class="c6">Grew up in beauty there.

Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow's joy;
And lived an honored man.

He had a ship, for which he chose
"The LILY" as a name,
To keep in memory whence he rose,
And how his fortune came.'

He had a lily carved, and set,
Her emblem, on her stem;
And she was called, by all she met,
A beauteous ocean gem.

She bore sweet spices, treasures bright;
And, on the waters wide,
Her sails as lily-leaves were white:
Her name was well applied.

Her feeling owner never spurned
The presence of the poor;
And found that all he gave returned
In blessings rich and sure.

The God who by the lily-pond
Had drawn his heart above,
In after life preserved the bond
Of grateful, holy love.

The Humming-Bird's Anger

"Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to pieces." BUFFON.

On light little wings as the humming-birds fly,
With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,
Suspended in ether, they shine to the light
As jewels of nature high-finished and bright.

Their vision-like forms are so buoyant and small
They hang o'er the flowers, as too airy to fall,
Up-borne by their beautiful pinions, that seem
Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.

The humming-bird feeds upon honey; and so,
Of course, 'tis a sweet little creature, you know.
But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,
A great deal that's bitter, or sour, to betray!

And often the humming-bird's delicate breast
Is found of a very high temper possessed.
Such essence of anger within it is pent,
'Twould burst did no safety-valve give it a vent.

Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,
Uncorked by its heat, the offender to scath;
And, taking occasion to let off its ire,
'Tis startling to witness how high it will fire.

A humming-bird once o'er a trumpet-flower hung,
And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,
At once to the nectarine cell, for the sweet
She felt at the bottom most certain to meet.

But, finding some other light child of the air
To rifle its store, had already been there;
And no drop of honey for her to draw up,
Her vengeance broke forth on the destitute cup.

She flew in a passion, that heightened her power;
And cuffing, and shaking the innocent flower,
Its tender corolla in shred after shred
She hastily stripped; then she snapped off its head.

A delicate ruin, on earth as it lay,
That bright little fury went, humming, away,
With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant, just dropped from the sky.

And since, when that curious bird I behold
Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,
I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite
She has in reserve, though they're now out of sight.

Ye two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumy or plumeless—without, or with wings,
Beware, lest ye break, in some hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!

And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass—to the painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!

The Butterfly's Dream

A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
A butterfly gaudy and gay;
And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,
The careless young slumberer lay.

For the butterfly slept;—as such thoughtless ones will,
At ease, and reclining on flowers;—
If ever they study, 'tis how they may kill
The best of their mid-summer hours!

And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case
With indolent lovers of change,
Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,
Give fancy permission to range.

He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise,
The swarm from a neighboring hive;
Which, having come out for their winter supplies,
Had made the whole garden alive.

He looked with disgust, as the proud often do,
On the diligent movements of those,
Who, keeping both present and future in view,
Improve every hour as it goes.

As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro,
With anger the butterfly swelled;
And called them mechanics—a rabble too low
To come near the station he held.

"Away from my presence!" said he, in his sleep,
"Ye humble plebeians! nor dare
Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep
The king of this brilliant parterre!"

He thought, at these words, that together they flew,
And, facing about, made a stand;
And then, to a terrible army they grew,
And fenced him on every hand.

Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes
Seemed spreading to measureless size:
Their wings with a mighty expansion arose,
And stretched like a veil o'er the skies.

Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,—
Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown,—
Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire,
And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne.

He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound,
His head ached—his throne reeled and fell;
His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground,
And cried, "King Papilio, farewell!"

His fall chased the vision—the sleeper awoke,
The wonderful dream to expound;
The lightning's bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke,
And hail-stones were rattling around.

He'd slumbered so long, that now, over his head,
The tempest's artillery rolled;
The tulip was shattered—the whirl-blast had fled,
And borne off its crimson and gold.

'Tis said, for the fall and the pelting, combined
With suppressed ebullitions of pride.
This vain son of summer no balsam could find,
But he crept under covert and died!

The Boy and the Cricket

At length I have thee! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to departing summer;
And I'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs, and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat, can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;—
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light
Which kept me awake so long last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy