THE HUMMING-BIRD.

Like living fires they flit about,
Scarce larger than a bee,
Among the broad palmetto-leaves,

And through the fan-palm tree.

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And in those wild and verdant woods
Where stately moras tower,
Where hangs from branching tree to tree
The scarlet passion-flower;

Where on the mighty river-banks,
La Plate or Amazon,

The cayman, like an old tree trunk,
Lies basking in the sun;

There builds her nest the Humming-bird

Within the ancient woob-
Her nest of silky cotton-down-
And rears her tiny brood.

She hangs it to a slender twig,
Where waves it light and free,

As the campanero tolls his
song,-
And rocks the mighty tree.

All crimson is her shining breast,
Like to the red, red rose;

Her wing is the changeful green and blue
That the neck of the peacock shows.

Thou happy, happy Humming-bird,
No winter round thee lowers;
Thou never sawest a leafless tree,
Nor land without sweet flowers.

A reign of summer joyfulness
To thee for life is given;

Thy food the honey from the flower,
Thy drink the dew from heaven.

How glad the heart of Eve would be,
In Eden's glorious bowers,

To see the first, first Humming-bird
Among the first spring-flowers;

Among the rainbow butterflies
Before the rainbow shone ;
One moment glancing in her sight,
Another moment gone!

Thou little shining creature,

God saved thee from the Flood, With the eagle of the mountain-land, And the tiger of the wood!

Who cared to save the elephant,

He also cared for thee;

And gave those broad lands for thy home.

Where grows the cedar-tree.

M. HOWITT.

THE WASTED FLOWERS.

WHERE sycamores were throwing

Their arms across the stream-
The cadence of whose flowing
Like a Naiad's song might seem,

A rosy child was playing,

A child of face so fair,

She might have seem'd an angel straying From the brighter realms of air.

On her grassy couch reclining
By the streamlet's margin green,
A rosebud-wreath, entwining

Her fair young neck, was seen;
And many a bright-hued flower
In field and wild wood sought,
Cull'd in a gladsome hour,

That little child had brought.

And as the stream went dancing
In all its gladness on,

Its silver ripples glancing
Like mirrors in the sun,

Anon a beauteous blossom

From out her lap she drew,
Which on the water's bosom,
In her childish glee she threw.

Nor noted she the measure

Of the loss her store sustain'd,
Till of all her pretty treasure
Nor bud nor flower remain'd ;
Then for those blossoms sighing,
Which she no more might see,
She to the stream stood crying,
"Bring back my flowers to me!"

But onward, nothing caring
What the weeping child might say,
The waters flow'd, still bearing
All her blooming gems away;
And oft in after hours

Came back such words as these, "Oh bring me back my flowers!" Borne on the fitful breeze.

You gay one, who are wasting
Your hours in idle mirth,
Who from you time are casting
As a thing of little worth,—

THE MOUNTAIN-HOME.

She who sat thoughtless, throwing
Her treasure on the stream,
Is but your emblem, showing
What you to others seem.

The moments in their fleetness
Are flowers of rich perfume;
Waste not their precious sweetness,
While yet for thee they bloom,
Lest when thou seest the hours
Receding swift from thee,

Thou cry, "Bring back my flowers,
Oh! bring them back to me!"

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BOWEN.

THE MOUNTAIN-HOME.

"WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh, gentle child?

Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild-
A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall!
But mine is a fair and pillar'd hall,

Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of pictures for ever streams!"