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334      LAURA M. THURSTON.

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!


LAURA M. THURSTON.   335


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.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 13:55:45