Flowers of My Own Loved Clime

Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved,
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!