Chapter VIII: Part III: FABLES, in Verse (2)

Studious from diff’ring tales to show
That virtue makes our bliss below,
My warning voice to ev’ry heart,
May ev’ry faithful ear impart;
This one important truth believ’d,
Who can by vice be still deceiv’d?
Bliss is our aim, and bliss our end,
And he who points the path, a friend.
A Goat and Fox, by joint consent,
Together once a journey went;
With patient steps from morning’s dawn,
They measur’d hill, and vale, and lawn;
When Phœbus in the zenith rode,
A cheerless, pathless waste they trod;
The fainting wand’rers wide around,
With sighs survey’d the burning ground;
Again, and yet again they look,
To find the welcome cooling brook;
The welcome cooling brook in vain
They sought around the sun-burnt plain.
Onward they slowly pass, when lo!
A pit—and water—deep below;
Urg’d by a strong desire to drink,
They both leap headlong from the brink.
For appetite still foremost goes,
Quite blind to all beyond its nose;
And reason, impotently kind,
A tardy friend, limps far behind.

Now when our pair had drank amain,
They thought of getting out again;
And long with aching hearts they try’d,
But this the steep ascent denied.
Reynard at length the goat addrest,
And thus his wily thought exprest:

“Courage, my friend,—be rul’d by me,
We’ll soon from this mischance be free;
Here—of the pit the shallowest place,
On your hind legs your body raise,
And while thy horns my weight sustain,
At one light bound the shore I’ll gain;
And thence effectual aid can lend
To save thee, too, my dearest friend?”—

The Goat consents—and by his aid
The Fox his leap successful made;
His friend look’d up, well pleased no doubt,
And deem’d himself as good as out;
But the false Fox with barb’rous sneer,
Cry’d, “Pox! how came you scrambling here?”
The Goat reply’d, “Forbear to flout,
Lest I should ask how you got out.”
Said he, “Of that no doubt remains,
You’d horns, my friend,—and I had brains,
You wear that wisdom on your chin,
Which I, more modest, hide within.
We beasts of sprightly thought despise
All who like thee look gravely wise—
Improve these useful hints aright,
You’ll profit much—and so good night.”

This said, he titt’ring slunk away,
The Goat remain’d to death a prey.
In wonder lost, with horror chill’d,
With anguish, indignation fill’d,
The traitor-friend’s enormous guile,
Engross’d his shudd’ring soul awhile;
Awhile the wretched beast forgot
His pity’d, helpless, hopeless lot;
But after short suspense his woes
Return’d—as the stem’d torrent flows,
With trebled force—he scarce sustain’d
The shock—and thus at length profan’d:
“For ever let that maxim cease,
‘That virtue’s paths are paths of peace.’
Where’s that reward which learned pride
Boasts none from virtue can divide?
Where the sure woes of various kinds,
Which fate to vice for ever binds?
Life, joy (or what could make him smile).
The Fox obtains thro’ horrid guile;
My life, my humble guiltless joys,
At once a gen’rous trust destroys;
Jove’s slumb’ring vengeance lets him fly,
His goodness slumbers while I die.”

A sylvan god who pass’d that way
(Of old none wander’d more than they),
By chance the rash impeachment heard,
And instant on the brink appear’d.
“Look up,” he cries, “no more despair,
The help you wish prevents your prayer;
Safe on the wish’d substantial plain,
I’ll set thy dying feet again.
The Fox with envy didst thou see?
Henceforth thyself a Fox shalt be.—
Thou shalt his prosp’rous vice possess,
And taste a Fox’s happiness.”

The thing was done as soon as said,
A Fox, the Goat enfranchis’d, fled;
But feels within his alter’d mind,
His narrow’d love to self confin’d.
No more from others good his breast
The social joy serene possess’d;
No more by kind compassion mov’d,
His mercy is by foes approv’d.
Now mutual wants, love’s band below,
No means to fix a friend bestow;
Unlov’d, unloving, deep in earth
He gives his schemes of plunder birth.
From injur’d man, his friend so late,
He fears the stroke of potent hate;
With grief looks back on periods past,
His bloodless food, a blest repast!
Which late he cropt in peace profound,
With flocks, and herds, and men around;
Yet now abhors that guiltless food,
To rapine doom’d, and thirst of blood;
And mourns the days (to this a slave)
When heav’n a happier nature gave:
“By dear experience now I know,
That virtue’s only bliss below,”
He, sighing, said, in sad despair,
And thus prefers a falt’ring pray’r:
“Ye gracious pow’rs who rule above!
Who virtue and it’s vot’ries love!
I see my fault, my fault repent,
And own I ask’d the pains you sent.
I now th’ unrighteous thought forego.
That vice is bliss, and virtue woe:
Oh! make me what I was again,
Tho’ faint I tread the scorching plain;
Tho’ with a faithless Fox I stray,
Me tho’ again his wiles betray,
Make me a goat, tho’ void of wit,
You leave me dying in the pit:
’Tis better far than thus alone
To live without one joy my own;
For while the past my mind retains,
My present pleasures are but pains.”

He pray’d, to Jove the pray’r ascends;
His ear to pray’rs like these He lends.
“I (said the god) thy wish fulfil,
Henceforth, be virtuous—if you will
Be man—to him that pow’r I give;
Go, and by past experience live.”
Transform’d again with lifted eyes,
The man his story thus applies:—

“From what appears, how little do we know
What others feel of happiness or woe!
Is vice your envy when of health possess’d,
With power, and pelf, and all externals blest?
Know that amidst that health, and power and pelf,
The thriving villain must abhor himself;
For who can bear, tho’ desperately brave,
The voice of conscience when it calls him knave?
Or who so dull, without regret to miss
Of conscious goodness the substantial bliss?
Ask your own heart, and search thro’ all you know,
Consult each various scene of life below,
All, all this universal truth attest,
The virtuous are, and can alone be blest.”

_FABLE XXI._

The Kite and Nightingale.

I’ll try to mimic honest _Gay_,
Who had a very decent way;
A pleasant wight of simple sort,
For ever filliping the court.
Let courts be quiet, if they know
The happy knack of being so.
The pestilence flies everywhere,
Almost indefinite as air:
All places need the fanning breeze,
To dissipate the rank disease.
Vice—(not like beasts for show—confin’d)
Runs mad at large, and bites mankind:
Alike the taint infects the brain
Of those that dwell in court and plain:
The same wild fury acts the will
In different ways, with different skill.

A starving Kite, upon a bar
(Worn out with long fatigues of war),
Whose pointed claws, and hooked bill,
Shew’d his profession was to kill,
Thus grieving spoke in doleful strain:
(Your heart will pity and disdain)—

“How blind is everything on earth!
And how injurious to my worth!
Tho’ all the cote my sorrow see,
No dove will help me with a pea:
_Hob’s_ field they robb’d a month together,
I never hurt a single feather;
The lark, whom I secure to rest
(I slew the snake that robb’d her nest),
Will not a little worm supply;
But would rejoice to see me die.
No crow invites me to a treat,
Tho’ what I kill’d he often eat.
Man, were he grateful, would determine
My merit in destroying vermin;
And make me happy to the last,
In justice to my service past.
But man, that thankless wretch is he,
Prefers yon Nightingale to me.”

“Alas! (the Nightingale replies)
I own my little merit lies
In innocence and tender cares
About my family affairs;
Or chaunting soft a pretty tale,
To please my neighbours of the vale;
Perhaps we gratitude may want,
Because you are too arrogant:
Your worth, display’d with all your skill,
Lies chiefly in omitting ill;
And only then for want of power
To seize the dove you would devour.
There’s not a lark that flies, but knows
You long to grasp her in your claws.
The crow you never meant to treat;
You left him what you could not eat;
And man, who most a villain needs,
Detests you for your wicked deeds.
You pilfer duckling, game, and chicken,
Which furnish man with dainty picking.
There’s not a poacher roams the wood,
But who would shoot you, if he could.”

Just had he said; forth pops a spark,
With gun and spaniel from the park;
The Kite he kens, with levell’d gun,
And brings the bloody boaster down.

Thus justly villains are repaid,
Who follow mischief as a trade:
Who merit can pretend alone,
When cruel work is to be done,
To crush their kindred sort of men
With sword, with halter, or with pen;
Whose hollow merit is, at best,
To seem the most, and be the least;
Who own no right, pursue no guide,
But only interest or pride;
Or both together do prefer,
To run most certainly to err.
Such always claim beyond their due,
And always think you wrong them too;
Do all the wrong, yet most complain,
Whene’er they spread the net in vain;
Or bait a hook that fails to catch
The simple trout for which they watch
And innocence, with squint and frown,
Condemn _for vices all their own_.

_FABLE XXII._

The Four Bulls.

Friendship! source of bliss sedate,
Best balm for all the wounds of fate!
’Tis thine the sinking heart to raise,
When love retires, and health decays;
Unmix’d with thy sublimer fire,
Love’s but a fev’rish low desire,
And ill the self-destroying flame
Deserves that soft angelic name.

Oh! could this verse, this fabling lay,
Extend or but confirm thy sway!
Or, warn’d by this, if only one
Thy foes’ destructive arts shall shun!

Since dangers rise with every sun,
With ev’ry sand united run;
Four Bulls, by mutual vows ally’d,
The morrow’s unknown ills defy’d;
As one they mov’d, they fought, they fed,
And safety rose by union bred,
Nor this alone the good they found,
The private bliss of each went round;
Hence doubly bless’d the gen’rous heart,
Which scorns the bliss it can’t impart.
From day to day the Lion came,
But matters still appear’d the same:
This smote his inmost soul with grief,
For much he long’d for fav’rite beef;
What can he do? he fears to wage
Unequal war, and four engage.
Thought follows thought—he finds in vain:
Yet thought to thought succeeds again.
Half-form’d resolves, and embryo schemes,
And all the train of statesmen’s dreams,
With conflict rude disturb his mind,
To this nor that success inclin’d.
Suspense presides with fluttering wings,
From which she shakes a thousand stings.

In this disastrous doubting case,
The Fox appears—with thinking face;
On him his royal master laid
His load of care, secure of aid;
Who paus’d a while with sober grace,
Then thus refin’d upon the case:—

Not things of moment most, I find,
Have broke the union of the mind;
Ev’n mere mistakes, that pet or pride
Have made, the sacred band divide,
And deepest enmities arise.
From trifling things among the wise.
In friendship, slight’s the deepest wound,
And that is fancy’d more than found.
These hints improv’d, our ends may gain,
The Bulls divided, count ’em slain;
The Lion, pleas’d, reply’d, he knew
The Fox could forge a lie—or two;
Which he opin’d, in points like this,
Would not be very much amiss.

Here wiser Reynard shook his head,
And this would never do, he said:
’Tis ours to make these foolish elves,
My lord, be liars to themselves:
Suspicion rais’d, the very eye
Will unsuspected gravely lie,
And, when a friend it shall survey,
Th’ idea of a foe display,
As you shall see—— Away he flew,
And, to the friends as near he drew,
He smooth’d his brow, he coin’d a smile,
And put on all the masks of guile.
Then whispers one with friendly nod,
“Mark, is not yon behaviour odd?
The Bull must surely mean affront,
His tail is next you—fie upon’t!
How slighting that! and there’s another
Can scarce some high resentment smother;
He snorts, he paws, and fain would shew
By vengeance whence his troubles flow.
The third, how dull! regardless still,
What fate you prove, or good or ill.”
Appearance (treach’rous witness) here
Confirms the sounds that cheat his ear;
Suspicion soon alarm’d, and pride,
At once, to self the whole apply’d.
The Bull withdraws, resolv’d as due,
They first for his return should sue.

The Fox returns, and boasts his arts,
And to his liege the truth imparts:
“The Bull who turn’d his tail so rude,
Meant only not his ear t’ intrude;
And he that spurn’d so fierce the ground
With anguish felt a hornet wound.
The third, the downy turf who prest,
Sought but the sweets of peaceful rest.
But come, to his remote retreat
I’ll guide my royal master’s feet.”
They go; the victim mourns too late
His absent friends and helpless state.
And slain, the Fox exulting cries,
“Not one but all shall be our prize.”

Away he goes, and thus again
Infus’d soft flatt’ry, deadly bane!
“Great sir (says he to one), I swear
Your friends are rude, indeed they are;
Friendship a decent due respect
Should, rather than destroy, protect.
Superior far to these you rise,
The wise affirm: we trust the wise;
Your nobler port, your finer wit,
All with united voice admit;
And yet no just distinction’s made
No deference shewn, no homage paid.
I wonder at your choice, but here
’Tis silence best becomes my sphere,
Tho’ might your slave presume to tell
What all the forest thinks as well,
These are perhaps the only Two
With whom your worth would lose its due.”

The Bull (how easy praise deceives!)
With pleasure hears, with pride believes;
Puts on the lofty looks and airs
Which humble merit never wears.
To treat him as an equal now
Inflames his heart, contracts his brow
’Tis envy, or, ’tis worse, ’tis hate,
Denies due honour to his state;
He could not bear th’ affronts they gave,
They break his peace, they make him rave;
They lov’d and they rever’d, he thought,
Less than the wretches knew they ought;
And (as is usual) storm’d and swore
That they might love and rev’rence more.
His friends, alarm’d, in deep amaze
On him, and on each other, gaze,
Disgust, in either’s bosom bred,
Was shewn as diff’ring tempers led,
One bold and warm the taunts returns,
And with contagious anger burns,
Than this, not plagues are sooner caught,
Nor with more dreadful evils fraught,
The other, meek, in secret pines,
And friends he could not keep resigns;
Resigns, tho’ late, with yearning heart,
And mourns persuasion’s useless art.
Retiring now he leaves the fray,
The Fox still mark’d his pensive way,
The Lion found and seiz’d his prize,
And, like the first, the second dies.

The two who yet alive remain,
In dreadful conflict shake the plain;
The Fox observes the doubtful fight,
One drops—he smiles with fell delight;
Flies with the joyful news, and brings
The King to take what’s now the King’s.
Faint, breathless, bleeding on the ground,
The hapless victor soon they found;
He falls an unresisting prey,
And crowns the triumphs of the day.

This tale a sage once told his son,
And thus apply’d it when he’d done:—

“Do you, my child, with unsuspecting eye,
O’erlook what others labour to descry;
Kind to all faults, and to all failings blind,
Be you the last to think affronts design’d.
Cold seems thy friend?—by the severest laws
Thy conduct try, to find the latent cause.
Let thy heart pant for universal praise,
Such as, unbrib’d, to virtue, virtue pays.
Is this withheld? try ev’ry winning art
To melt the hard, to soothe the froward heart.
Sue for esteem—to all but fawning bend,
Whom this will purchase is a worthless friend;
But scorn the thought as vainest of the vain,
That what good-nature loses, pride will gain.
Less than your merit does your friend approve?
Still merit more—his love constrain with love.
This conduct try’d remains he still the same?
Learn you to pity what the world will blame.
The gen’ral censure, his neglect ensures,
Thy honour brightens and thy praise secures.”

_FABLE XXIII._

The Pepper-Box and Salt-Cellar.

The ’squire had din’d alone one day,
And _Tom_ was call’d to _take away_:
_Tom_ clear’d the board with dextrous art:
But, willing to secure a tart,
The liquorish youth had made an halt,
And left the pepper-box and salt
Alone upon the marble table:
Who thus, like men, were heard to squabble.

Pepper began, “Pray, sir,” says he,
“What business have you here with me?
Is’t fit that spices of my birth
Should rank with thee, thou scum of earth?
I’d have you know, sir, I’ve a spirit
Suited to my superior merit—
Tho’ now, confin’d within this caster,
I serve a Northern Gothic master;
Yet born in _Java’s_ fragrant wood,
To warm an Eastern monarch’s blood,
The sun those rich perfections gave me,
Which tempted _Dutchmen_ to enslave me.

“Nor are my virtues here unknown,
Tho’ old and wrinkled now I’m grown.
Black as I am, the fairest maid
Invokes my stimulating aid,
To give her food the poignant flavour,
And, to each sauce, its proper savour.
Pasties, ragouts, and fricassees,
Without my seasoning, fail to please:
’Tis I, like wit, must give a zest,
And sprightliness to ev’ry feast.

“Physicians too my use confess;
My influence sagest matrons bless;
When drams prove vain, and cholics teaze,
To me they fly for certain ease.
Nay, I fresh vigour can dispense,
And cure ev’n age and impotence:
And when of dulness wits complain,
I brace the nerves, and clear the brain.

“But to the ’squire here, I appeal—
He knows my real value well:
Who, with one pepper-corn content,
Remits the vassal’s annual rent—
Hence then, Sir Brine, and keep your distance,
Go lend the scullion your assistance;
For culinary uses fit,
To salt the meat upon the spit;
Or just to keep our meat from stinking—
And then—a special friend to drinking!”

“Your folly moves me with surprise,”
The silver tripod thus replies,
“Pray, Master Pepper, why so hot?
First cousin to the mustard-pot!
What boots it how our life began?
’Tis breeding makes the Gentleman;
Yet would you search my pedigree,
I rose like Venus from the sea:
The sun, whose influence you boast,
Nurs’d me upon the British coast.

“The chymists know my rank and place,
When nature’s principles they trace:
And wisest moderns yield to me
The elemental monarchy.
By me all nature is supply’d
With all her beauty, all her pride!
In vegetation I ascend;
To animals their vigour lend;
Corruption’s foe, I life preserve,
And stimulate each slacken’d nerve.
I give jonquils their high perfume;
The peach its flavour, rose its bloom:
Nay, I’m the cause, when rightly trac’d,
Of Pepper’s aromatic taste.

“Such claims you teach me to produce;
But need I plead my obvious use,
In seasoning all terrestrial food;
When heaven declares, that Salt is good.

“Grant then, some few thy virtues find;
Yet Salt gives health to all mankind:
Physicians sure will side with me,
While cooks alone shall plead for thee:
In short, with all thine airs about thee,
The world were happier far without thee.”

The ’squire, who all this time sat mute,
Now put an end to their dispute:
He rung the bell—bade Tom convey
The doughty disputants away—

The Salt, refresh’d by shaking up,
At night did with his master sup:
The Pepper, Tom assign’d his lot
With vinegar, and mustard pot:
A fop with bites and sharpers join’d,
And, to the side-board, well confin’d.

_FABLE XXIV._

The Sheep and the Bramble-Bush.

A thick-twisted brake in the time of a storm,
Seem’d kindly to cover a sheep:
So snug, for a while, he lay shelter’d and warm.
It quietly sooth’d him asleep.

The clouds are now scatter’d—the winds are at peace,
The sheep’s to his pasture inclin’d;
But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,
His coat is left forfeit behind.

My friend, who the thicket of law never tried,
Consider before you get in;
Tho’ judgment and sentence are pass’d on your side,
By Jove, you’ll be fleec’d to your skin.

_FABLE XXV._

The Blackbird and Bullfinch.

Perch’d on a poplar’s verdant spray,
A Blackbird sung the hours away;
Charm’d all around, and seem’d to call
On echo from his Lordship’s hall.
Confin’d in state a Bullfinch there,
The melting music chanc’d to hear—
Bursting with envy, silence broke,
And thus from gilded cage he spoke:—

“Cease, bungler, thy discordant noise,
Untun’d thy throat, and harsh thy voice;
How dar’st thou, vagrant, as thou art,
To me thy dissonance impart?
Know’st thou I sing by studied rules,
And brag the learning of the schools?
Soft rapture to the heart convey,
And charm the list’ning soul away?
To please my Lord, and soothe his cares,
I warble soft Italian airs;
Which he in gratitude repays
With costly food, and gen’rous praise:
Whilst thou, condemn’d through air to rove,
Or hide thee in the gloomy grove,
To feebly suck thy beverage scant,
And pine in endless care and want;
To rocks and woods thy tale belongs,
Fit audience for thy stupid songs!
Away! no more my palace dun,
Or Dick, or Tom, shall fetch the gun.”

He ceas’d—The fable bird returns
(With rising scorn his bosom burns),
“Thou little lordling, void of sense,
Dar’st thou, imperious, warn me hence?
Know, parasite, thy threats are nought,
Nor boast thy cage too dearly bought:
Above the frigid rules of art,
’Tis nature’s dictates I impart;
Nor ever prostitute my lays,
But grateful sing my Maker’s praise;
Whilst echoing o’er the hills and plains,
I cheer the nymphs and lab’ring swains;
Whether the rising notes I swell,
Or lightly load the passing gale;
With bolder music fill the grove,
Or gently call my mate to love:
Whether the joys of summer sing,
Or chant the beauties of the spring;
The varied notes still new appear,
And sweet transition charms the ear:
Whilst thou, puff’d up with self-conceit,
And idle thoughts of being great,
Nor freedom canst thyself allow,
Nor give to others what is due;
But pedant-like, in pride, elate
(With notions, as thy prison, strait),
Think’st thou alone can urge the strain,
Thy boasted learning then, how vain!
Attend this truth, and know for once,
That _learning ne’er unmade the dunce_.”

_FABLE XXVI._

The Conceited Fly.

’Twas in the charming month of May
(No matter, critics, for the day),
When PHŒBUS had his noon attain’d,
And in his blaze of glory reign’d;
A FLY as gay as e’er was seen,
Clad o’er in azure, jet, and green;
Gay, for his part, as birthday beau,
Whose soul is vanish’d into show;
On PAUL’S famed temple chanc’d to light,
To ease his long laborious flight:
There, as his optics gaz’d around
(An inch or two their utmost bound),
He thus began:—“Men vainly tell
How they in works of skill excel:
This edifice they proudly show
To prove what human art can do;
’Tis all a cheat—before my eyes
What infinite disorders rise!
HERE hideous cavities appear,
And broken precipices THERE:
They never us’d the plane or line,
But jumbled heaps without design.”

He ceas’d contemptuous;—and as FLIES
Discern with microscopic eyes,
From what he saw he reason’d right,
But how inadequate the sight!
To mark the building from its base,
The pillar’d pomp, the sculptur’d grace,
The dome, the cross, the golden ball,
Much less the grand result of all!

So impious WITS, with proud disdain,
REDEMPTION’S hidden ways arraign,
Deem it beneath a BEING wise,
And, judging with their insect eyes,
View but a part, and then deny
Th’ ETERNAL WISDOM of the sky.
But can thy ken, presumptuous man,
Unfold this deep and wondrous plan?
As well might insect organs see
Th’ harmonious structure rais’d by thee,
As thine imperfect tube explore
This wise and gracious system o’er.

_FINIS._

FOOTNOTES

[1] An impression is given in “Jackson,” at page 477 (Edition 1861, Bohn). See also next page.

[2] Suidas.

[3] Alsop.

[4] Philostratus.

[5] Pliny.

[6] Priscian.

[7] Institut. Orat. i. c. 9.

[8] De Repub. Lib. ii.

[9] This alludes to the well-known Fable of _The Fox and the Grapes_, which, however absurd it may appear in this part of the world, is not so in the East, for Dr Hasselquist, in his Travels, p. 184, observes, that “the Fox is an animal common in _Palestine_, and that there is plenty of them near the convent of St John in the Desert about vintage time; and they destroy all the vines unless they are strictly watched.” To the same effect _Solomon_ saith in the _Canticles_, ii. 15, “_Take us the Foxes, the little Foxes that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes._” Therefore this ancient Apologue is very properly restored, without prejudice to nature or common sense.

[10] The Lion.

THE INDEX.

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