Hol majd az ősz Szabó?
Dayka.
Say, why all birds hate the Wren and the Owl? I will tell you the reason:
Once, heaven's feather'd inhabitants, aping the manners of mortals,
Swore they would make them a monarch. So they all gather'd together:
Great was the noise, and unbounded the strife, and loud the confusion.
Lastly, they all agreed, and every one promised obedience:
He who the highest can soar 'midst the lofty clouds of heaven,
He shall be king, 'Twas said—and each, on pinions ambitious,
Urged his upward flight—but the mightier influence of Phœbus
Depressed them down to earth. Some fluttered in midway regions―
Some were exhausted and fell—some rose aloft like an arrow,
And like an arrow they sunk. Passion and power brought weakness—
Weakness and dire defeat—and all earth's face was covered,
And all the lower skies, with the wrecks of pride and presumption.
Lost in the crowd, the small Wren looked on in destitute sadness:
Poor little flutterer! how should he hope to soar over his brethren?
Who would have thought that his cunning would serve him in trial far better—
Better than strength? You shall hear how ingenious his dextrous devices:
The Eagle was rising aloft—he sprung on his wing, till he mounted
High in the clouds—through the clouds; while the little Wren, silently crouching,
Rose with the Eagle, and saw the combatants vanquished beneath them—
Heard their loud voices which cried—All hail to our Sovereign and Ruler!
Pride is too confident oft, and slippery the footsteps of monarchs,
Perch'd on his pinions, the Wren soon stole all his honors imperial;
When he could speed no higher, the little Wren sprung from the Eagle―
Sprung, and singing, still soared, and claimed the homage of subjects.
Vain was his pride, reproved was his falsehood, and sadness came with it;
All the assembled tribes spurned the usurper with scoffings,
Bid the Owl go forth and arrest and watch over the traitor.
Great was his eye, and bright—so fitting was he for a keeper.
Wisdom's not always wise, nor prudence over prudential.
Yet shall the Wren be king—imprisonment gives him the sceptre.
Sleep o'ertook the Owl—the little Wren fluttered his pinions,
Flew on the breezy wind, and escaped from the scene of danger.
Justice summons her court—dispatches her minions to bring him:
Lo! the Owl asleep—and the Wren—go, ask of the sunbeams.
Rage and reproaches cover the careless Owl—thenceforward
Crowds of birds pursue the sleeping, slovenly guardian:
Never again by day may he venture his hated intrusions—
Never, till twilight darkens, and night comes clouded in blackness.
Even his voice, when heard, awakens the hate of the songsters.
He, like the crafty hound, has track'd the footsteps of silence
Where the poor hare, thro' woods, o'er groves and lonely places,
Flies to be hidden, in vain—the fugitive soon is discovered.
So the Owl's wild scream brings every bird about him—
One long torment is his, and a permanent persecution.