THE HUMMING-BIRD. Like living fires they flit about, And through the fan-palm tree. 101 And in those wild and verdant woods Where on the mighty river-banks, The cayman, like an old tree trunk, There builds her nest the Humming-bird Within the ancient woob- She hangs it to a slender twig, As the campanero tolls his All crimson is her shining breast, Her wing is the changeful green and blue Thou happy, happy Humming-bird, A reign of summer joyfulness Thy food the honey from the flower, How glad the heart of Eve would be, To see the first, first Humming-bird Among the rainbow butterflies 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- 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 Her fair young neck, was seen; That little child had brought. And as the stream went dancing Its silver ripples glancing Anon a beauteous blossom From out her lap she drew, Nor noted she the measure Of the loss her store sustain'd, But onward, nothing caring Came back such words as these, "Oh bring me back my flowers!" Borne on the fitful breeze. You gay one, who are wasting THE MOUNTAIN-HOME. She who sat thoughtless, throwing The moments in their fleetness Thou cry, "Bring back my flowers, 105 BOWEN. THE MOUNTAIN-HOME. "WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh, gentle child? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild- Where many an image of marble gleams, |