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, No more with him in summer hours Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers, No more thou'lt know a mother's care Their path through fields of sunny air, 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 Beauty's cheek but blooms to wither, 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 As the years come gliding by me, |