Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set, but all-

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our path grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth to meet thee there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm, at rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set, but all-

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

SONNET.

FELICIA HEMANS

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that Eternal Love.
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,

And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams, to poisons drank in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights; Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585-1649.

W

LINES

FROM "FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD."

ELCOME, pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves-
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves :

Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing

My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring.

SIR HENRY WOTTON, 1568-1639.

FLIGHT OF CRANES.

As when of many sorts the long-neck'd fowl
Unto the large and flowing plain repair,
Through which Cayster's waters gently roll,
In multitudes-high flying in the air,
Now here, now there fly, priding on their wing,
And by-and-by at once light on the ground,
And with their clamor make the air to ring,
And th' earth whereon they settle to resound;

So when the Achaians went up from the fleet,
And on their march were to the towers of Troy,
The earth resounded loud with hoofs and feet.
But on Scamander's flowery bank they stray,
In number like the flowers of the field,

Or leaves in spring, or multitude of flies
In some great dairy, round the vessels filled,
Delighted with the milk, dance, fall, and rise.

Translated by HOBBES

THE SWALLOW AND THE GRASSHOPPER.

FROM THE GREEK, 450 B. C.

Attic maiden-honey-fed

Chirping warbler, bear'st away
Thou the chirping grasshopper,
To thy callow young a prey?
Warbling thou-a warbler seize,
Winged-one with lovely wings!
Guest thyself by summer brought-
Fellow-guest, whom summer brings!
Will not quickly let it drop?

"Tis not fair-indeed, 'tis wrong,
That the ceaseless songster should
Die by mouth of ceaseless song!

Translation of G. TREVOR

THE SAME

ANOTHER TRANSLATION.

Attic maiden, breathing still

Of the fragrant flowers that blow
On Hymettus' purple hill,

Whence the streams of honey flow.

Wherefore thus a captive bear
To your nest the grasshopper?

Noisy prattler, cease to do

To your fellow-prattler wrong;
Kind should not its kind pursue-

Least of all the heirs of song.
Prattler, seek some other food
For your noisy, prattling brood.

Both are ever on the wing,

Wanderers both in foreign bowers;
Both succeed the parting spring,

Both depart with summer hours.
Those who love the minstrel lay

Should not on each other prey.

Translation of G. MERIVALE

SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

FROM THE GREEK,

Sung by the Children, passing from Door to Door, at the Return of the Swallow. The swallow is come!

The swallow is come!

He brings us the season of vernal delight,

With his back all of sable, and belly of white.

Have you nothing to spare,

That his palate would please

A fig, or a pear,

Or a slice of rich cheese?

Mark, he bars all delay :

At a word, my friend, say,
Is it yes, is it nay?

Do we go? do we stay?

One gift, and we're gone:

Refuse, and anon,

On your gate and your door

All our fury we pour;

Or our strength shall be tried

On your sweet little bride;

From her seat we will tear her,

From her home we will bear her;

She is light, and will ask

But small hands for the task.

Let your bounty then lift

A small aid to our mirth,

And whate'er the gift,

Let its size speak its worth.
The swallow, the swallow,
Upon you doth wait;

An alms-man and suppliant,
He stands at your gate;
Let him in then, I say,