Leaves Have Their Time To Fall.

FELICIA HEMANS.



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, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings at the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet has its hour,
The feverish hour of mirth and song and wine:
There comes a day for grief's overwhelming shower,
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 ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!



"FRONDES EST UBI DECIDANT."


"
Frondes est ubi decidant,
Marcescantque rosae flatu Aquilonio:
Horis astra cadunt suis;
Sed, Mors, cuncta tibi tempera vindicas.

Curis nata virum dies;
Vesper colloquiis dulcibus ad focum;
Somnis nox magis, et preci:
Sed nil, Terrigenum maxima, non tibi.

Festis hora epulis datur,
(Fervens hora jocis, carminibus, mero;)
Fusis altera lacrymis
Aut fletu tacito: quaeque tamen tua.

Virgo, seu rosa pullulans,
Tantum quippe nitent ut nequeant mori?
Rident te? Neque enim soles
Praedae parcere, dum flos adoleverit.

Charles Stuart Calverley

Charles Stuart Calverley was an English poet and wit, known for his parodies and skillfully light verse. Educated at Harrow and Oxford, he became immensely popular for his humorous poems. His notable works include 'Verses and Translations' and 'Fly Leaves.' Calverley's light-hearted approach and playful use of classical references made him a celebrated figure in Victorian literary circles.

Charles Stuart Calverley

The Dead Ox.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

The Arab.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

Laura Matilda's Dirge.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

To Mrs. Goodchild.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

English

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The Spring's bright tints no more are seen,
And Summer's ample robe of green
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And, shed reluctant from the trees,
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A sadness steals about the heart,
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Syren of sullen moods and fading hues,
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Shade me with your azure wing;
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Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

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Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
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The murmur of the rill
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I hear a spirit sigh
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