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 softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky.