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. {234}

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! {235}

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.

“Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.”—­2 Timothy ii. 15.

My youthful brother, oft I long
To write to you in prose or song;
With no pretence to judgment strong,
      But warm affection—­
May truest friendship rivet long
      Our close connection!

With deference, what I impart
Receive with humble grateful heart,
Nor proudly from my counsel start,
      I only lend it—­
A friend ne’er aims a poisoned dart—­
      He wounds, to mend it.

A graduate you’ve just been made,
And lately passed the Mitred Head;
I trust, by the Blest Spirit, led,
      And Shepherd’s care: 
And not a wolf, in sheepskin clad,
      As numbers are.

The greatest office you sustain
For love of souls, and not of gain: 
Through your neglect should one be slain,
      The Scriptures say,
Your careless hands his blood will stain,
      On the Last Day.

But if pure truths, like virgin snows,
You loud proclaim, to friends and foes,
Consoling these, deterring those—­
      To heaven you’ll fly;
Though stubborn sinners still oppose,
      And graceless die. {237a}