THE GREEN HILLS OF MY FATHER.
THE green hills of my father-land
In dreams still greet my view:
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 sun-light resting on the flowers,
The birds that sing among the bowers,
Through all the summer-day.
Land of my birth! mine early love!
Once more thine airs I breathe!
I see thy proud hills tower above,
Thy green vales sleep beneath;
Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills,
All rise before mine eyes,
The dawn of morning on thy hills,
Thy 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 lonely 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 sunnier skies, in 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 shall come,
We'll sit and talk of other days,
And sing the well-remember'd lays
Of my green-mountain home.
Give me the death of those
Who for their country die;
And O be mine like their repose,
When cold and low they lie!
Their loveliest mother earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;
In her sweet lap who gave them birth,
They find their tranquil grave.
DOUGLAS TO THE POPULACE OF STIRLING.
HEAR, gentle friends! ere yet, for me,
Ye break the bands of fealty.
My life, my honour, and my cause,
I tender free to Scotland's laws.
Are these so weak as must require
The aid of your misguided ire?
Or, if I suffer causeless wrong,
Is then my selfish rage so strong,
My sense of public weal so low,
That, for mean vengeance on a foe,
Those cords of love I should unbind,
Which knit my country and my kind?
Oh no! believe, in yonder tower
It will not soothe my captive hour,
To know those spears our foes should dread,
For me in kindred gore are red;
To know, in fruitless brawl begun,
For me, that mother wails her son;
For me that widow's mate expires,
For me, that orphans weep their sires.
That patriots mourn insulted laws,
And curse the Douglas for the cause.
O let your patience ward such ill,
And keep your right to love me still.
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