Chapter XI: Part 11

As the gods are forgiving, they wish that the lords
Whom they send to rule over us creatures below,
Should control the proud use of their conquering swords,
And to subjects the mercies of charity show.
O Prince! 'tis well known that you think in this way
That you conquer your foes, but still pause ere you slay;
And in this, for you're one who no passions subdue,
Achilles, as hero, was far beneath you.
This title of hero, in fact, should belong
But to those who do good. This was always the case
In the ages of gold; but now absence from wrong
Of a very grave character gives men the place.
So far are you, Prince, from deserving this stain,
That for half your good actions you merit a fane.
Apollo, the poet, who dwells in the skies,
Sings already the praise of your name, 'tis believed;
Fast in heaven the walls of your mansion arise,
For of glory enough on the earth you've received.
May the sweetest of charms that god Hymen can give,
For you and the Princess, eternally live:
For you fully deserve it; in token of this
I will point to your gifts, both of riches and bliss.
To those qualities wondrous, which, owned but by few,
To grace your young years, Jove has lavished on you.
Your spirit, O Prince! with such grace is combined,
That which most to prize a sweet puzzle we find;
For, sometimes, esteem takes our homage by force,
And then love leaps in with impetuous course.
But to sing all your praises and merits were long;
So changing my key, in a far humbler song
I'll tell you a tale, how a fierce bird of prey
Assaulted a king, and got safely away.
'Tis seldom falconers contrive
To take a new-fledged Hawk alive;
But one so taken, to a King
Was made a humble offering.
The bird, if true the story be,
No sooner saw his Majesty,
Than straight the Royal nose he clawed,
And then the Royal forehead gnawed.
"What! clutch a mighty monarch's nose?
He wore no crown, then, I suppose?"
Had he wore crown and sceptre, too,
'Twere all the same, the creature flew,
And King's nose clawed, like common nose.
Of course, an uproar loud arose,
Such as my verse could scarce describe,
From all the startled courtier tribe.
The King alone was calm and cool:
For calmness is with kings a rule.
The bird kept his place, and could not be persuaded
To vacate the strange throne he'd so roughly invaded.
His master, in vain, with threats and with cries,
Showed him his fist, but he would not rise.
And it seemed, at length, as though the bird--
Insolent creature!--would cling to that feature
Until the next morning's chimes were heard.
The greater the efforts to make him let go,
The deeper he dug in each keen-pointed toe.
At length he relaxed, of his own fickle will;
Then the King said to those round about, "Do not kill
The poor bird, nor the falconer trouble, for each, in
His several way, has obeyed Nature's teaching:--
The one has just proved himself falconer good,
And the other a real savage thing of the wood.
And I, knowing well that kings clement should be,
Grant both full pardon: so let them go free."
Of course, the courtiers all declared
That such great mercy ne'er was shown;
And had the trouble been their own,
Nor man nor bird would have been spared.
Few kings indeed had acted so,
And let the woodman freely go.
They 'scaped right well; but boor and bird
In nothing in this matter erred,
But only this, that, woodland-bred,
They had not learnt enough to dread
The neighbourhood of courts; but this small lapse
May be excused in such poor folk, perhaps.
The following story Pilpay places
Where Ganges nourishes dusk races;
Where man ne'er dares to spill the blood
Of any living thing for food;
"For how can we tell," they say, "that
This creature was not present at
The siege of Troy--a hero, then--
And that he'll not be so again?
For we Pythagoreans are,
And think that different forms we bear
At different seasons--pigeon now,
And then a hawk, and next a cow.
At present we are men; and so
Through every change of form we go."

The tale of that bold bird who clutched the King
Is told two ways. The second now I'll sing.
A woodman that, by luck or wit,
A Hawk had seized, went off with it,
To lay it at his monarch's feet.
Such captures we but seldom meet--
Once in a hundred years; indeed,
'Tis written in the falconer's creed
That woodman who a Hawk can catch
In nest, is any woodman's match.
Through all the crowd of courtiers, then,
Our huntsman, happiest of men,
Thrust with his prize, at last secure
His fortune now was firm and sure.
But, just as he had reached the throne,
Seized with a rage before unknown,
The savage bird, untamed as yet,
In spite of chained foot, turned and set
His claws deep in his master's nose.
All laughed, as you may well suppose--
The courtiers and the monarch, too;
Such very comic sight to view,
I'd give a crown, though it were new.
If Popes may laugh, I'm not quite sure
But kings could not their lives endure,
If they might laugh not--'tis divine;
And Jove, though mostly saturnine,
With all his comrades, laughs, at times,
Enough to shake these earthly climes.
And Jove laughed loudest when, I think,
Poor hobbling Vulcan gave him drink.
Whether or no, 'tis well arranged
That gods should laugh, my subject's changed,
With reason; for 'tis time to ask
What moral lies beneath the mask
Of falconer unfortunate?
This simple lesson I will state:--
To every land each cycle brings
More foolish woodmen than good kings.

FABLE CCXXIX.

THE FOX AND THE TURKEYS.

Against a Fox, a tree served well
The Turkeys for a citadel.
The cunning rascal made the round,
And sentries at each opening found.
"What! these fools mock me, then?" he cried,
"And at the common lot deride?
Forbid it, gods! forbid it, pride!"
And this vow of his chivalry
He soon performed, as you will see.
The moon came just then shining out,
As if the Turkeys' foes to rout;
But he, no novice in assault
Like this, was not, of course, at fault;
And from his bag of schemes so sly
Drew one, to trap the weak and shy.
He feigns to climb, with rampant paws,
And next apes death, with close-fixed jaws.
He then revives, resuscitated:
No harlequin so much elated:
Raises his tail, and makes it shine,
And in the moonlight glitter fine.
No single Turkey dares to sleep,
But ceaseless, tiring watch they keep.
Worn out, they try their eyes to fix
Upon their foeman's wicked tricks;
At last, half giddy, one by one
Fall headlong, and his game is done.
He puts them carefully aside,
Till nearly half of them have died;
Then the bold rascal quickly bore
Away the heap, to fill his store.

If dangers we too closely heed,
'Tis ten to one they come indeed.

FABLE CCXXX.

THE CROW, THE GAZELLE, THE TORTOISE, AND THE RAT.

TO MADAME DE LA SABLIÈRE.

I By means of verse, would raise
A temple to your lasting praise.
Already its foundations lie
Based on that art which comes from high,
And on the name of her whose fame
Adoring clouds shall there proclaim.
I'd write above its portal-stones,
"This fane the goddess Iris owns;"
But not the Iris who for Juno
Goes out with messages, as you know;
A different Iris, whom the lord
Of gods, and Juno, too, were glad
To serve, if they her summons had,
When she such honour would accord.
Th' Apotheosis placed on high
Should show the people of the sky
My Iris to a throne conducting,--
A throne of sunlight's sole constructing.
In frescoes, on the panels placed,
Should all her life's sweet tale be traced;
A charming story, and one far
Remote from all the tales of war.
Deep in the Temple's chief recess
A painting should in part express
Her form, her features, her bright smiles,
And all the thousand artless wiles
By which she gods and men beguiles.
Low at her feet should there be shown
All the great men the world may own,
Great demi-gods besides, and even
The natural habitants of heaven;
For certain 'tis that they to whom
Men pray, to Iris burn perfume.
The artist's care should chiefly be
To make her eyes her soul express.
But, ah! to paint her tenderness
'Twere all in vain to try; may be
No art upon the earth resides
Which for a task like this provides,
To paint a soul in which combine
Man's strength with graces feminine.
O Iris! you who charm us all,
Before whose heavenly grace we fall,
You whom before ourselves we prize
(But, mind, I am not making love,
For love's a word you don't approve),
Yet even from this rough sketch may
A better likeness rise, some day.
The project of your sacred building
I've just for artist-purpose filled in
The foreground of a story which
Is so with rare-found friendship rich,
That, haply, it may favour find
With one that is so good and kind.
Of friendship monarchs seldom dream
But he who gains your heart's esteem
Is not a king devoid of love;
No, he your gentle thoughts approve
Is a brave mortal, who would give
His life, that some dear friend might live.

A Rat, a Gazelle, and a Tortoise and Crow
Lived together as friends, in a desolate place;
And, as they took care to indulge in no show,
Man failed for some time the companions to trace.
But, alas! for poor beasts there's no safety from man,
Whatever concealment their instincts may plan;
To the heart of the desert, the depths of the sea,
Or to heaven's own vault, 'tis in vain that they flee.
The Gazelle, one sad day, was at innocent play,
When a dog--cruel dogs! whom the men treat as brothers,
Though beasts, to assist them to capture the others--
Unluckily snuffed at her scent, and, pursuing,
Led on his fierce master, to cause her undoing.
When dinner came that day, the Rat
Said, "What can Miss Gazelle be at?
She surely dreads some new attacks,
Or else our friendship's bonds relax!"
"Ah!" then the Tortoise, sighing, cried,
"If Heaven wings would but provide,
Such as our Crow has, I would fly,
And all around the country spy,
To find what accidents withhold
Our friend. Her heart's as good as gold."
The Crow, without a word, took flight,
And soon had poor Gazelle in sight,
Tied up with cords against a tree,
A hapless piece of misery.
At once the Crow, without a pause,
Flies back, nor seeks to probe the cause,
The whys, the wherefores, or the when
Which make Gazelles the prey of men.
Nor loses time, for action meant,
In a pedantic argument.
The Crow's report was duly heard,
And then the Crow a vote preferred
That two should speed, without delay,
To where their friend in bondage lay,
But that the Tortoise, lying still,
Should serve the counter,--guard the till;
For, whilst the Tortoise' step is slow,
Gazelles die quickly, as we know.
The words were scarcely said, when forth
The angry Crow and Rat went north,
To where their dark-eyed, dear Gazelle
Lay, victim of man's purpose fell.
The Tortoise, also, not behind-hand
To lend to any one a kind hand,
Toiled thither, also, grimly swearing
That he his house must still be bearing.
Arrived at the place where the Deer was confined,
Sir <i>Gnaw-net</i> (the Rat is so properly named)
At once set his teeth the hard cordage to grind,
And in less than two minutes the friend was reclaimed
The hunter coming up just then,
Cursed like a thousand sporting men;
And Master Rat, with prudence fraught,
A cozy hole directly sought,
Whilst Crow swam safely up to tree,
And dear Gazelle in woods ran free.
Just then the hunter, in a state
Of hunger most disconsolate,
Perceived the Tortoise on his path,
And, thereupon, subdued his wrath.
"Why should I," said he, "vex myself?
This beast will grace my supper-shelf."
And thus the hapless Tortoise soon
Had been condemned to knife and spoon,
Had not the Crow the dear Gazelle
Taught how to act the lame man well.
The timid deer, with halting feet,
Went forth, the hunter's eyes to meet.
The man threw off, without delay,
All that his eager steps might stay--
The Tortoise, with some other things.
Of course the Rat undid the strings
That held the bag where Tortoise lay,
And all four friends got safe away!

'Tis Pilpay that has told this tale;
And if upon the god of song
I chose to call, I might prolong
This quadrupedal history,
And write another Odyssey.
And if, to please you, I should take
This work upon me, I should make
The Rat the hero; yet, 'tis true
That each had work, and did it, too.
The Tortoise, though with mansion weighted,
The case in point so clearly stated,
That Master Crow at once took wing,
To spy the land, and message bring;
Whilst dear Gazelle, with female cunning,
Before the hunter lamely running,
Gave to Sir Gnaw-cord time to bite
The strings which held the Tortoise tight.
So each one, in his several way,
Fought a good fight, and won the day.
On whom shall we the prize bestow?
On the good heart, as you'll allow.
What will not friendship dare for those
On whom its gentle tendrils close?
That other feeling, love, is not,
Compared with friendship, worth a jot;
Although, to tell the truth, its pains
Distract my heart, and fill my strains.
It is Love's gentle sister you
Protect, and I'll adore her, too;
And, blending Friendship with your name,
Throughout the world her joys proclaim.

FABLE CCXXXI.

THE ENGLISH FOX.

TO MADAME HARVEY.

A good heart is in you with sense allied,
And scores of other qualities, well tried;
A nobleness of soul and mind, to guide
Both men and things; a temper frank and free.
In friendship firm, though tempests there may be.
All this deserves, we know, a pompous praise:
But pomp displeases you; so I'll not raise
My voice, but simple be, and brief. I would
Insert a word of flattery, if I could,
About the country that you love so dear.
The English are profound: in this their mind
Follows their temperament, as oft we find.
Deep, deep they dig for truth, and without end
The empire of the sciences extend.
I write not this to win good will from you;
Your nation are deep searchers, it is true.
Even your dogs, they say, have keener scent than ours;
Your foxes are of craftier mental powers:
I'll prove it, by an artful stratagem,
The most ingenious ever planned by them.
A wicked Reynard, chased quite out of breath
By the untiring dogs, and dreading death,
Saw a tall gallows, where dead badgers hung,
And owls and foxes were together strung--
Cruel examples for the passer-by!
Reynard in ambuscade prepared to lie,
Like Hannibal, who, when the Romans chased,
Baffled their armies, and their spies disgraced.
Old Fox this was! his enemies soon ran
To where he lay for dead. The barking clan
Filled all the air with clamour long and loud.
The master whipped away the noisy crowd:
The trick deceived him. "Come, you dogs!" he cried,
"Some puppy's saved the rascal, who ne'er tried
To climb the gibbet where such honest folk
Repose. Some day, he'll find the gallows a rough joke,
Much to his loss." And, while the dogs give tongue,
Back to his larder goes the Fox just hung.
Another day he'll try the self-same plan,
And leave his brush and four paws with the man.
Tricks won't do twice. The hunter ne'er had thought
Of such a scheme, had he been nearly caught,
Not from the want of wit, at all, you see,
For who can say the English want <i>esprit?</i>
But their contempt for life has often led
To evil in such dangers, it is said.

And now I once more turn to you,--
Not for more flattery. 'Tis true
All long eulogium does but tire:
I, a poor player on the lyre,
With flattering songs, and little verse,
Amuse the mighty universe,
Or win a distant nation's praise.
Your Prince once said, in former days,
He valued very far above
All studied praise one word of love.
Accept the humble gift I bring,
Last efforts that I mean to sing:
But poor indeed, and all unformed,
Yet were they by new fervour warmed,
Could you but make this homage known
To her who fills your country's zone
With sprites from Cytherea's isle;
I speak (you know it by your smile)
Of Mazarin, Jove dear to thee,
And Cupid's sovereign deity.

FABLE CCXXXII.

THE APE.

There was a certain Ape in Paris:
Like many another Ape, he marries.
He chose a wife; and then, like some
Bad husbands, beat her deaf and dumb--
Aping their ways. The poor soul sighed,
And, after that, at last she died.
Their infant cries, but cries in vain,
And sorrows, o'er and o'er again.
The father laughs: his wife is dead,
And he has other loves instead,
Whom he will also beat, I trow;
He's often drunk, that well I know.
From one who's aping others look
For nothing good; whether a book
He makes, or work performs. Yes, all,
Upon whichever one you fall,
Are bad--the author ape the worst,
And of all monkey creatures first.

FABLE CCXXXIII.

THE FOX, THE WOLF, AND THE HORSE.

A Fox, still young, though rather sly,
Saw, first time in his life, a Horse.
Just then a stupid Wolf passed by,
And Reynard saw a game, of course.

"Come, see this thing that's feeding near;
He's grand. I view him with delight!
Is he more strong than us, my dear?
Think you with both of us he'd fight?"

Replied the Wolf, with laughter--"Now
Draw me his portrait: then I'll tell."
The Fox said, "Could I write, or show
On canvas all his beauties well,

"Your pleasure would be great indeed.
But, come--what say you? He may be
Some easy prey, on whom we'll feed,
By Fortune sent to you and me."

The Horse, still feeding on the plain,
Scarce curious to see the pair,
Planned flying with his might and main,
For wolves have tricks that are unfair.

The sly Fox said, "Your servants, sir;
We wish to know your name." The Horse
Had brains; so said, "My shoemaker
Has put it round my shoe, of course.

"Read, if you can. There is my name."
The Fox had store of craft in need:
He cried, "My parents were to blame;
They taught me not to write or read.

'Tis only mighty wolves who learn
To read: they read things in a breath!"
Our flattered Wolf here made a turn;
But vanity cost him his teeth!

The clever Horse, as he drew near,
Held high his hoof: his plan he saw.
It cost the reading Wolf most dear,--
Down came the hoof upon his jaw.

With broken bones, and bloody coat,
Upon the ground the poor Wolf lay.
"Brother," the Fox said, "only note
The truth that we've heard people say.

"With wisdom, what had been your case?
No pain would need to be discussed.
This Horse has stamped upon your face
That 'unknown things wise men mistrust.'"

FABLE CCXXXIV.

THE LEAGUE OF THE RATS.

A Mouse, in very deadly fear
Of an old Cat, that kept too near
A certain passage, being wise
And shrewd, went straight, without disguise,
To ask a neighbour Rat, whose house
Was close to that of Mister Mouse.
The Rat's domains, so fair and snug,
Were under a large mansion dug.
This Rat a hundred times had sworn
He feared no Cat that yet was born;
Both tooth and paw he held in scorn.

"Dame Mouse," the lying boaster cried,
"<i>Ma foi!</i> how can I, ma'am, decide
Alone? I cannot chase the Cat,
But call and gather every Rat
That's living near. I have a trick;--
In fact, at nothing I will stick."
The Mouse, she curtsied humbly; then
The Rat ran off to call his men,
Unto the office, pantry named,
Where many rats (not to be blamed)
Were feasting at their host's expense,
With very great magnificence.
He enters, troubled--out of breath.
"What have you done?--you're pale as death,"
Says one. "Pray, speak." Says he, "Alas!
Friend Mouse is in a pretty pass,
And needs immediate help from you.
Raminagrobis, in my view,
Spreads dreadful carnage everywhere.
This Cat, this hideous monstrous Cat,
If Mice are wanting, calls for Rat."
They all cry out, "'Tis true! to arms!"
And some, they say, 'mid war's alarms,
Shed tears; but no one stops behind:
They all are of the self-same mind.
They pack up cheese in scrip and bag;
No single nibbler dares to lag.
With mind content, and spirit gay,
It is to them a holiday.
The Cat, meanwhile, quite free from dread,
Has gripped the Mouse by its wee head.
At charging pace the Rats, at last,
Come; but the Cat still holds it fast,
And, growling, faces the whole band.
At this grim sound the Rats, off hand,
With prudence, make a swift retreat,
Fearing their destiny to meet.
Each hurries to his humble hole,
Nor seeks again the warrior's goal.

FABLE CCXXXV.

A SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER.

A Philosopher once, who, in Scythia born,
Had somewhat, with study, his brain-pan outworn,
Made his mind up, for pleasure and profit, to seek
Repose for a time in the land of the Greek;
And there he made friends with a man of the kind
Whom Virgil so well in the Georgics defined:
A man who's a king, for himself he controls,
And a god, for he blends his own will with men's souls.
He found him with pruning-knife grasped in his hand,
Pruning here, snipping there, in all parts of his land,
As tranquil as Jove; here he cut off a twig,
There lopped off a branch to make others more big;
For Nature, experience had taught him, is prone
To waste in rash gifts all the wealth of her throne.
The Scythian, brought up in town, was downcast,
And looked at the ruinous waste quite aghast,
And exclaimed, "My dear friend, lay your pruning
hook down,
And let Nature, judicious, take care of her own;
For, at best, you are taking much pains to deflower
The fruits which Time's tooth will but too soon devour."
The old man replied, with a rustical grace,
"I cut useless ones off to give useful ones space."
Struck by wisdom like this, with no moments delay,
The Scythian homewards at once took his way;
And no sooner had got there but took up a bill,
And at cutting and hewing showed wonderful skill:
Hewed branches, snipped twigs, and persuaded his
neighbours
To share in his rude horticultural labours.
The result is soon told: hacking trees without reason,
In summer or spring--taking no thought of season--
Must lead to results which no words can belie;
For the trees thus instructed instinctively die.
Now, the Scythian stands for a symbol of those
Who wish all the pathways of pleasure to close;
Who'd hoot at ambition, forbid a new dress,
And from lexicons banish the sweet word, <i>caress.</i>
For myself, though by custom not given to swearing,
I'll say that, by Jove, such old dolts there's no bearing;
They wish us to choke whilst we've plenty of breath,
And whilst full of life's vigour to simulate death.

FABLE CCXXXVI.

DAPHNIS AND ALCIMADURA.

(<i>An Imitation of Theocritus.</i>)

TO MADAME DE LA MESANGERE.

Amiable daughter of a mother fair,
For whom a thousand hearts are torn with care;
Yours are the hearts whom friendship holds in fee,
And those that Love keeps firm in fealty.
This preface I divide 'tween her and you,
The brightest essence of Parnassus dew.
I have the secret to perfume for you
More exquisitely sweet. I'll tell thee, then;
But I must choose, or I shall fail again:

My lyre and voice will need more power and skill;
Let me, then, praise alone a heart that's still
Full of all noble sentiments,--the grace, the mind,
Which need no master but the one we find
Blooming above you. Guard those roses well,
And do not let the thorns o'ergrow, <i>ma belle</i>.
Love will the same thing say, and better, too;
Those who neglect him, Cupid makes to rue:
As you shall see. Alcimadure the fair
Despised the god who rules the earth and air.
Fierce and defiant, she roam'd through the wood,
Ran o'er the meadows, danced as none else could,
Obeyed caprice alone,--of beauty queen,
Most cruel of the cruel; she had been
For long beloved by Daphnis: of good race
Was the poor lad, who doated on her face,--
Loved for her very scorn--nay, more, I vow,
Than had she loved him with an equal glow;
Yet not a look she gave, nor word to cheer,
Nor his complaints would ever even hear.
Weary of the pursuit, prepared to die,
Down at her door despair had made him lie.
Alack! he wooed the winds;--she, blithe and gay,
Still kept her door shut,--'twas her natal day;
And to her beauty's throne she spread fair flowers,
The treasures of the garden, and spring hours.
"I hoped before your very eyes," he cried,
"Had I not been so hateful, to have died.
How can I wonder that you do deny
This last sad pleasure of fidelity?
My father I have charged my heritage
To offer at your feet: the pasturage,
And all my flocks,--my dog, of dogs the best;
And my companions will, then, with the rest,
Found a small temple, where continually
Your image, crowned with flowers, shall ever be.
My simple monument shall be near it,
And this inscription on the stone I've writ--
'Of love poor Daphnis died. Stop, passer by!
Weep, and say he was slain by cruelty
Of fair Alcimadura.'" The Fates at last
Cut the thin thread, and his vexed spirit passed.
The cruel maiden came forth, proud and gay:
In vain her friends beseech her but to stay
A moment, on the course to shed one tear;
She still insulted Cupid, without fear:
Bringing that very evening o'er the plain,
To dance around the statue, all her train.
The image fell, and crushed her with its weight.
Then from the cloud thus spoke the voice of Fate:
"Love, and delay not: the hard heart is dead."
The shade of Daphnis raised its pallid head,
And on the banks of Styx stood shuddering;
While all vast Erebus, with wondering,
Heard to the shepherd the fair homicide
Excuse her cruelty and foolish pride.
But as to phantom Ajax Ulysses sued,
And Dido's death the guilty lover rued,
So from the maiden's shadow turned the swain,
And did not words of mercy to her deign.

FABLE CCXXXVII.

THE ELEPHANT AND JUPITER'S MONKEY.

An Elephant had words, one day,
With a Rhinoceros, they say.
They settled they would fight it out.
But, while the matter was about,
Jove's Monkey, like a Mercury, came:
Giles was, historians say, his name.
The Elephant, a brute ambitious,
Was pleased to find the heaven propitious.
Eager for fame, he smiled to see
So dignified an embassy.
But Giles, though wise in all essentials,
Is slow presenting his credentials.
At length he comes to pay respect,
Yet still shows somewhat of neglect;
Speaks not a word: no single mention
Of the great deities' attention.
What care those living in the skies
If perish Elephants or flies?
The potentate's compelled to speak:
"My cousin, Jupiter, this week
Will see, from his Olympic throne,
A pretty combat, as he'll own;
And his Court, too, will see it partly."
"What combat?" said the Monkey, tartly.
"Pooh!" said the Elephant; "you know
'Bout the Rhinoceros, and the blow;
'Tis property that we dispute.
In a long, tedious Chancery suit
Elephantor and Rhinocere
Are warring, as you've heard up there."
"I'm pleased to learn their names, good sir,"
Said Master Giles; "but, King, you err
If you think we of such things heed."
The Elephant, surprised indeed,
Said, "Who, then, come you now to aid?"
"I come to part a blade of grass
Between some ants. To every class
Our cares of sovereignty extend.
As for your wars, my noble friend,
The gods have not heard of them yet;
Or, if they have, they do forget.
The small and great are, in Jove's eye,
Guarded with like equality."

FABLE CCXXXVIII.

THE MADMAN AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

A Certain Madman, as the story goes,
Threw stones at a Philosopher, one day.
The latter said, "My friend, I don't suppose
You care to work so hard, without your pay.
Here, take this crown; how deeply I regret
I cannot better recompense your trouble!
Go, pelt yon gentleman, and you may get
A larger sum--perhaps as much as double."
Pleased at the chance, our fool begins to throw
Big stones at a patrician; but, instead
Of giving gold, the lackeys mauled him so,
That they departed leaving him half dead.

Such fools there are in kingly courts,
Who raise the laugh at your expense;
But can you check their silly sports,
Or stop their loud impertinence?
If any words or any blows
Of yours are powerless to hush them,
Just get them to be rude to those
Who have sufficient force to crush them.

FABLE CCXXXIX.

THE FROGS AND THE SUN.

The daughters of the mud obtained
Help from the star-king, while he reigned.
Nor war, nor any like disaster,
Could harm them under such a master.
His empire was the most serene!
The pond-queens (Frogs, I really mean:
For why not give their honourable name?)
Against their benefactors plotted; shame,
Imprudence, pride, and base ingratitude,
Good Fortunes children, roused the restless brood.
They could not sleep a wink (to trust their cry):
They would have stirred the world to mutiny
Against the eye of nature--the great sun.
It had begun to burn them: he must run
To arms, and gather all his powerful band,
Or he'd be driven from his own fair land.
The croaking embassies would go
Through all the regions, to and fro,
To make the whole world hear their case,
And gather pity from each place.
All the world seemed bent on this,
That four marshes took amiss.
Still this rash complaint went on:
Still this grumbling at the sun.
Yet in vain the noise and riot,--
Frogs must, after all, be quiet;
For, if the sun is once inflamed,
They will very soon be tamed,
And the Frog Republic will
Find they've calculated ill.

FABLE CCXL.

THE ARBITRATOR, ALMONER, AND HERMIT.

Three saints, by holy fervour fired,
To gain the heights of heaven aspired;
But, as the well-known proverb says,
Rome can be reached by various ways,
So these by different methods planned
To gain the shores of Canaan's land.
One, touched by the expense and care
Which luckless suitors have to bear,
Offered cases to determine
Without a fee, or wig, or ermine.
Since human laws were first began,
Lawsuits have been the curse of man;
Absorbing half, three-fourths, or all
Of days which, at the best, are small.
To cure a state of things so vicious,
Our Umpire thought his plan judicious.
The second of our saints declares
The sick sole object of his cares;
And I praise him: in truth, to me
This seems the truest charity.
But sick men, troublous then, as now,
Our good man vexed enough, I vow.
Capricious, restless, petulant,
Each moment brings a separate want;
And, if no other fault they find,
They cry, "To such and such he's kind:
Spends all his days and nights in caring
For them, and leaves us here despairing."
But these complaints were small to those
Which harassed, every day, the heart
Of him who, well-intentioned, chose
To act the Arbitrator's part.
The plaintiff and defendant, both,
T' adopt his sentences were loth;
And swore, with all their might and main,
His partiality was plain.
By such abuse as this disgusted,
The Umpire and the Almoner
Each unto each his woes entrusted;
And each agreed he could not bear
To be so shamefully mistrusted.
This being so, they sought a glade
Which neither suns nor winds invade,
And there, beneath a rugged mountain,
Beside a clear and babbling fountain,
They found their friend the Hermit saint;
So each one having made his plaint,
Asked his advice. "Your own pursue,"
Replied their friend; "for who but you
Can know your several wants? To know
One's self makes gods of man below.
And let me ask you, have you found
This knowledge where vast crowds abound?
No; trust me, it can only be
The fruit of sweet tranquillity.
Shake but the water in your vase,
And you no longer see your face;
But let it once more still remain,
And straight your likeness comes again.
'Midst worldly scenes you'll never learn
The love for which we all should yearn.
Believe me, friends, the desert's best
For him who'd study his own breast."

To each the Hermit's words seemed good,
And, henceforth, each one sought the wood.

Of course, there's always work to do,
Whilst men still sicken, and still sue,
For lawyers and for doctors; and
They'll never perish from the land,
Thank mighty Jove, as long as fees
And honours greet their services.
But in such common toils the mind
Can seldom its true likeness find.
Oh, you, who give your lives away,
And serve the public every day,--
You, princes, judges, magistrates,
Exposed to all the angry fates,

Who, when no other ill oppresses,
Are slain by Judas-like caresses,--
To you yourselves are all unknown;
And if some moment is your own,
For self-reflection, ere it flies
'Tis spoilt by hateful flattery's lies.

This lesson shall conclude these pages;
May it be blessed to future ages!
To Kings I give it, to the wise commend:
How could my volume better end?

End of Project Gutenberg's The Fables of La Fontaine, by Jean de la Fontaine