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A WOOD IN WINTER.

FROM THE ITALIAN

Sweet, lonely wood, that like a friend art found
To soothe my weary thoughts that brood on woe,
While through dull days and short the north winds blow,
Numbing with winter's breath the air and ground
Thy time-worn, leafy locks seem all around,
Like mine, to whiten with old age's snow,
Now that thy sunny banks, where late did grow
The painted flowers, in frost and ice are bound.
As I go musing on the dim, brief light
That still of life remain, then I, too, feel
The creeping cold my limbs and spirits thrill;
But I with sharper frost than thine congeal;
Since ruder winds my winter brings, and nights

Of greater length, and days more scant and chill.
Anonymous Translation.

GIOVANNI DELLA CASA, 1503-1556.

“LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FILL."

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.

Day is for mortal care;
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day of grief's overwhelming power,
A time for softer tears--but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

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 grain-
But 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.

FELICIA HEMANS.

SONNET.

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, 1595-1649.

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W

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.

Sie HENEY WOTTON, 1568-1689.

FLIGHT OF CRANES.

A SIMILE FROM HOMER.

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 fies
In some great dairy, round the vessels filled,
Delighted with the milk, dance, fall, and rise.

Translated by HONDES.

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

ANOT KR 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.

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