And soon my native hills were blent,
With the pale sky that arched them o'er.
Four days were passed, and now I stood
Upon a rock that walled the deep:
Before me rolled the boundless flood,
A glorious dreamer in its sleep.
'Twas summer morn, and bright as heaven;
And though I wept, I was not sad,
For tears, thou knowest, are often given
When the overflowing heart is glad.