Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 31
If there were no craving of the stomach, no bird would enter the snare of the fowler; nay, he would not even set the snare.
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Psalm 124
A song for the fifth of November.
Had not the Lord, may Isr'el say,
Had not the Lord maintained our side,
When men, to make our lives a prey,
Rose like the swelling of the tide;
The swelling tide had stopped our breath,
So fiercely did the waters roll,
We had been swallowed deep in death;
Proud waters had o'erwhelmed our soul.
We leap for joy, we shout and sing,
Who just escaped the fatal stroke;
So flies the bird with cheerful wing,
When once the fowler's snare is broke.
For ever blessed be the Lord,
Who broke the fowler's cursed snare,
Who saved us from the murd'ring sword,
And made our lives and souls his care.
Our help is in Jehovah's name,
Who formed the earth and built the skies:
He that upholds that wondrous frame
Guards his own church with watchful eyes.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Upon The Lark and The Fowler
Thou simple bird, what makes thou here to play?
Look, there's the fowler, pr'ythee come away.
Do'st 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,
Plac'd betwixt nets, to bring thy death to pass?
Bird, if thou art so much for dazzling 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 die?
Take no heed to the fowler's tempting call;
This whistle, he enchanteth birds withal.
Or if thou see'st a live bird in his net,
Believe she's there, 'cause hence she cannot get.
Look how he tempteth thee with is decoy,
That he may rob thee of thy life, thy joy.
Come, pr'ythee bird, I pr'ythee come away,
Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may?
Hadst thou not wings, or were thy feathers pull'd,
Or wast thou blind, or fast asleep wer't lull'd,
The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,
Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast wings to flee.
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 fowler's nets are free.
Comparison.
This fowler is an emblem of the devil,
His nets and whistle, figures of all evil.
His glass an emblem is of sinful pleasure,
And his decoy of who counts sin a treasure.
This simple lark's a shadow of a saint,
Under allurings, ready now to faint.
This admonisher a true teacher is,
Whose works to show the soul the snare and bliss,
And how it may this fowler's net escape,
And not commit upon itself this rape.
poem by John Bunyan
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Two Idylls From Bion The Smyrnean
I
Once a fowler, young and artless,
To the quiet greenwood came;
Full of skill was he and heartless
In pursuit of feathered game.
And betimes he chanced to see
Eros perching in a tree.
'What strange bird is that, I wonder?'
Thought the youth, and spread his snare;
Eros, chuckling at the blunder,
Gayly scampered here and there.
Do his best, the simple clod
Could not snare the agile god!
Blubbering, to his aged master
Went the fowler in dismay,
And confided his disaster
With that curious bird that day;
'Master, hast thou ever heard
Of so ill-disposed a bird?'
'Heard of him? Aha, most truly!'
Quoth the master with a smile;
'And thou too, shall know him duly-
Thou art young, but bide awhile,
And old Eros will not fly
From thy presence by and by!
'For when thou art somewhat older
That same Eros thou didst see,
More familiar grown and bolder,
Shall become acquaint with thee;
And when Eros comes thy way
Mark my word, he comes to stay!'
II
Once came Venus to me, bringing
Eros where my cattle fed-
'Teach this little boy your singing,
Gentle herdsman,' Venus said.
I was young-I did not know
Whom it was that Venus led-
That was many years ago!
In a lusty voice but mellow-
Callow pedant! I began
To instruct the little fellow
In the mysteries known to man;
Sung the noble cithern's praise,
And the flute of dear old Pan,
And the lyre that Hermes plays.
But he paid no heed unto me-
Nay, that graceless little boy
Coolly plotted to undo me-
With his songs of tender joy;
And my pedantry o'erthrown,
Eager was I to employ
His sweet ritual for mine own!
Ah, these years of ours are fleeting!
Yet I have not vainly wrought,
Since to-day I am repeating
What dear lessons Eros taught;
Love, and always love, and then-
Counting all things else for naught-
Love and always love again!
poem by Eugene Field
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I'm a freak, everything has to be totally flat when I play. Ed Will, my jazz teacher, set up everything completely flat, and then you'd tilt your snare drum away from you, so I do that too. So my snare tilts away from me.
quote by Travis Barker
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Well one of the times I did a stunt was in the devil's snare room and they lifted me up on a harness and a safety rope really, really high, and they just dropped me down into the devil's snare.
quote by Rupert Grint
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Sleep of the Body the Soul's Awakening
Every night Thou freest our spirits from the body
And its snare, making them pure as rased tablets.
Every night spirits are released from this cage,
And set free, neither lording it nor lorded over.
At night prisoners are unaware of their prison,
At night kings are unaware of their majesty.
Then there is no thought or care for loss or gain,
No regard to such an one or such an one.
The state of the 'Knower' is such as this, even when awake.
God says,4 'Thou wouldst deem him awake though asleep,
Sleeping to the affairs of the world, day and night,
Like a pen in the directing hand of the writer.
He who sees not the hand which effects the writing
Fancies the effect proceeds from the motion of the pen.
If the 'Knower' revealed the particulars of this state,
'Twould rob the vulgar of their sensual sleep.
His soul wanders in the desert that has no similitude;
Like his body, his spirit is enjoying perfect rest;
Freed from desire of eating and drinking,
Like a bird escaped from cage and snare.
But when he is again beguiled into the snare,
He cries for help to the Almighty.
The Taming of the Falcon
The bird sits spelled upon the lithe brown wrist
Of yonder turbaned fowler, who had lamed
No feather limb, but the winged spirit tamed
With his compelling eye. He need not trust
The silken coil, not set the thick-limed snare;
He lures the wanderer with his steadfast gaze,
It shrinks, it quails, it trembles yet obeys.
And, lo! he has enslaved the thing of air.
The fixed, insistent human will is lord
Of all the earth;--but in the awful sky
Reigns absolute, unreached by deed or word
Above creation; through eternity,
Outshining the sun's shield, the lightening's sword,
The might of Allah's unaverted eye.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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The Snare
I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.
But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid!
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid!
Making everything afraid!
Wrinkling up his little face!
And he cries again for aid;
- and I cannot find the place!
And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare!
Little One! Oh, Little One!
I am searching everywhere!
poem by James Stephens
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Tumult
Tumult,
He who flees from fear will fall into the pit!
To be taken captive,
She who fears about life will fall into the hole!
But my mind will always write words of peace,
And like theone in exile who needs some care.
Dare, snare, ware, fare, care, bare, hare, mare, pare, rare, tare;
But caught in the snare! !
And under the shadow of love i will lay down my head in peace,
However, It will be like a loney wolf in the forest!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Red Bird Lives
A red bird lands to rest
Upon a tree branch.
The red bird chirps
For his sibling,
The cat takes notice, quietly
It watches his prey,
The cat figure it had his
Dinner..
Slowly the cat takes aim
And leaps for the red bird.
The red bird takes flight to
To join his sibling.
The cats loses,
But the red bird lives to chirp
Chirp another day..
The cat meow while his stomach
Growls,
The cat watches for another
Chance to feed his hungry
Stomach..
So, the cat meows hoping
For a meal,
To cure his empty stomach..
poem by Carolyn Sears
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A Net to Snare the Moonlight
[What the Man of Faith said]
The dew, the rain and moonlight
All prove our Father's mind.
The dew, the rain and moonlight
Descend to bless mankind.
Come, let us see that all men
Have land to catch the rain,
Have grass to snare the spheres of dew,
And fields spread for the grain.
Yea, we would give to each poor man
Ripe wheat and poppies red, —
A peaceful place at evening
With the stars just overhead:
A net to snare the moonlight,
A sod spread to the sun,
A place of toil by daytime,
Of dreams when toil is done.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Spring Equinox
Now is the pause between asleep and awake:
Two seasons take
A colour and quality each from each as yet.
The new stage-set
Spandril, column and fan of spring is raised against the
winter backdrop
Murrey and soft;
Now aloft
The sun swings on the equinoctial line.
Few flowers yet shine:
The hellebore hangs a clear green bell and opulent leaves
above dark mould;
The light is cold
In arum leaves, and a primrose flickers
Here and there; the first cool bird-song flickers in the thicket.
Clouds arc pale as the pollen from sallows;
March fallows are white with lime like frost.
This is the pause between asleep and awake:
The pause of contemplation and of peice,
Before the earth must teem and the heart ache.
This is the child's pause, before it sees
That the choice of one way has denied the other ;
Must choose the either, or both, of to care and not to care;
Before the light or darkness shall discover
Irreparable loss; before it must take
Blame for the creature caught in the necessary snare:
Receiving a profit, before it holds a snare.
poem by Anne Barbara Ridler
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When God Is Small
When man is big and God is small, life isn’t very pleasant at all,
As people crowd out that place, allotted by God, by His Grace,
Within your heart, deep inside, where His Spirit comes to abide,
As a guide and comfort too, helping each day, in all that we do.
Often we focus too much on man, being lead into Satan’s plan,
His plan to hinder and mislead, saints of God who truly believe.
Filling a heart with needless care, is from Satan, a wicked snare,
Leading all to worry and fear; to dismiss God who’s always near.
Satan wishes to bind your heart, in fear and worry from the start,
The fear of man is a snare by him, to keep many in a web of sin.
Your worry he just calls concern, as that anxiety begins to churn,
Saying your worry will bring relief, as he adds pain to your grief.
All this as he sets your focus for, others, not your Blessed Lord,
On natural men of this fallen sod, and not upon our Eternal God.
With eyes fixed on mortal men, we forget we’ve been born again,
Born of the spirit from Jesus Christ, to give to God our entire life.
Caring too much what others think, into the mire we begin to sink,
Losing the peace, God has for us, when in man we begin to trust.
Trust or fear, it is still a snare, which leads your heart into despair,
All this and more will befall, all who make men big and God small.
Jennifer’s Lad
SWEET Jennifer came calling me
Along the shining beach.
'There's green upon the hawthorn tree
There's bloom upon the peach.
O, April's found the upland larch,
The hazel in the hollow,'–
But louder was the snare-drum with it's 'March, march, march !'
And clearer called the bugle, 'Will you follow ?'
Young Jennifer came seeking me
With love upon her lips.
'O, all kind angels keep the sea
And fortune guard the ships.
The Autumn winds have rent the larch,
The south has won the swallow,'–
But clearer beat the snare-drum with it's 'March, march, march !'
And sweeter sang the bugle, 'Will you follow ?'
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Overbird
O = Once upon the midnight enter hurry
V = Verily the hurry worry enter scurry
E = Eerily or early bird of enter Poe
R = Raven is only one huge enter Crow
B = Better to see them from the
distance of the hour glasses with
thick lenses enter Tommy use your eye
I = Intense discussion rules get broken
enter time to turn the worm over
enter into the night
R = Roman Judges rule nothing enter Rome
not one stone standing of the Jewish enter
temple now
D = Describe the Vulture in the Temple its
got wings of darkness its got red eye
with long black enter nose this time
this poem enter perfect prose
poem by Charles Hice
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The Boy Patriot
I want to be a Soldier!--
A Soldier!--
A Soldier!--
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band;
I want to hear, high overhead, The Old Flag flap her wings
While all the Army, following, in chorus cheers and sings;
I want to hear the tramp and jar
Of patriots a million,
As gayly dancing off to war
As dancing a cotillion.
_I want to be a Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand_
_Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder_,
_Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band_.
I want to see the battle!--
The battle!--
The battle!--
I want to see the battle, and be in it to the end;--
I want to hear the cannon clear their throats and catch the prattle
Of all the pretty compliments the enemy can send!--
And then I know my wits will go,--and where I _should'nt_ be--
Well, there's the spot, in any fight, that you may search for me.
So, when our foes have had their fill,
Though I'm among the dying,
To see The Old Flag flying still,
I'll laugh to leave her flying!
_I want to be a Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand_
_Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder_,
_Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band_.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Margarita
Sundering the bushes like a snare,
More violet than Margarita's tight-pressed lips,
More passionate than Margarita's white-eyed stare,
The nightingale glowed, royally throbbed and trilled.
Like the scent of grass ascending,
Like the crazed rainfall's mercury, the foliage among,
He stupefied the bark, approached the mouth, panting,
And, halting there, upon a braid he hung.
When Margarita to the light was drawn,
Stroking her eyes with an astonished hand,
It seemed, beneath the helm of branch and rain,
A weary Amazon was fallen to the ground.
Her head in her hand in his hand lay,
Her other arm was bent back up to where,
Dangling, there hung her helmet of shade,
Sundering the branches like a snare.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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