Mother's Dream and Other Poems. Gould Hannah Flagg

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      I have a little Quaker flower,

      That hath a kind of spirit power

      To hold me captive, hour by hour,

      In pleasant musing lost;

      ’T was plucked for me in distant land,

      And by another’s friendly hand,

      From turf where I may never stand;

      Then yon wild ocean crossed.

      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!

      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.

      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 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.