A modest foreigner it came, Bearing a sweet, but humble name; Yet worthy of a glorious fame Among the sons of men; For O the pretty stranger grew: It drank the ether and the dew, And from light received its hue Upon the grave of PENN! It sprang from out that hallowed ground, Unclosed its eye, and smiled around, Upon the verdure of the mound, Where WILLIAM's ashes rest; Where low the dust in quiet lies Of him, among the good and wise On earth, so meek, and in the skies So high among the blest. And had my flower a living root, Or seed wherefrom a germ might shoot For one young plant to be the fruit Of that small vital part, Fair PENN-SYLVANIA, it should be, My friendly offering made to thee-- Set, to thy father's memory, On thy kind Quaker heart. But, ah! my precious flower is dead: The snow-white sheet beneath its head, And on its tender bosom spread, Shows that its life is o'er: And though each floweret of the gem, And every leaf, is on the stem, I cannot spare thee one of them, Because there 'll grow no more. I therefore bid my fancy weave This simple wreath, which thou 'lt receive In lieu thereof; and thence believe My fervent wish to be That Heaven, to overflowing still, With purest bliss thy cup may fill, And guard thee safe from every ill, Whilst thou rememberest me! 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 in the light, As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright. Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small, They hang o'er the flowers, as too airy to fall, Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seem Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream. The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so, Of course, 't is 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, 'T would 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, 'T is startling to witness how high it will fire.