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Poetry: The Green Hills Of My Fatherland

Poetry: The Green Hills Of My Fatherland image
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[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, ín 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 cíhange 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 Üierl, 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.