"My native hills are far away, Beneath a soft and sunny sky; Green as the sea, the forests play, 'Mid the fresh winds that sweep them by. I loved those hills, I loved the flowers, That dashed with gems their sunny swells, And oft I fondly dreamed for hours, By streams within those mountain dells. I loved the wood--each tree and leaf, In breeze or blast, to me was fair, And if my heart was touched with grief, I always found a solace there. My parents slumbered in the tomb; But thrilling thoughts of them came back, And seemed within my breast to bloom. As lone I ranged the forest track. The wild flowers rose beneath my feet Like memories dear of those who slept, And all around to me was sweet, Although, perchance, I sometimes wept. I wept, but not, oh not in sadness, And those bright tears I would not smother, For less they flowed in grief than gladness, So blest the memory of my mother. And she was linked, I know not why, With leaves and flowers, and landscapes fair And all beneath the bending sky, As if she still were with me there. The echo bursting from the dell, Recalled her song beside my bed; The hill-side with its sunny swell, Her bosom-pillow for my head. The breathing lake at even-tide, When o'er it fell the down of night, Seemed the sweet heaven, which by her side, I found in childhood's dreams of light: And morning, as it brightly broke, And blessed the hills with joyous dyes, Was like her look, when first I woke, And found her gazing in my eyes. VI.