Poems. Volume III / H. F. Gould [electronic text]

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.

A humming-bird once o'er a trumpet-flower hung, And darted that sharp little member, the tongue, At once through the tube to its cell for the sweet It felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet.

But, finding that some other child of the air, To rifle the store, had already been there, And no drop of honey for her to draw up, Her vengeance was poured 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 sofmess, 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 eolors, and dusted with gold, I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite, She has in reserve, though they're kept out of sight.

These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things, If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings, Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sit When anger is just at the height of its fit.