Works of John Bunyan Volume III Part 159

Spider.

Come, hold thy peace; what I have yet to say, If heeded, help thee may another day.

Since I an ugly ven'mous creature be, There is some semblance 'twixt vile man and me.

My wild and heedless runnings are like those Whose ways to ruin do their souls expose.

Daylight is not my time, I work in th' night, To show they are like me who hate the light.

The maid sweeps one web down, I make another, To show how heedless ones convictions smother; My web is no defence at all to me, Nor will false hopes at judgment be to thee.

Sinner.

O spider, I have heard thee, and do wonder A spider should thus lighten and thus thunder.

Spider.

Do but hold still, and I will let thee see Yet in my ways more mysteries there be.

Shall not I do thee good, if I thee tell, I show to thee a four-fold way to h.e.l.l; For, since I set my web in sundry places, I show men go to h.e.l.l in divers traces.

One I set in the window, that I might Show some go down to h.e.l.l with gospel light.

One I set in a corner, as you see, To show how some in secret snared be.

Gross webs great store I set in darksome places, To show how many sin with brazen faces; Another web I set aloft on high, To show there's some professing men must die.

Thus in my ways G.o.d wisdom doth conceal, And by my ways that wisdom doth reveal.

I hide myself when I for flies do wait, So doth the devil when he lays his bait; If I do fear the losing of my prey, I stir me, and more snares upon her lay: This way and that her wings and legs I tie, That, sure as she is catch'd, so she must die.

But if I see she's like to get away, Then with my venom I her journey stay.

All which my ways the devil imitates To catch men, 'cause he their salvation hates.

Sinner.

O spider, thou delight'st me with thy skill!

I pr'ythee spit this venom at me still.

Spider.

I am a spider, yet I can possess The palace of a king, where happiness So much abounds. Nor when I do go thither, Do they ask what, or whence I come, or whither I make my hasty travels; no, not they; They let me pa.s.s, and I go on my way.

I seize the palace,[31] do with hands take hold Of doors, of locks, or bolts; yea, I am bold, When in, to clamber up unto the throne, And to possess it, as if 'twere mine own.

Nor is there any law forbidding me Here to abide, or in this palace be.

Yea, if I please, I do the highest stories Ascend, there sit, and so behold the glories Myself is compa.s.sed with, as if I were One of the chiefest courtiers that be there.

Here lords and ladies do come round about me, With grave demeanour, nor do any flout me For this, my brave adventure, no, not they; They come, they go, but leave me there to stay.

Now, my reproacher, I do by all this Show how thou may'st possess thyself of bliss: Thou art worse than a spider, but take hold On Christ the door, thou shalt not be controll'd.

By him do thou the heavenly palace enter; None chide thee will for this thy brave adventure; Approach thou then unto the very throne, There speak thy mind, fear not, the day's thine own; Nor saint, nor angel, will thee stop or stay, But rather tumble blocks out of the way.

My venom stops not me; let not thy vice Stop thee; possess thyself of paradise.

Go on, I say, although thou be a sinner, Learn to be bold in faith, of me a spinner.

This is the way the glories to possess, And to enjoy what no man can express.

Sometimes I find the palace door uplock'd, And so my entrance thither has upblock'd.

But am I daunted? No, I here and there Do feel and search; so if I anywhere, At any c.h.i.n.k or crevice, find my way, I crowd, I press for pa.s.sage, make no stay.

And so through difficulty I attain The palace; yea, the throne where princes reign.

I crowd sometimes, as if I'd burst in sunder; And art thou crushed with striving, do not wonder.

Some scarce get in, and yet indeed they enter; Knock, for they nothing have, that nothing venture.

Nor will the King himself throw dirt on thee, As thou hast cast reproaches upon me.

He will not hate thee, O thou foul backslider!

As thou didst me, because I am a spider.

Now, to conclude since I such doctrine bring, Slight me no more, call me not ugly thing.

G.o.d wisdom hath unto the p.i.s.s-ant given, And spiders may teach men the way to heaven.

Sinner.

Well, my good spider, I my errors see, I was a fool for railing upon thee.

Thy nature, venom, and thy fearful hue, Both show that sinners are, and what they do.

Thy way and works do also darkly tell, How some men go to heaven, and some to h.e.l.l.

Thou art my monitor, I am a fool; They learn may, that to spiders go to school.

XIX.

MEDITATIONS UPON THE DAY BEFORE THE SUN- RISING.

But all this while, where's he whose golden rays Drives night away and beautifies our days?

Where's he whose goodly face doth warm and heal, And show us what the darksome nights conceal?

Where's he that thaws our ice, drives cold away?

Let's have him, or we care not for the day.

Thus 'tis with who partakers are of grace, There's nought to them like their Redeemer's face.

XX.

OF THE MOLE IN THE GROUND.

The mole's a creature very smooth and slick, She digs i' th' dirt, but 'twill not on her stick; So's he who counts this world his greatest gains, Yet nothing gets but's labour for his pains.

Earth's the mole's element, she can't abide To be above ground, dirt heaps are her pride; And he is like her who the worldling plays, He imitates her in her work and ways.

Poor silly mole, that thou should'st love to be Where thou nor sun, nor moon, nor stars can see.

But O! how silly's he who doth not care So he gets earth, to have of heaven a share!

XXI.

OF THE CUCKOO.

Thou b.o.o.by, say'st thou nothing but Cuckoo?

The robin and the wren can thee outdo.

They to us play through their little throats, Taking not one, but sundry pretty taking notes.

But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.

Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring, Nor dost thou its first tokens to us bring.

Birds less than thee by far, like prophets, do Tell us, 'tis coming, though not by Cuckoo.

Nor dost thou summer have away with thee, Though thou a yawling bawling Cuckoo be.

When thou dost cease among us to appear, Then doth our harvest bravely crown our year.

But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.

Since Cuckoos forward not our early spring, Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in; And since, while here, she only makes a noise, So pleasing unto none as girls and boys, The Formalist we may compare her to, For he doth suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.

XXII.

OF THE BOY AND b.u.t.tERFLY.

Behold how eager this our little boy Is for this b.u.t.terfly, as if all joy, All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures, Were wrapt up in her, or the richest treasures, Found in her, would be bundled up together, When all her all is lighter than a feather.

He halloos, runs, and cries out, Here, boys, here, Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear.

He stumbles at the mole-hills, up he gets, And runs again, as one bereft of wits; And all this labour and this large outcry, Is only for a silly b.u.t.terfly.