This page needs to be proofread.
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,
�� �
