will vie
With it in whiteness; and — But I forget —
Dark eyes compare not with the violet:

Still, pluck it too; I 'll call
Thine bright as any star, in any place.
Nay — let thy bonnet fall
Back from thy radiant face,
And the fresh breezes with thy ringlets play! —
Whither thine eyes now? Ah! the King of Day!

Gloriously comes he there!
Morn on the hills! One hour of life like this,
Pays for whole weeks of care;
Earth scarce hath greater bliss:
Yet " angel visits" are almost as many
As visits to the hills — They turn no penny !

What life is this I feel!
A new sensation thrills through every vein:
And glowing fancies steal
Athwart my wondering brain:
Visions of Eld — hopes — aspirations — fears
That vanish soon — bright dreams of coming years!

'Neath these old oaks and elms,
The spirit hath a fullness of delight —
A depth of joy, that whelms,
Like the lone, starry night,
Our intellectual being, in a maze,
Where fancy, pleas'd, bewilder'd, startled, plays —

Now floundering in gloom;
Now reveling in glory, as a ray
The darkness doth illume:
Then bursts the perfect day,
And the clear'd vision wanders wide and free
Through the starred regions of Infinity.

Morn on the hill-tops! Hark!
The low of kine swells up from yon green vale,
With song of meadow-lark,
And merry note of quail;
And from each tree-top, by the free wind stirr'd,
Floats the rich matin of some grateful bird.

The breeze is rising now;
The purple clouds sail gracefully along;
The spiral saplings bow,
And swell the choral song.
Oh, for the soul to truth and freedom born,
What beauty and what glory hath the Morn!

Yet man alone, of all
To whom Earth's visible blessings have been given,
Deemeth the privilege small
Thus to commune with Heaven:
There is no bank or railroad stock on high —
Stars are not gold — pence rain not from the sky!