Poetry: The Green Hills Of My Fatherland
[The following lincs, writlen by a lady ir. the West, whose name we have forgottcn. will doubtless nwaken in many of our readers, the romeinbrnnce of formcr days:] THE GREEN HILLS OF Mï FATIIERLAND. The green hulsof my father-land, Ãn drenms still grect my view; I sec onec more the wave-girl strand - The ocean depth of blue - The eky, the glorious slcy outspread Abovo their calm repose - The river o'er iis rock y bed Still singing ns it flows - The stillnees of the Sabbath hours, When men go up to pray - The sunlight resting on the flowers - The birds t'.iat singamong the bowers, Through all the summcr day. Lnnd of my birth! - mine early love! Once more ihy airs I b:cathel I sce ihy proud hills tower above - Tliy green vales sleep beneath - Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills, All rise before mine eyes! The dawn of morning on thy hills, Tlic gorgeous sunset skies - Thy forests, f rom whose deep recess A thousand streams have birtli, Gladdening the lonely wilderness, And h'lling the green silentness Wiih melody and mirth. I wonder f my homo would ácem As lovely as ol yore! 1 wonder if tho mountain's stream Goes singing by the door! And if the flowers still bloom as fair, And if the woodbines climb Aa when t used to train them there, In the dear olden timet I wonder if the birds stilt sing Upon the garden tree, As sweetly as in that swect spring Wliose gjltleti memories géntly bnng So mpny dreams to mei I know that there hath berin a change, A cÃhange o'er hall and earth- Faces and footsteps new nnd strange, About my place of birth ! The heavens nboVe are atill os bright As in thednys gorie by ; Hut vanished is the beacon light Tlmt cheered my morning sky; And 1)111, and vale, and wooded glen$ And rock, and murmuring stream4 That-wore such glorious beauiy Ãierl, VVould seem, shoukl I return ngain. The record of a dream; I mourn not for my childhood's hours, Since in the far off West - 'Neath sunnier skies, in greener bowero, My heart hath found itsreöt. I mourn not for the hills and slreamö That chained my steps so long ; Yet still I see them in my dreams, And hail them in my song; And often by the hedrtb-fire's blazo, When winter evesshall comej We'll eit and talk of oiher daye, Andaing the well remeinbercd lays Of my Green Mountain home.
Article
Subjects
Laura M. Hawley Thurston
nature poetry
Poem
Old News
Signal of Liberty