The Youths Coronal | Page 2

was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and
mild:
He was--the parent's chief delight--
A good and pleasant
child.
He'd gather chips and sticks of wood
The winter fire to make;
And
help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.
In summer time he'd kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild
berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.
He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,

Contrived the silver pond to turn.
In part, to silver pence.
He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to

the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.
He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The
distant city's ways to know;
The route he could not tread.
But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled
To pass his humble cot,

His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.
He'd stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That
looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.
"O buy my lilies!" he would say;
"You'll find them new and sweet:

So fresh from out the pond are they,
I haven't dried my feet!"
And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment's hem,

Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.
And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His
artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.
For many a noble stranger's hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To
cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.
And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus,
as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.
While little more--and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His
widowed mother's frugal store
Would never wholly fail.
For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He
knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.
And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her
orphans, like the meadow flower,
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,