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332 LAURA M. THURSTON

He was our brothers' treasure,
   Their bosom's only pride;
A fair depending blossom,
   By their protecting side.
A thing to watch and cherish,
   With varying hopes and fears;
To make the slender trembling reed
  Their staff for future years.

He is--a blessed angel,
   His home is in the sky;
He shines among those living lights,
   Beneath his Maker's eye.
A freshly gather'd lily,
   A bud of early doom,
Hath been transplanted from the earth,
   To bloom beyond the tomb.

LAURA M. THURSTON.

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.

LAURA M. THURSTON. 333

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,

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 16:50:24