XXI.Medley.

Mine be a cot beside the hill,A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear,A willowy brook that turns a mill,With many a fall shall linger near.The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,In russet gown and apron blue.The village-church among the trees,Where first our marriage vows were giv’n,With merry peals shall swell the breeze,And point with taper spire to heav’n.Samuel Rogers.

Mine be a cot beside the hill,A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear,A willowy brook that turns a mill,With many a fall shall linger near.

Mine be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear,

A willowy brook that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,In russet gown and apron blue.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,

In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,Where first our marriage vows were giv’n,With merry peals shall swell the breeze,And point with taper spire to heav’n.Samuel Rogers.

The village-church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were giv’n,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

And point with taper spire to heav’n.

Samuel Rogers.

A COUNTRY LIFE.

FROM THE LATIN OF AVIENUS, A.D. 380.

Safe-roof’d my cottage; swelling rich with wineHangs from the twisted elm my cluster’d vine.Boughs glow with cherries, apples bend my wood;And the crush’d olive foams with juicy flood.Where my light beds the scattering rivulet drink,My simple pot-herbs flourish on the brink;And poppies smiling wave the rosy head,That yield no opiate to a restless bed.If for the birds I weave the limed snare,Or for the startlish deer the net prepare,Or with a slender thread the fish delude,No other wiles disturb these woodlands rude.Go now, and barter life’s calm stealing daysFor pompous suppers, that with luxury blaze!Pray Heaven! for me the lot may thus be cast,And future time glide peaceful as the past.Translation ofSir C. A. Elton.

Safe-roof’d my cottage; swelling rich with wine

Hangs from the twisted elm my cluster’d vine.

Boughs glow with cherries, apples bend my wood;

And the crush’d olive foams with juicy flood.

Where my light beds the scattering rivulet drink,

My simple pot-herbs flourish on the brink;

And poppies smiling wave the rosy head,

That yield no opiate to a restless bed.

If for the birds I weave the limed snare,

Or for the startlish deer the net prepare,

Or with a slender thread the fish delude,

No other wiles disturb these woodlands rude.

Go now, and barter life’s calm stealing days

For pompous suppers, that with luxury blaze!

Pray Heaven! for me the lot may thus be cast,

And future time glide peaceful as the past.

Translation ofSir C. A. Elton.

COUNTRY HOUSES.

He that alters an old house is tied as a translator to the original, and is confined to the fancy of the first builder. Such a man were unwise to pluck down good old buildings, to erect, perchance, worse new. But those that raze a new house from the ground are blameworthy if they make it not handsome, seeing, to them, method and confusion are both at a rate. In building, we must respect situation, contrivance, receipt, strength, and beauty. Of situation:

Chiefly choose a wholesome air. For air is a dish one feeds on every minute, and therefore it need be good. Wherefore great men (who may build where they please, as poor men where they can), if herein they prefer their profit above their health, I refer them to their physicians to make them pay for it accordingly.

Wood and water are two staple commodities, where they may be had. The former, I confess, hath made so much iron, that it must now be bought with the more silver, and grows daily dearer. But it is as well pleasant as profitable to see a house cased with trees, like that of Anchises, in Troy,

“——quanquam secreta parentisAnchisæ domus arboribusque obtecta recessit.”

“——quanquam secreta parentis

Anchisæ domus arboribusque obtecta recessit.”

The worst is, where a place is bald of wood, no art can make it a periwig. As for water, begin with Pindar’s beginning, “ἄρισον μεὺ hύὁωρ.” The fort of Gogmagog Hill, nigh Cambridge, is counted impregnable, but for water; the mischief of many houses, where the servants must bring the water on their shoulders.

Next, a pleasant prospect is to be respected. A medley view (such as of water and land at Greenwich) best entertains the eye, refreshing the wearied beholder with exchange of objects. Yet I know a more profitable prospect, where the owner can only see his own land round about.

A fair entrance, with an easy ascent, gives a great grace to a building, where the hall is a preferment out of the court, the parlor out of the hall; not (as in some old buildings) where the doors are so low, pigmies must stoop, and the rooms so high that giants may stand upright. But now we are come to the contrivance:

Let not thy common rooms be several, nor thy several rooms be common. The hall (which is a pandocheum) ought to lie open, and so ought passages and stairs (provided that the whole house be not spent in paths); chambers and closets are to be private and retired.

Light (God’s eldest daughter) is a principal beauty in a building; yet it shines not alike from all parts of heaven. An east window welcomes the infant beams of the sun before they are of strength to do any harm, and is offensive to none but a sluggard. A south window in summer is a chimney with a fire in it, and needs the screen of a curtain. In a west window in summer time, toward night, the sun grows low and over-familiar, with more light than delight. A north window is best for butteries and cellars, where the beer will be sour for the sun’s smiling on it. Thorough-lights are best for rooms of entertainment, and windows on one side for dormitories. As for receipt:

A house had better be too little for a day than too great for a year. And it is easier borrowing of thy neighbor a brace of chambers for a night, than a bag of money for a twelvemonth. It is vain, therefore, to proportion the receipt to an extraordinary occasion, as those who, by over-building their houses have dilapidated their lands, and their estates have been pressed to death under the weight of their house. As for strength:

Country houses must be substantives, able to stand of themselves; not like city buildings, supported by their neighbors on either side. By strength we mean such as may resist weather and time, not invasion—castles being out of date in this peaceable age. As for the making of moats round about, it is questionable whether the fogs be not more unhealthful than the fish bring profit, or the water defense. Beauty remains behind, as the last to be regarded, because houses are made to be lived in, not looked on.

Let not the front look asquint on a stranger, but accost him right at his entrance. Uniformity, also, much pleaseth the eye; and it is observedthat freestone, like a fair complexion, soonest waxeth old, while brick keeps her beauty longest.

Let the office-houses observe the due distance from the mansion-house. Those are too familiar which presume to be of the same pile with it. The same may be said of stables and barns; without which a house is like a city without outworks, it can never hold out long.

Gardens, also, are to attend in their place. When God (Genesis ii. 9) planted a garden eastward, He made to grow out of the ground every tree pleasant to the sight, and good for food. Sure He knew better what was proper to a garden than those, who, now-a-days, therein only feed the eyes, and starve both taste and smell.

To conclude. In building, rather believe any man than an artificer in his own art for matter of charges; not that they can not, but will not, be faithful. Should they tell thee all the cost at the first, it would blast a young builder in the budding, and therefore they sooth thee up till it hath cost thee something to confute them. The spirit of building first possessed people after the flood, which then caused the confusion of languages, and since, the estate of many a man.

Thomas Fuller, “Holy and Profane States,” 1608–1661.

Houses are built to live in, and not to look on; therefore let use be preferred before uniformity, except where both may be had. Leave the goodly fabrics of houses, for beauty only, to the enchanted palaces of the poets, who build them with small cost. He that buildeth a fair house upon an ill seat, committeth himself to prison; neither do I reckon it an ill seat only where the air is unwholesome, but likewise where the air is unequal; as you shall see many fine seats set upon a knap of ground, environed with higher hills round about it, whereby the heat of the sun is pent in, and the wind gathereth as in troughs; so as you shall have, and that suddenly, as great diversity of heat and cold as if you dwelt in several places. Neither is it ill air only that maketh an ill seat, but ill ways, ill markets; and if you will consult with Momus, ill neighbors. I speak not of many more; want of water, want of wood, shade, and shelter, want of fruitfulness, and mixture of grounds of several natures; want of prospect, want of level grounds, want of places at some near distance for sports of hunting, hawking, and races; too near the sea, or too remote; having the commodity of navigable rivers, or the discommodity of their overflowing; too far from great cities, which may hinder business; or too near them, which lurcheth all provisions, and maketh every thing dear; where a man hath a great living laid together and where he is scanted; all which, as it is impossible perhaps to find together, so it is good to know them, and think of them, that a man maylike as many as he can; and, if he have several dwellings, that he sod them so, that what he wanteth in one he may find in another. Lucullus answered Pompey well, who, when he saw his stately galleries, and rooms so large and lightsome, in one of his houses, said, “Surely an excellent place for summer, but how do you in winter?” Lucullus answered, “Why do you not think me as wise as some fowls, that ever change their abode toward the winter?”

Lord Bacon, 1561–1627.

Well, then, I now do plainly seeThis busy world and I shall ne’er agree—The very honey of all earthly joyDoes of all meats the soonest cloy;And they, methinks, deserve my pity,Who for it can endure the stings,The crowd, the buzz, and murmurings,Of this great hive, the city.Ah, yet, ere I descend to th’ grave,May I a small house and large garden have!And a few friends, and many books, both true,Both wise, and both delightful too!And, since love ne’er will from me flee,A mistress moderately fair,And good as guardian angels are,Only beloved, and loving me!Oh fountains! when in you shall IMyself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be madeThe happy tenant of your shades?Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood;Where all the riches lie, that sheHas coin’d and stamp’d for good.Pride and ambition hereOnly in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,And naught but Echo flatter.The gods, when they descended, hitherFrom heaven did always choose their way,And therefore we may boldly say,That ’tis the way, too, thither.How happy here should IAnd one dear she, live, and embracing die!She who is all the world, and can excludeIn deserts solitude.I should have then this only fear—Lest men, when they my pleasures see,Should hither throng to live like meAnd so make a city here.Abraham Cowley, 1618–1657.

Well, then, I now do plainly see

This busy world and I shall ne’er agree—

The very honey of all earthly joy

Does of all meats the soonest cloy;

And they, methinks, deserve my pity,

Who for it can endure the stings,

The crowd, the buzz, and murmurings,

Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th’ grave,May I a small house and large garden have!And a few friends, and many books, both true,Both wise, and both delightful too!And, since love ne’er will from me flee,A mistress moderately fair,And good as guardian angels are,Only beloved, and loving me!

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th’ grave,

May I a small house and large garden have!

And a few friends, and many books, both true,

Both wise, and both delightful too!

And, since love ne’er will from me flee,

A mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian angels are,

Only beloved, and loving me!

Oh fountains! when in you shall IMyself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be madeThe happy tenant of your shades?Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood;Where all the riches lie, that sheHas coin’d and stamp’d for good.

Oh fountains! when in you shall I

Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?

Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made

The happy tenant of your shades?

Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood;

Where all the riches lie, that she

Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.

Pride and ambition hereOnly in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,And naught but Echo flatter.The gods, when they descended, hitherFrom heaven did always choose their way,And therefore we may boldly say,That ’tis the way, too, thither.

Pride and ambition here

Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;

Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,

And naught but Echo flatter.

The gods, when they descended, hither

From heaven did always choose their way,

And therefore we may boldly say,

That ’tis the way, too, thither.

How happy here should IAnd one dear she, live, and embracing die!She who is all the world, and can excludeIn deserts solitude.I should have then this only fear—Lest men, when they my pleasures see,Should hither throng to live like meAnd so make a city here.Abraham Cowley, 1618–1657.

How happy here should I

And one dear she, live, and embracing die!

She who is all the world, and can exclude

In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear—

Lest men, when they my pleasures see,

Should hither throng to live like me

And so make a city here.

Abraham Cowley, 1618–1657.

Lord, thou hast given me a cellWherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weather-proof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft and dry.Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guard,Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate,Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by the poor,Who hither come, and freely getGood words or meat.Like as my parlor, so my hall,And kitchen small;A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of bread,Unchipt, unflead.Some brittle sticks of thorn or brierMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,The pulse is Thine,And all those other bits that beThere placed by Thee;The worts, the purslane, and the messOf water-cress,Which of Thy kindness Thou has sent;And my contentMakes these and my beloved beetTo be more sweet.’Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth,And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping handThat sows my land.All this, and better dost Thou sendMe for this end—That I should render for my partA thankful heart,Which, fir’d with incense, I resignAs wholly Thine;But the acceptance, that must be,O Lord, of Thee!Robert Herrick.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather-proof;

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard,

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get

Good words or meat.

Like as my parlor, so my hall,

And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread,

Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,

The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee;

The worts, the purslane, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou has sent;

And my content

Makes these and my beloved beet

To be more sweet.

’Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth

With guiltless mirth,

And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That sows my land.

All this, and better dost Thou send

Me for this end—

That I should render for my part

A thankful heart,

Which, fir’d with incense, I resign

As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,

O Lord, of Thee!

Robert Herrick.

Between broad fields of wheat and cornIs the lowly home where I was born;The peach-tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still—But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill.There is the barn—and, as of yore,I can smell the hay from the open door,And see the busy swallows throng,And hear the peewee’s mournful song;But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments run,Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air—But the stranger’s children are swinging there.He bubbles, the shady spring below,With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;’Twas there I found the calamus root,And watched the minnows poise and shoot,And heard the robin lave his wing—But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring.Oh ye who daily cross the sill,Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented door,To gladden eyes that are no more.Deal kindly with these orchard trees,And when your children crowd your knees,Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart;To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.T. B. Read.

Between broad fields of wheat and corn

Is the lowly home where I was born;

The peach-tree leans against the wall,

And the woodbine wanders over all;

There is the shaded doorway still—

But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn—and, as of yore,I can smell the hay from the open door,And see the busy swallows throng,And hear the peewee’s mournful song;But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the barn—and, as of yore,

I can smell the hay from the open door,

And see the busy swallows throng,

And hear the peewee’s mournful song;

But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—

His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments run,Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air—But the stranger’s children are swinging there.

There is the orchard—the very trees

Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,

And watched the shadowy moments run,

Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;

The swing from the bough still sweeps the air—

But the stranger’s children are swinging there.

He bubbles, the shady spring below,With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;’Twas there I found the calamus root,And watched the minnows poise and shoot,And heard the robin lave his wing—But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring.

He bubbles, the shady spring below,

With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;

’Twas there I found the calamus root,

And watched the minnows poise and shoot,

And heard the robin lave his wing—

But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring.

Oh ye who daily cross the sill,Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented door,To gladden eyes that are no more.

Oh ye who daily cross the sill,

Step lightly, for I love it still;

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,

Then think what countless harvest sheaves

Have passed within that scented door,

To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees,And when your children crowd your knees,Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart;To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.T. B. Read.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees,

And when your children crowd your knees,

Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,

As if old memories stirred their heart;

To youthful sport still leave the swing,

And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

T. B. Read.

FROM THE GERMAN.

I have a cottage by the hill,It stands upon a meadow green,Behind it flows a murmuring rill,Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.Beside the cottage stands a tree,That flings its shadow o’er the eaves;And scarce the sunshine visits me,Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.A nightingale sings on a spray,Through the sweet summer time night-long,And evening travelers, on their way,Linger to hear her plaintive song.Thou maiden with the yellow hair,The winds of life are sharpened chill,Will thou not seek a shelter there,In yon lone cottage by the hill?Translation ofS. H. Whitman.Johann W. L. Gleim, 1719–1803.

I have a cottage by the hill,It stands upon a meadow green,Behind it flows a murmuring rill,Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.

I have a cottage by the hill,

It stands upon a meadow green,

Behind it flows a murmuring rill,

Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.

Beside the cottage stands a tree,That flings its shadow o’er the eaves;And scarce the sunshine visits me,Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.

Beside the cottage stands a tree,

That flings its shadow o’er the eaves;

And scarce the sunshine visits me,

Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.

A nightingale sings on a spray,Through the sweet summer time night-long,And evening travelers, on their way,Linger to hear her plaintive song.

A nightingale sings on a spray,

Through the sweet summer time night-long,

And evening travelers, on their way,

Linger to hear her plaintive song.

Thou maiden with the yellow hair,The winds of life are sharpened chill,Will thou not seek a shelter there,In yon lone cottage by the hill?Translation ofS. H. Whitman.Johann W. L. Gleim, 1719–1803.

Thou maiden with the yellow hair,

The winds of life are sharpened chill,

Will thou not seek a shelter there,

In yon lone cottage by the hill?

Translation ofS. H. Whitman.Johann W. L. Gleim, 1719–1803.

ICELANDIC LINES.

FROM THE DISCOURSE OF ODIN.

On guests who come with frozen kneesBestow the genial warmth of fire;Who has walked far and waded streamsNeeds cheering food and drier clothes.To him about to join your board,Clear water bring to cleanse his hands,And treat him freely, would you winThe kindly word, the thankful heart.Translation ofW. Taylor.

On guests who come with frozen kneesBestow the genial warmth of fire;Who has walked far and waded streamsNeeds cheering food and drier clothes.

On guests who come with frozen knees

Bestow the genial warmth of fire;

Who has walked far and waded streams

Needs cheering food and drier clothes.

To him about to join your board,Clear water bring to cleanse his hands,And treat him freely, would you winThe kindly word, the thankful heart.Translation ofW. Taylor.

To him about to join your board,

Clear water bring to cleanse his hands,

And treat him freely, would you win

The kindly word, the thankful heart.

Translation ofW. Taylor.

Tell me on what holy groundMay Domestic Peace be found—Halcyon daughter of the skies!Far, on fearful wings she flies,From the pomp of scepter’d state,From the rebel’s noisy hate.In a cottaged vale she dwells,Listening to the Sabbath bells!Still around her steps are seenSpotless Honor’s meeker mien,Love, the sire of pleasing fears,Sorrow smiling through her tears,And, conscious of the past employ,Memory, bosom-spring of joy.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Tell me on what holy ground

May Domestic Peace be found—

Halcyon daughter of the skies!

Far, on fearful wings she flies,

From the pomp of scepter’d state,

From the rebel’s noisy hate.

In a cottaged vale she dwells,

Listening to the Sabbath bells!

Still around her steps are seen

Spotless Honor’s meeker mien,

Love, the sire of pleasing fears,

Sorrow smiling through her tears,

And, conscious of the past employ,

Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

[Pastoral Scene]

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