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POEMS.

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POEMS.

TO THE HUMMING-BIRD.

I CANNOT heal thy green gold breast, Where deep those cruel teeth have prest, Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,

And seek thy mate,

Who sits alone within thy nest,
Nor sees thy fate.

No more with him in summer hours
Thou❜lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy flowers,
To feed thy young;

Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
Thy nest high hung.

No more thou'lt know a mother's care
Thy honied spoils at eve to share,
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare
With upward spring,

Their path through fields of sunny air,
On new fledged wing.

For thy return in vain shall wait

Thy tender young, thy fond fond mate, Till night's last stars beam forth full late On their sad eyes;

Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,

Unheard thy cries!

EHEU! FUGACES, POSTHUME, POSTHUME,

LABUNTUR ANNI.

FLEETING years are ever bearing

In their silent course away
All that in our pleasures sharing
Lent to life a cheering ray.

Beauty's cheek but blooms to wither,
Smiling hours but come to fly;
They are gone; Time's but the giver
Of whate'er is doomed to die.

Thou may'st touch with blighting finger All that sense can here enjoy ;

Yet within my soul shall linger

That which thou canst not destroy.

Love's sweet voice shall there awaken
Joys that earth cannot impart;
Joys that live when thou hast taken
All that here can charm the heart.

As the years come gliding by me,
Fancy's pleasing visions rise;
Beauty's cheek, ah! still I see thee,
Still your glances, soft blue eyes!

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