I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendors glow—
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewn Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;
So grateful when the noon of summer made
The valleys rich with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright! Their sunny-colored foliage in the breeze

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

Beneath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,

Nor mark within its roseate canopy

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn, why so soon

Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,
Thy gentle wind, and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! twere a lot too bless'd

Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the tresses of the soft southwest,
To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain, low strife

That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power,

The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

XXI.

Medley.

A WISH.

INE 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 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.

A COUNTRY LIFE.

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

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 of SIR C. A. ELTON.

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 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, "upiçov μed vdwp.” 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 hutteries 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 invasioncastles 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 ob