HILLS that were born of ages,
Heaving slowly from the deep,
Are shaking down their tresses,
Silver-threaded from the steep;
Curling shining tresses
Streaming ever down the steep.

Hills! prophets of the future,
Hills! teachers of the past,
Like monuments to mighty gods
Upon the broad earth cast.
Rob'd in the purple heather,
Crown'd with the snow-white mist,
Kings sit they all together,
Vouchsafing to be kiss'd
By the tender sunlight
Only when they list.

The unfathom'd lakes lie meekly
Looking upwards to the sky,
And image forth the monarchs
As a dream or fantasy;
And the hill-wind runneth o'er them,
Singing in Æolian strains,
Singing of the earth's divineness
To the dwellers in the plains.