Читать книгу Come Hither: A Collection of Rhymes and Poems for the Young of All Ages - Various - Страница 134

Thou simple Bird what mak'st thou here to play?

Look, there's the Fowler, prethee come away.

Dost not behold the Net? Look there 'tis spread,

Venture a little further thou art dead.

Is there not room enough in all the Field

For thee to play in, but thou needs must yield

To the deceitful glitt'ring of a Glass,

Placed betwixt Nets to bring thy death to pass?

Bird, if thou art so much for dazling light,

Look, there's the Sun above thee, dart upright.

Thy nature is to soar up to the Sky,

Why wilt thou come down to the nets, and dye?

Take no heed to the Fowler's tempting Call;

This whistle he enchanteth Birds withal.

Or if thou seest a live Bird in his net,

Believe she's there 'cause thence she cannot get.

Look how he tempteth thee with his Decoy,

That he may rob thee of thy Life, thy Joy:

Come, prethee Bird, I prethee come away,

Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may?

Hadst thou not Wings, or were thy feathers pulled,

Or wast thou blind or fast asleep wer't lulled:

The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,

Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast Wings to see.

Remember that thy Song is in thy Rise,

Not in thy Fall, Earth's not thy Paradise.

Keep up aloft then, let thy circuits be

Above, where Birds from Fowlers nets are free....

John Bunyan