How happy here should I And one dear she, live, and embracing die! I should have then this only fear- And so make a city here. ABRAHAM COWLEY, 1618-1657. A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE. Lord, thou hast given me a cell A little house, whose humble roof Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Low is my porch, as is my fate, And yet the threshold of my door Who hither come, and freely get Like as my parlor, so my hall, A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread, Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, And all those other bits that be 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 And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land. All this, and better dost Thou send That I should render for my part Which, fir'd with incense, I resign But the acceptance, that must be, ROBERT HERRICK. THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. Between broad fields of wheat and corn There is the barn-and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door, There is the orchard-the very trees He bubbles, the shady spring below, With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 'Twas there I found the calamus root, But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. Oh ye who daily cross the sill, And when you crowd the old barn eaves, Deal kindly with these orchard trees, THE INVITATION. FROM THE GERMAN, T. B. READ. I have a cottage by the hill, It stands upon a meadow green, 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, 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, Translation of S. H. WHITMAN. JOHANN W. L. GLEIM, 1719-1803. ICELANDIC LINES. FROM THE DISCOURSE OF ODIN. 'On guests who come with frozen knees To him about to join your board, Translation of W. TAYLOR. 'DOMESTIC PEACE. Tell me on what holy ground SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |