Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!

Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!
I'm dying, mother dear!
And shades of ever deepening gloom
Are round, and o'er me here,—
The city's din is in my ear,
Its glitter mocks my eye,—
Oh, take me where the skies are clear.
And the hills are green, to die!

I do not dread the shadowy vale,
The river deep and chill,—
For, leaning on my Saviour's arm,
My soul shall fear no ill,—
But oh, to pass from Earth away
Where skies are blue above,
Where glad birds sing, and streamlets play,
And soft winds breathe of love!

And oh, within these fevered hands,
To clasp my flowers again!
To lay them on my weary breast,
And round my throbbing brain!
Then, feel the South wind o'er me pass
As long ago it swept,
When, 'mid the scented summer grass,
I laid me down and slept!

Oh, ever, in my fevered dreams,
The fountain's play I hear,—
The sighing winds, the rippling streams,
The robin's music clear,—
Old pleasant sounds are in my ear,
Sweet visions meet my eye—
Oh take me, take me, mother dear,
To the summer hills, to die!