Патрик Бронте (Patrick Brontë)

The Spider and the Fly

The sun shines bright, the morning's fair,
The gossamers float on the air,
The dew-gems twinkle in the glare,
      The spider's loom
Is closely plied, with artful care,
      Even in my room.

See how she moves in zigzag line,
And draws along her silken twine,
Too soft for touch, for sight too fine,
      Nicely cementing:
And makes her polished drapery shine,
      The edge indenting.

Her silken ware is gaily spread,
And now she weaves herself a bed,
Where, hiding all but just her head,
      She watching lies
For moths or gnats, entangled spread,
      Or buzzing flies.

You cunning pest! why, forward, dare
So near to lay your bloody snare!
But you to kingly courts repair
      With fell design,
And spread with kindred courtiers there
      Entangling twine.

Ah, silly fly! will you advance?
I see you in the sunbeam dance:
Attracted by the silken glance
      In that dread loom;
Or blindly led, by fatal chance,
      To meet your doom.

Ah! think not, 'tis the velvet flue
Of hare, or rabbit, tempts your view;
Or silken threads of dazzling hue,
      To ease your wing,
The foaming savage, couched for you,
      Is on the spring.

Entangled! freed!--and yet again
You touch! 'tis o'er--that plaintive strain,
That mournful buzz, that struggle vain,
      Proclaim your doom:
Up to the murderous den you're ta'en,
      Your bloody tomb!

So thoughtless youths will trifling play
With dangers on their giddy way,
Or madly err in open day
      Through passions fell,
And fall, though warned oft, a prey
      To death and hell!

But hark! the fluttering leafy trees
Proclaim the gently swelling breeze,
Whilst through my window, by degrees,
      Its breathings play:
The spider's web, all tattered flees,
      Like thought, away.

Thus worldlings lean on broken props,
And idly weave their cobweb-hopes,
And hang o'er hell by spider's ropes,
      Whilst sins enthral;
Affliction blows--their joy elopes--
      And down they fall!

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