O Lord God Almighty! to Thee We turn as our solace above; The waters may fail from the sea, But not from thy fountains of love: Oh, teach us Thy will to obey, And sing with one heart and accord, "He gave and he taketh away, And praised be the name of the Lord!" O'er the Mountains. Some spirit wafts our mountain lay-- Hili ho! boys, hili ho! To distant groves and glens away! Hili ho! boys, hili ho! E'en so the tide of empire flows-- Ho! boys, hili ho! Rejoicing as it westward goes! Ho! boys, hili ho! To refresh our weary way Gush the crystal fountains, As a pilgrim band we stray Cheerly o'er the mountains. The woodland rings with song and shout! Hili ho! boys, hili ho! As though a fairy hunt were out! Hili ho! boys, hili ho! E'en so the voice of woman cheers-- Ho! boys, hili ho! The hearts of hardy mountaineers! Ho! boys, hili ho! Like the glow of northern skies Mirrored in the fountains, Beams the love-light of fond eyes, As we cross the mountains. Woman. Ah, woman!--in this world of ours, What boon can be compared to thee?-- How slow would drag life's weary hours, Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers, And his the wealth of land and sea, If destined to exist alone, And ne'er call woman's heart his own! My mother!--At that holy name, Within my bosom there's a gush Of feeling, which no time can tame-- A feeling, which, for years of fame, I would not, could not, crush! And sisters!--ye are dear as life; But when I look upon my wife, My heart-blood gives a sudden rush, And all my fond affections blend In mother--sisters--wife and friend! Yes, woman's love is free from guile, And pure as bright Aurora's ray; The heart will melt before her smile, And base-born passions fade away! Were I the monarch of the earth, Or master of the swelling sea, I would not estimate their worth, Dear woman, half the price of thee. Rosabel. I miss thee from my side, beloved, I miss thee from my side; And wearily and drearily Flows Time's resistless tide. The world, and all its fleeting joys, To me are worse than vain, Until I clasp thee to my heart, Beloved one, again. The wildwood and the forest-path, We used to thread of yore, With bird and bee have flown with thee, And gone for ever more! There is no music in the grove, No echo on the hill; But melancholy boughs are there-- And hushed the whip-poor-will. I miss thee in the town, beloved, I miss thee in the town; From morn I grieve till dewy eve Spreads wide its mantle brown. My spirit's wings, that once could soar In Fancy's world of air, Are crushed and beaten to the ground By life-corroding care.