Читать книгу The Blue Poetry Book - Lang Andrew, May Kendall - Страница 7

A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease,

Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.

But you have killed a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day,

Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,

Or one whom blood allures,

But innocent was all his sport

Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! what remedy remains,

Since, teach you all I can,

I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble man?

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command,

A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.

You cried – ‘Forbear!’ – but in my breast

A mightier cried – ‘Proceed!’ —

‘Twas Nature, sir, whose strong behest

Impell’d me to the deed.

Yet much as Nature I respect,

I ventured once to break

(As you perhaps may recollect)

Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day,

Passing his prison door,

Had flutter’d all his strength away,

And panting pressed the floor;

Well knowing him a sacred thing,

Not destined to my tooth,

I only kiss’d his ruffled wing,

And lick’d the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,

Nor some reproof yourself refuse

From your aggrieved Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime,

(Which I can hardly see),

What think you, sir, of killing Time

With verse address’d to me?