The Youths Coronal | Page 2

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, in some hazardous hour,?Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!
And would ye but know how at times ye do seem?Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,?Go, stand at the glass--to the painter go sit,?When anger is just at the height of its fit!
=The Butterfly's Dream=
A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold?A butterfly gaudy and gay;?And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,?The careless young slumberer lay.
For the butterfly slept;--as such thoughtless ones will,?At ease, and reclining on flowers;--?If ever they study, 'tis how they may kill?The best of their mid-summer hours!
And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case?With indolent lovers of change,?Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,?Give