When my wild heart was careless and free,
But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved,
Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me.
Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves,
Like songs of the dear olden time;
Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast
Of the home and the friends that were mine,
In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest,
Nor deem'd it should ever repine.
I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been,
And the spell brings the dear olden time
When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see,
I treasure a life all my own,
And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee,
For like thine half its beauty hath flown.
I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again,
And snatch back the dear olden time,
When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

JAMES MACFARLAN.

A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree
unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in
Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of
a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his
wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in
Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an
intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more
methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of
poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest
encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications
of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and
"The Lyrics of Life." A little poetical _brochure_, entitled, "The
Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.

Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the
Glasgow Athenaeum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with
the _Bulletin_, a daily journal published in Glasgow.

ISABELLE.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!
Oh, beautiful and bright!
Thy voice is music of the heart--
Thy looks are rarest light!
What time the silver dawn of dreams