Beneath the cloud-topp’d mountain,
Beside the craggy bluff,
Where every dint of nature
Is rude and wild enough;
Upon the verdant meadow,
Upon the sunburnt plain,
Upon the sandy hillock;
We waken music’s strain.
Beneath the pine’s thick branches,
That has for ages stood;
Beneath the humble cedar,
And the green cotton-wood;
Beside the broad, smooth river,
Beside the flowing spring,
Beside the limpid streamlet;
We often sit and sing.
Beneath the sparkling concave,
When stars in millions come
To cheer the pilgrim strangers,
And bid us feel at home;
Beneath the lovely moonlight,
When Cynthia spreads her rays;
In social groups assembled,
We join in songs of praise.
Cheer’d by the blaze of firelight,
When twilight shadows fall,
And when the darkness gathers
Around our spacious hall,
With all the warm emotion
To saintly bosoms given,
In strains of pure devotion
We praise the God of heaven.