YOUR HOME.

Oh best of all the scattered spots that lie
In sea or lake-apple of landscape's eye!
Joy, my bright waters, joy; your master's come!
Laugh, every dimple on the cheek of Home.

LEIGH HUNT-Catullus.

One small spot

Where my tired mind may rest and call it Home.
There is a magic in that little word;

It is a mystic circle that surrounds

Comforts and virtues never known beyond

The hallowed limit.

SOUTHEY-Hymn to the Penates.

Our abode

The tabernacle of our earthly joys

And sorrows, hopes and fears,—this Home of ours,

Is it not pleasant?

MOULTRIE-The Dream of Life.

"And where," (cries some one) "is this blessed spot?

May I behold it? May I gain admittance ?"

Yes, with a thought—as we do.

LEIGH HUNT.

SHALL I PREDICT WHERE OR WHAT WILL

BE YOUR HOME?

SEE a small old-fashioned room,

With pannelled wainscot high;

Old portraits round in order set,
Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffet

Of dark mahogany.

And there a high-backed, hard settee,

On six brown legs and paws,

Flowered o'er with silk embroidery;

And there, all rough with fillagree,
Tall screens, on gilded claws.

MRS. SOUTHEY.

2. Seest thou yon lonely cottage in the grove,
With little garden neatly planned before,
Its roof deep shaded by the elms above,
Moss-grown, and decked with velvet verdure o'er?
Go lift the willing latch,-the scene explore,-
Sweet peace, and love, and joy, thou there shalt find,
For there religion dwells, whose sacred lore
Leaves the proud wisdom of the world behind,
And pours a heavenly ray on every human mind.

D. HUNTINGTON.

3. The blushing apricot, and woolly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach,
And though thy walls be of the country stone,
They're reared by no man's labor, no man's groan.

A square-built house, by jealous walls and gates
(Inclosing in its front an ample court)
Shut out, and barricaded from the street.
A proud, aristocratic hall it seems,
Not courting but discouraging approach,

Save from a favored few.

JOHN MOULTRIE-The Dream of Life.

6. The sun lies on your door-sill, where your book You daily read, and fit your line and hook,

Or shape your bow.

R. H. DANA-The Buccaneer.

7. The tiptoe traveller peeping through the boughs,
O'er
your low wall, shall bless the pleasant house.
That house shall be of stone, more wide than high,

With sward up to the path, and elm-trees nigh;
A good old country lodge, half hid with blooms
Of honeyed green, and quaint with straggling rooms,

A few of which, white-bedded, and well swept,

For friends, whose names endear them, shall be kept.

LEIGH HUNT.

8. In the vast city, with its peopled homes,

And hearts all full of an immortal life,

Thousands and tens of thousands beating there;
Strangers from different lands, of every hue,
And tribe, and nation congregating there;
Seamen, the sport of many a distant wave,
And busy merchants hurrying to and fro,
And curious travellers, with thoughtful mien;
Grave men of wealth, and inexperienced youth,
Learning his lesson from the sordid page.

9. Into a forest far they thence him led,

MRS. ELLIS.

Where was their dwelling, in a pleasant glade,
With mountains round about environed,

And mighty woods, which did the valley shade,
And like a stately theatre it made,

Spreading itself into a spacious plain ;

And in the midst a little river played Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to 'plain With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain. Beside the same a dainty place there lay, Planted with myrtle-trees, and laurels green, In which the birds sang many a lovely lay,

Of God's high praise, and of their sweet love's teen, As it an earthly paradise had been;