THE HUMMING-BIRD.

Thou winged gem, whose starlike splendour

Gleams on the bosom of the rose,

I lore thy light when skies are tender,

And winds are wandering to repose.

The Grecian lute, the Moorish song,

And Crockford's home, with all that's in it,

May challenge fame from many a throng,

But thou, alone, fair bird, canst win it!

I've often watch'd thy plumage glancing

So evanescent in thy bower,

And heard thy silver voice entrancing

Soothe me, as music soothes the flower.

Although diminutive as me,

Thy song is sweeter, who can doubt it?

So, as I cannot sing like thee,

I'll break my lute, and live without it.

G.R.C.