'Twould 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,
'Tis 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 to the nectarine cell, for the sweet
She felt at the bottom most certain to meet.

But, finding some other light child of the air
To rifle its store, had already been there;
And no drop of honey for her to draw up,
Her vengeance broke forth 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