O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares,
That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn,
Feels no sad thoughts, no cruciating cares
To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm.
Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is everywhere,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water deer,
Reminds not what is past nor whats to come dost fear.
* * * * *
The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,
And warbling out the old, begin anew,
And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better Region,
Where winter's never felt in that sweet airy legion.
* * * * *
Up to this point natural delight in the sights
and sounds of a summer's day has had its way, and
undoubtedly struck her as far too much enjoyment
for any sinful worm of the dust. She proceeds, therefore,
to chasten her too exuberant muse, presenting
for that sorely-tried damsel's inspection, the portrait
of man, as Calvin had taught her to view him.
* * * * *
Man at the best a creature frail and vain,
In knowledg ignorant, in strength but weak,
Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,
Each storm his state, his mind, his body break,
From some of these he never finds cessation
But day or night, within, without, vexation,
Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest
nears't Relation.
* * * * *
And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow;
Nor all his losses crosses and vexations
In weight and frequency and long duration,
Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.
* * * * *