WE have struggled up the hill-side,
We stand upon its brow, —
O, lovely as a dream of heaven,
The scene before us now!

There singeth past the woodlands,
Where the listening aspens quiver,
There shineth through the meadows,
The beautiful, bright river.

And, farther off, old Ocean
Is lying at his rest,
With the warm and gentle sunlight
Asleep upon his breast.

But low down in the village
Is a cottage, white and small,
And to me that cottage seemeth
More glorious than all!

From out its portal floweth
A tide of minstrelsy,
That rolleth as a river,
And soundeth as the sea!

If in storm-shocks meet its waters,
Or in summer quiet glide,
A sun that knows no setting
Smiles on the crystal tide; —

A sun across whose brightness
No lightest cloud is driven, —
The constant, kind approval,
The blessed love of Heaven.