172 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
TO THE HUMMING BIRD. 
CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
There, lovely bee-bird ! mayst thou rove 
Through spicy vale and citron grove, 
And woo and win thy fluttering love 
With-plume so bright; 
There rapid fly, more heard than seen, 
’Mid orange-boughs of polished green, 
With glowing fruit, and flowers between 
Of purest white. 
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 
MRS. HEMANS. 
Oh ! bring me one sweet orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 
One bough, Avith pearly blossoms dressed, 
And bind it, mother! on my breast! 
Go seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odours I must breathe no more, 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
Oh ! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there, 
Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone, 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 
Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life’s parting sweetness round my head, 
And bind it, mother ! on my breast 
When I am laid in lonely rest. * 
