American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

LAURA M. THURSTON.

Biographical Sketch.

MRS. THURSTON, daughter of Mr. Earl P. Hawley, was born at Norfolk, Connecticut, in December, 1812. She was educated at the Hartford Female Seminary, and after leaving it was engaged for some years as a teacher in various places, until, through the recommendation of Mr. John P. Brace, (principal of the Hartford Seminary,) she was invited to take charge of a school at New-Albany, Indiana. In September, 1839, she became the wife of Franklin Thurston, a merchant of that place, where she resided until her death, in July, 1842. Her poems appeared from time to time in the periodicals under the signature of Viola, and she sang forth her feelings with a melodious voice, which never failed to find an echo in the hearts of those who heard it.

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! my early love! Once more thine airs I breathe! I see thy proud hills tower above, The green vales sleep beneath, Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills, All rise before mine eyes, The dawn of morning on thy hills, The gorgeous sunset skies; Thy forests, from whose deep recess A thousand streams have birth, — Gladdening 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 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 vanish'd is the beacon-light That cheer'd 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 mourn not for my childhood's hours, Since, in the far-off West, 'Neath summer skies, and greener bowers, My heart hath found its rest. I mourn not for the hills and streams That chain'd my steps so long, Yet still I see them in my dreams, And hail them in my song, And often, by the hearth-fire's blaze, When winter eves are come, We'll sit and talk of other days, And sing the well-remember'd lays Of my Green Mountain home!

THE SLEEPER.

SHE sleepeth; and the summer breezes' sighing, Shedding the green leaves on the fountain's breast, And the low murmur of the stream replying Unto their melody, break not her rest.

She sleepeth, while the evening dews are falling In glittering showers upon her lowly bed; And the lone night-bird, to his fellow calling, Sweet echo wakes— but wakens not the dead.

She sleepeth; and the moonlight too is sleeping In calm, clear radiance on that hallow'd spot; As if that turf ne'er bore the train of weeping, As if the dead were evermore forgot.

She sleepeth; deep and dreamless is her slumber, She will not waken when the morning breaks; No —time a weary catalogue shall number Of vanish'd years, ere she again awakes.

I know thy home is lonely —that thy dwelling No more shall echo to that loved one's tread; I know too well thy widow'd heart is swelling With secret grief; yet weep not for the dead.

She yet shall waken on that morning glorious, When day shall evermore displace the night, O'er time and change, and pain and death victorious, A holy seraph in the land of light.

Yes, she shall waken; not to gloom and sorrow, Not to the blight of care, the thrill of pain, Wake to the day that ne'er shall know a morrow, To life that shall not yield to death again.

She rests in peace; for her forbear thy weeping; Thou soon shalt meet her in the world on high! The care-worn form in yonder grave is sleeping, But the freed spirit lives beyond the sky.