Part 64

MRS. A. M. WELLS.

47. The wild wind sweeps across your low damp floors, And makes a weary noise and wailing moan; All night you hear the clap of broken doors, That on their rusty hinges grate and groan; And then old voices, calling from behind The worn and wormy wainscot, flapping in the wind.

THOMAS MILLER.

48. In simple western style, With all your chambers on the lower floor; In fact, of stories you will boast no more Than simply one. 'Tis at the river's side, And near it grows a noble sycamore; A velvet lawn of green, outspreading wide, Slopes smoothly down, to meet the ever-rippling tide.

MRS. DANA.

49. It is a home to die for, as it stands Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound Of mirthful childhood o'er the green repose And laughing sunshine of the pastures round.

HEMANS.

50. Gay apartments, Where mimic life beneath the storied roof Glows to the eye, and at the painter's touch A new creation glows along the walls.

ARTHUR MURPHY--Orphan of China.

51. Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way, Where round the cot's romantic glade are seen The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green.

CAMPBELL.

52. A lonesome lodge, That stands so lowe in lonely glen. The little windowe dim and darke Is hung with ivy, brier, and yewe; No shimmering sun here ever shone, No halesome breeze here ever blewe. No chair, no table may you spye, No cheareful hearth, no welcome bed, Naught save a rope with running noose, That dangling hangs up o'er your heade.

PERCY'S RELIQUES--Heir of Linne.

53. The mountains, the mountains! amidst them is your home; To their pure and sparkling fountains impatiently you come; Their bleak and towering summits invade the dark blue sky, But o'er their rudest ridges your fancy loves to fly.

DR. S. H. DICKSON.

54. A lowly roof; Thou know'st it well, and yet 'twill seem more low Than it was wont to seem, for thou wilt be A visitant of loftier domes and halls, Meet for the feet of princes.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

55. Your house a cottage more Than palace, and will fitting be For all your use, not luxury. Your garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's, will pleasures yield Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

COWLEY.

56. You'll think yourself superbly off, though rather cramp'd in bed, If your garret keep the winter rain from dropping on your head.

ALBERT PIKE.

57. A snug thack house; before the door a green, Hens on the midding, ducks in pools are seen. On this side stands a barn, on that a byre, A peat-stack joins, an' forms a rural square. The house is yours,--there shall we see you lean And to your turfy seat invite a frien'.

ALLAN RAMSAY--Gentle Shepherd.

58. It is a quiet picture of delight, Your humble cottage, hiding from the sun In the thick woods. We see it not till then, When at its porch. Rudely but neatly wrought, Four columns make its entrance; slender shafts, The rough bark yet upon them, as they came From the old forest---- ----Prolific vines Have wreath'd them well, and half obscured the rinds Unpromising that wrap them. Crowding leaves Of glistening green, and clustering bright flowers Of purple, in whose cups throughout the day The humming-bird wantons boldly, wave around And woo the gentle eye and delicate touch. This is the dwelling, and 'twill be to thee Quiet's especial temple.

W. G. SIMMS.

59. That dear old home! Something of old ancestral pride it keeps, Though fallen from its early power and vastness! The sunlight seems to thy eyes brighter there Than wheresoever else.

FANNY KEMBLE.

60. In a vale with dwellings strown, One is standing all alone; White it rises mid the leaves, Woodbines clamber o'er its eaves, And the honeysuckle falls Pendant on its silent walls. 'Tis a cottage small and fair As a cloud in summer air.