WHERE OR WHAT WILL BE YOUR RESIDENCE?
The World was all before her, where to choose
Her place of rest, and Providence her guide.
Milton.
The mind is its own place, and of itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
Milton.
WHERE OR WHAT WILL BE YOUR RESIDENCE?
Near some fair town you'll have a private seat,
Built uniform, not little, nor too great;
It shall within no other things contain,
But what are useful, necessary, plain;
A little garden grateful to the eye,
While a cool rivulet runs murmuring by.
Pomfret's Choice.
2. Amongst the vines,
See'st thou not where thy villa stands? The moonbeam
Strikes on the granite column, and mountains
Rise sheltering round it.
Lady Flora Hastings.
3. Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for many miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles.
Allan Cunningham.
4. A warm but simple home, where thou'lt enjoy
With one, who shares thy pleasures and thy heart,
Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph
Which neatly is prepared.
Cowper.
5. Low in the glen,
Down which a little stream hath furrow'd deep
'Tween meeting birchen boughs, a shelvy channel,
And brawling mingles with the western tide.
Far up the stream, almost beyond the roar
Of storm-bulged breakers, foaming o'er the rocks
With furious dash, your lowly dwelling lurks,
Surrounded by a circlet of the stream.
Before the wattled door, a greensward plat
With daises gay, pastures a playful lamb.
A pebbly path, deep-worn, leads up the hill,
Winding among the trees, by wheel untouch'd.
On every side it is a shelter'd spot,
So high and suddenly the woody steeps
Arise. One only way, downward the stream,
Just o'er the hollow, 'tween the meeting boughs,
The distant wave is seen, with now and then
The glimpse of passing sail; though when the breeze
Cresteth the distant wave, this little nook
Is all so calm, that on the limberest spray
The sweet bird chanteth motionless, the leaves
At times scarce fluttering.
Grahame—Birds of Scotland.
6. Neat is your house; each table, chair, and stool
Stands in its place, or moving, moves by rule;
No lively print or picture grace the room,
A plain brown paper lends its decent gloom.
Crabbe.
7. A summer lodge amid the wild,—
'Tis shadow'd by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine;
The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh,
And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky.
Bryant.
8. Beside a public way,
Thick strewn with summer dust, and a great stream
Of people hurrying to and fro.
Shelley.
9. Crowning a gradual hill, your mansion swells
In ancient English grandeur; turrets, spires,
And windows, climbing high from base to roof,
In wide and radiant rows, bespeak its birth
Coeval with those rich cathedral fanes,
(Gothic ill-famed,) where harmony results
From disunited parts; and shapes minute,
At once distinct and blended, boldly form
One vast majestic whole.
W. Mason—The English Garden.
10. In a proud city and a rich,
A city fair and old,
Fill'd with the world's most costly things,
Of precious stones and gold;
Of silks, fine wool, and spiceries,
And all that's bought and sold.
Mary Howitt.
11. I see, I see the rustic porch,
And close beside the door
The old elm, waving still as green
As in the days of yore.
I see the wreathing smoke ascend
In azure columns up the sky,
I see the twittering swallow
Around in giddy circles fly.
T. McLellan.
12. A house, whence, as by stealth, you catch
Among the hills a glimpse of busy life,
That sooths, not stirs.
Rogers.
13. In stately dwelling built of squared bricke.
Spenser.
14. A city, that great sea whose ebb and flow
At once is deaf and loud.
In its depth what treasure—you will see.
Shelley.
15. In a fair and stately mansion, with old woods
Girdled around.
Howitt.
16. A low, Sweet Home,
A Pastoral Dwelling With Its Ivied Porch,
And Lattice, Gleaming Through the Leaves.
Hemans.
17. You shall dwell in some bright little isle of your own,
In a blue summer ocean far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers.
Moore.
18. You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
Though small your farm, it has a house
Full large to entertain a mouse;
But if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
Round your garden is a walk
No longer than a tailor's chalk;
One salad makes a shift to squeeze
Up through a tuft you call your trees,
And, once a year, a single rose
Peeps from the bud, but never blows.
In vain then you'll expect its bloom,
It cannot blow for want of room.
In short, in all your boasted seat
There's nothing but yourself that's great.
Swift.
19. Your island lies nine leagues away;
Along its solitary shore
Of craggy rock, and sandy bay,
No sound but ocean's roar,
Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.
R. H. Dana.
20. Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights all sounds excelling;
Oh, 'tis a ravishing spot, form'd for a Poet's dwelling!
Drake.
21. A city
Where trade and joy in every busy street
Mingling are heard, and in whose crowded ports
The rising masts an endless prospect yield.
Thomson.
22. A valley, from the river shore withdrawn,
Shall be your home—two quiet woods between,
Whose lofty verdure overlooks the lawn;
And waters, to their resting-place serene,
Come freshening and reflecting all the scene.
Campbell.
23. Please step in
And visit roun' an' roun';
There's naught superfluous to gie pain
Or costly to be foun',
Yet a' is clean.
Allan Ramsay—Gentle Shepherd.
24. A whitewash'd wall, a nicely sanded floor,
A varnish'd clock that clicks behind the door,
A chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged on the chimney, glisten in a row.
Goldsmith—Deserted Village.
25. How beautiful it stands,
Behind its elm-trees' screen,
With simple attic cornice crown'd,
All graceful and serene!
Mrs. Sigourney.
26. O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Your thoughts as boundless and your soul as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey your empire, and behold your home!
Byron.
27. A pastoral scene of your own land,
Groves darkly green, neat farms, and pastures gay
With golden flowers; brooks stealing over sand,
Or smooth-worn pebbles, murmuring light away;—
Blue rye-fields, yielding to the gentle hand
Of the cool west wind; scented fields of hay,
Falling in purple bloom!
Percival.
28. A pleasant aspect shall your parlor wear,—
Pictures, and busts, and books, and flowers,
And a light hearth where one may sit for hours,
And feel the minutes in their rapid flight,
Yet never think to count them as they go;
The mind, in converse sweet, beguiled so.
Mrs. A. M. Wells.
29. A light commodious chamber
Looking out to the hills, and where the shine
Of the great sun may enter.
Mary Howitt.
30. It is a chosen plot of fertile land,
Emongst wide waves sett, like little nest,
As if it had by nature's cunning hand
Bene choycely picked out from all the rest,
And laid forth for ensample of the best.
Spenser.
31. A mansion, where domestic love
And truth breathe simple kindness to the heart;
Where white arm'd childhood twines the neck of age;
Where hospitable cares light up the hearth,
Cheering the lonely traveller on his way.
Mrs. Gilman.
32. Thine be a cot beside the hill:
A beehive's hum shall sooth thine ear;
A willowy brook that turns the mill
With many a fall, shall linger near.
Rogers.
33. The dense city's roofs
Throng around thee, and the vertic' sun
Pours from those glowing tiles a fervid heat
Upon your shrinking nerves.
Mrs. Sigourney.
34. A lodge of ample size,
But strange of structure and device;
Of such materials, as around
The workman's hand has readiest found.
Scott.
35. Among the jumbled heap of murky buildings.
Keats.
36. You will be blest as now you are with friends, and home, and all
That in the exulting joy of love your own you fondly call;
Beloved and loving faces, that you've known so long and well,
The dear familiar places where your childish footsteps fell,
Where you join'd with careless heart and free your playmates' blooming band,
As happy still as now in this,—you'll tread your native land.
Mrs. Osgood.
37. On the well-sloped banks arise trim clumps,
Some round and some oblong, of shrubs exotic;
While, at respectful distance, rises up
The red brick wall, with flues and chimney-tops
And many a leafy crucifix adorn'd.
The smooth expanse,
Well cropp'd, and daily, as the owner's chin,
Not one irregularity presents,
Not even one grassy tuft in which a bird
May find a home and cheer the dull domain.
Grahame—Birds of Scotland.
38. The city's gloom, that falls
Where the same window fronts the same dull walls;
To see new, weary idlers tread once more
The mud or dust, which crowds have trod before,
Or the gay chariot loiter to await
Some fool you scorn, or envious flirt you hate.
Dr. Brown—Bower of Spring.
39. A lone dwelling, built by whom, or how,
None of the rustic island people know.
The isle and house are thine.—
Nature, with all her children, haunts the hill;
The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlight,
Before thy gate.—Be this thy home in life.
Shelley.
40. In a city vast and populous,
Whose thronging multitude
Sends forth a sound afar off heard,
Strong as the ocean flood;
A strong, deep sound of many sounds,
Toil, pleasure, pain, delight,
And traffic, myriad-wheel'd, whose din
Ceases not day and night.
Mary Howitt.
41. A simple home,
A plain well-order'd household, without show
Of wealth or fashion.
Percival.
42. All day within your dreary house
The doors upon their hinge will creak,
The blue-fly sing in the pane, the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot creep,
Or from the crevice peer about.
Tennyson.
43. Upon a green bank side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seem unwillingly to glide,
Like parting friends, who linger ere they sever.
Drake.
44. Where streets are stifling, bustling, noisy, dry;
Hot are the pavements as an oven floor;
Dingy-red brick grows tiresome to the eye.
Mary Howitt.
45. Refinement's chosen seat,
Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat.
Sprague.
46. I know the spot;
The curtain'd windows half exclude the light,
Yet eager still to make their way,
A thousand elfin sunbeams bright,
Glittering about the carpet play.
But what attracts you chiefly there
Is one who in a cushion'd rocking-chair
Doth sit and read.
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.
Park Benjamin.