While musing thus with contemplation fed,
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,
The sweet tongu'd Philomel percht ore my head,
And chanted forth a most melodious strain,
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,
I judg'd my hearing better then my sight,
And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight.
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 cleer,
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,
