252 LAURA M. THURSTON. [1830-40. But wherefore shall I break the spell That makes the future seem so bright ? Why to the young, glad spirit tell Of Avithering and blight? 'T were better: when the meteor dies, A steadier, holier light shall rise, Cheering the gloomy night : A light, when others fade away, Still shining on to perfect day. Go then — and when no more are seen The faces that ye now behold — When years, long years shall intervene, Sadly and darkly told — When time, with stealthy hand, shall U'ace His mystic lines on every face. Oh, may his touch unfold The promise of that better part. The unfading spring-time of the heart ! THE GREEN HILLS OF MY FATHER-LAND. The green hills of my father-land In dreams still greet my view ; I see once more the wave-girt strand — The ocean-depth of blue — The sky — the glorious sky, outspread Above their calm repose — The river, o'er its rocky bed Still singing as it flows — The stillness of the Sabbath hours. When men go up to pray — The sunlight resting on the flowers — The birds that sing among the bowers. Through all the summer day. Land of my birth ! — mine early love ! Once more thine airs I breathe ! I see thy proud hills tower above — Thy green vales sleep beneath — Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills, . All rise before mine eyes. The dawn of morning on thy hills, Thy gorgeous sunset skies, — Thy forests, from whose deep recess A thousand streams have birth, Glad'ning the lonely wilderness, And filling the green silentness With melody and mirth. I wonder if my home would seem As lovely as of yore ! I wonder if the mountain stream Goes singing by the door ! And if the flowers still bloom as fair, And if the woodbines climb. As when I used to train them there, In the dear olden time I I wonder if the birds still sing Upon the garden tree. As sweetly as in that sweet Spring Whose golden memories gently bring So many dreams to me ! I know that there hath been a change, A change o'er hall and hearth ! Faces and footsteps new and strange. About my place of birth ! The heavens above are still as bright As in the days gone by. But vanished is the beacon light That cheered my morning sky ! And hill, and vale, and wooded glen, And rock, and murmuring stream. That wore such glorious beauty then, Would seem, should I return again, The record of a dream I I mourn not for my childhood's hours. Since, in the far-off West, 'Neath sunnier skies, in greener bowers, My heart hath found its I'est. I mourn not for the hills and streams That chained my steps so long. Yet still I see them in my dreams. And hail them in my song ;
