220 The Canadian Horticulturist. 



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HOME. 



(For the Canadian Horticulturist.) 



HE soft wind scatters odors sweet, 

 The Fireflies glitter in the air, 

 As on my moon-lit garden seat, 

 I breathe my evening prayer. 



Oh how I love this solitude ! 



When mind by care oppressed, 

 And in sweet nature's quietude, 



My spirit findeth rest. 



Memory brings back long summer days ; 



I live the past all o'er again ; 

 Again I climb the heathery braes. 



Again I'm back in my Scottish hame. 



I hear the echo of the Falls, 



I see old Tintac's cloudy peak ; 

 I hear the Cuckoo's plaintive calls. 



And the Woodpecker's eager beat. 



1 hear the Laverock in the lift ; 



Oh thou Heaven-taught bird divine. 

 Why am I thus, of thee bereft ? 



Why came I to this distant chme ? 



Why did I cross the icy bar, 



Where winter holds his sway so long? 

 My Scottish home is fairer far ; 



Land of beauty, land of song. 



A rapture that I cannot name 



Comes o'er me as my years grow brief ; 

 Oh why does Memory still remain 



Twining around my heart a wreath 

 Of hawthorn bloom and heather bell ? 



Lethe, with all its mystic powers. 

 Can never from my brain despel 



The fragrance of my niountain flowers. 



GRANDMA GOWAN. 



