FABLE XXX.
THE DOVE AND THE ANT.
The next example we must getFrom creatures even smaller yet.A Dove came to a brook to drink,When, leaning on the crumbling brink,An Ant fell in, and failed to reach,Through those vast ocean waves, the beach.The Dove, so full of charity is she,Threw down a blade of grass, a promontory,Unto the Ant, who so once more,Grateful and glad, escaped to shore.Just then passed byA scampish poacher, soft, bare-footed, cameCreeping and sly;A crossbow in his hand he bore:Seeing the Dove, he thought the gameSafe in the pot, and ready for the meal:Quick runs the Ant, and stings his heel;The angry rascal turns his head;The Dove, who sees the scoundrel stoop,Flies off, and with her flies his soup.
FABLE XXXI.
THE ASTROLOGER WHO LET HIMSELF FALL INTO THE WELL.
To an Astrologer, who by a blunderFell in a well, said one, "You addle-head,Blind half an inch before your nose, I wonderHow you can read the planets overhead."This small adventure, not to go beyond,A useful lesson to most men may be;How few there are at times who are not fondOf giving reins to their credulity,Holding that men can read,In times of need,The solemn Book of Destiny,That book, of which old Homer sung,What was the ancientchance, in common sense,but modern Providence?Chance that has always bid defianceTo laws and schemes of human science.If it were otherwise, a single glanceWould tell us there could be no fortune and no chance.All things uncertain;Who can lift the curtain?Who knows the will of the Supreme?He who made all, and all with a design;Who but himself can know them? who can dreamHe reads the thoughts of the Divine,Did God imprint upon the star or cloudThe secrets that the night of Time enshroud,In darkness hid?—only to rack the brainsOf those who write on what each sphere contains.To help us shun inevitable woes,And sadden pleasure long before its close;Teaching us prematurely to destroy,And turn to evil every coming joy,This is an error, nay, it is a crime.The firmament rolls on, the stars have destined time.The sun gives light by day,And drives the shadows of the night away.Yet what can we deduce but that the will DivineBids them rise and bids them shine,To lure the seasons on, to ripen every seed,To shed soft influence on men;What has an ordered universe to do indeed,With chance, that is beyond our ken.Horoscope-makers, cheats, and quacks.On Europe's princes turn your backs,And carry with you every bellows-working alchymist:You are as bad as they, I wist.—But I am wandering greatly, as I think,Let's turn to him whom Fate forced deep to drink.Besides the vanity of his deceitful art,He is the type of those who at chimeras gape,Forgetting danger's simpler shape,And troubles that before us and behind us start.
THE HARE AND THE FROGS.
THE HARE AND THE FROGS.
FABLE XXXII.
THE HARE AND THE FROGS.
One day sat dreaming in his form a Hare,(And what but dream could one do there?)With melancholy much perplexed(With grief this creature's often vexed)."People with nerves are to be pitied,And often with their dumps are twitted;Can't even eat, or take their pleasure;Ennui," he said, "torments their leisure.See how I live: afraid to sleep,My eyes all night I open keep.'Alter your habits,' some one says;But Fear can never change its ways:In honest faith shrewd folks can spy,That men have fear as well as I."Thus the Hare reasoned; so he keptWatch day and night, and hardly slept;Doubtful he was, uneasy ever;A breath, a shadow, brought a fever.It was a melancholy creature,The veriest coward in all nature;A rustling leaf alarmed his soul,He fled towards his secret hole.Passing a pond, the Frogs leaped in,Scuttling away through thick and thin,To reach their dark asylums in the mud."Oh! oh!" said he, "then I can make them scudAs men make me; my presence scaresSome people too! Why, they're afraid of Hares!I have alarmed the camp, you see.Whence comes this courage? Tremble when I come;I am a thunderbolt of war, may be;My footfall dreadful as a battle drum!"There's no poltroon, be sure, in any place,But he can find a poltroon still more base.
FABLE XXXIII.
THE TWO BULLS AND THE FROG.
Two Bulls were butting in rough battle,For the fair belle of all the cattle;A Frog, who saw them, shuddering sighed."What ails you?" said a croaker by his side."What? why, good gracious! don't you seeThe end of all this fight will beThat one will soon be chased, and yieldThe empire of this flowery field;And driven from rich grass to feed,Searching the marsh for rush and reed,He'll trample many a back and head,And every time he moves we're dead.'Tis very hard a heifer should occasionTo us so cruel an invasion."There was good sense in the old croaker's fear,For soon the vanquished Bull came near:Treading with heedless, brutal power,He crushed some twenty every hour.The poor in every age are forced by FateTo expiate the follies of the great.
THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO.
THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO.
THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO (2).
THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO (2).
FABLE XXXIV.
THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO.
The Peacock to great Juno came:"Goddess," he said, "they justly blameThe song you've given to your bird:All nature thinks it most absurd,The while the Nightingale, a paltry thing,Is the chief glory of the spring:Her note so sweet, and deep, and strong.""I do thee, jealous bird, no wrong,"Juno, in anger, cried:"Restrain thy foolish pride.Is it for you to envy other's song?—You who around your neck art wearingOf rainbow silks a hundred different dyes?—You, who can still display to mortal's eyesA plume that far outfacesA lapidary's jewel-cases?Is there a bird beneath the skiesMore fit to please and strike?No animal has every gift alike:We've given you each one his special dower;This one has beauty, and that other power.Falcons are swift; the Eagle's proud and bold;By Ravens sorrow is foretold;The Crow announces miseries to come;All are content if singing or if dumb.Cease, then, to murmur, lest, as punishment,The plumage from thy foolish back be rent."
FABLE XXXV.
THE BAT AND THE TWO WEASELS.
A Bat one day into a Weasel's holeWent boldly; well, it was a special blunder.The Weasel, hating mice with heart and soul,Ran up to eat the stranger—where's the wonder?"How do you dare," he said, "to meet me here,When you and I are foes, and always were?Aint you a mouse?—lie not, and cast off fear;You are; or I'm no Weasel: have a care.""Now, pardon me," replied the Bat,"I'm really anything but that.What! I a mouse? the wicked tattlers lie.Thanks to the Maker of all human things,I am a bird—here are my wings:Long live the cleavers of the sky!"These arguments seemed good, and soThe Weasel let the poor wretch go.But two days later, though it seems absurd,The simpleton into another hole intruded.This second Weasel hated every bird,And darted on the rash intruder."There you mistake," the Bat exclaimed;"Look at me, ain[']t I rashly blamed?What makes a bird? its feathers?—yes.I am a mouse—long live the rats,And Jupiter take all the cats."So twice, by his supreme address,This Bat was saved—thanks tofinesse.Many there are who, changing uniform,Have laughed at every danger and intrigue;The wise man cries, to 'scape the shifting storm,"Long live the King!" or, "Glory to the League!"
FABLE XXXVI.
THE BIRD WOUNDED BY AN ARROW.
A bird by well-aimed arrow shot,Dying, deplored its cruel lot;And cried, "It doubles every painWhen from oneself the cause of ruin's ta'en.Oh, cruel men, from our own wings you drewThe plume that winged the shaft that slew;But mock us not, you heartless race,You too will some time take our place;For half at least of Japhet's brothersForge swords and knives to slay the others."
FABLE XXXVII.
THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS.
The Arts are birthrights; true, and being so,The fable to the ancient Greeks we owe;But still the field can ne'er be reaped so cleanAs not to let the later comers glean.The world of fiction's full of deserts bare,Yet still our authors make discoveries there.Let me repeat a story, good, though old,That Malherbe to Racan, 'tis rumoured, told;Rivals of Horace, heirs in every way,Apollo's sons, our masters, I should say:They met one time in friendly solitude,Unbosoming those cares that will obtrude.Racan commences thus,—"Tell me, my friend,You, who the clue of life, from end to end,Know well, and step by step, and stage by stage,Have lost no one experience of age;How shall I settle? I must choose my station.You know my fortune, birth, and education.Shall I the provinces make my resort,Carry the colours, or push on at court?The world has bitterness, and it has charms,War has its sweets, and marriage its alarms:Easy to follow one's own natural bent,But I've both court and people to content.""Please everybody!" Malherbe says, with crafty eye,"Now hear my story ere you make reply.I've somewhere read, a Miller and his Son,One just through life, the other scarce begun(Boy of fifteen, if I remember well),Went one fair day a favourite Ass to sell;To take him fresh—according to wise rules—They tied his feet and swung him—the two fools—They carried him just like a chandelier.Poor simple rustics (idiots, I fear),The first who met them gave a loud guffaw,And asked what clumsy farce it was he saw.'The greatest ass is not the one who walks,'So sneeringly the passing horseman talks.The Miller frees the beast, by this convinced.The discontented creature brayed and wincedIn its ownpatois; for the change was bad:Then the good Miller mounted the poor lad.As he limped after, there came by that wayThree honest merchants, who reviling say,'Dismount! why, that won't do, you lazy lad;Give up the saddle to your grey-haired dad;You go behind, and let your father ride.''Yes, masters,' said the Miller, 'you decideQuite right; both ways I am content.'He took his seat, and then away they went.Three girls next passed: 'Oh, what a shame!' says one,'A father treating like a slave his son!The churl rides like a bishop's calf. 'Not I,'The Miller made the girls a sharp reply:'Too old for veal, you hussies, and ill-famed.'Still with such jesting he became ashamed,Thought he'd done wrong; and changing his weak mind,
THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS.
THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS.
Took up his son upon the croup behind.But three yards more, a third, sour, carping set,Began to cavil,—'Biggest fools we've met!The beast is done—he'll die beneath their blows.What! load a poor old servant!' so it grows:'They'll go to market, and they'll sell his skin.''Parbleu!' the Miller said, 'not worth a pinThe fellow's brains who tries with toil and strifeTo please the world, his neighbour, and his wife.But still we'll have a try as we've begun:'So off the Ass they jumped, himself and son.The Ass in state goes first, and then came they.A quidnunc met them—What! is that the way?The Ass at ease, the Miller quite foot-sore!That seems an Ass that's greatly held in store.Set him in gold—frame him—now, by the mass,Wear out one's shoes, to save a paltry Ass!Not so went Nicolas his Jeanne to woo;The song says that he rode to save his shoe.There go three asses.' 'Right,' the Miller cries;'I am an Ass, it's true, and you are wise;But henceforth I don't care, so let them blameOr praise, no matter, it shall be the same;Let them be quiet, pshaw! or let them tell,I'll go my own way now;'" and he did well.Then follow Mars, or Cupid, or the Court,Walk, sit, or run, in town or country sport,Marry or take the cowl, empty or fill the bag,Still never doubt the babbling tongues will wag.
FABLE XXXVIII.
THE COCK AND THE FOX.
Upon a branch a crafty sentinel,A very artful old bird, sat."Brother," a Fox said, "greet you well"(He speaks so soft—there's guile in that);"Our quarrel's over, peace proclaimed:I bring the news; come down, embrace:Do not delay: I shall be blamedIf soon not twenty stages from this place.Now you and yours can take your ease:Do what you please,Without a fear;We're brothers now, you know, my dear.Light up the bonfires everywhere:Dismiss all care;But let us first, to seal the bliss,Have one fraternal, tender kiss.""Friend," said the Cock, "upon my word,More glorious news I never heard.This peace.May it increase;It's double joy to hear it, friend, from thee.Ha! there I seeTwo greyhounds—couriers, doubtless, as you are—Coming fast down yonder scaur:They'll be here in a minute,Ah! yes, there's something in it—I'll come down quick:—we'd better kiss all round.""Adieu," the Fox said; "Sir, my business presses;We shall meet shortly, I'll be bound:Another time we can exultOver this end of our distresses."Then off the rascal ran to ground,Full of chagrin and discontent.The Cock laughed loud, to see his fear,And clapped his wings, his wives to cheer.It is a pleasure doubly sweetTo trick the scoundrel and the cheat.
FABLE XXXIX.
THE FROGS WHO ASKED FOR A KING.
Of Democrats the Frogs grew tired,And unto Monarchy aspired;Clamour so loud, that from a cloudGreat Jove in pity dropped a King,Silent and peaceful, all allowed;And yet he fell with such a splash, the thingQuite terrified those poor marsh folks,Not fond of jokes,Foolish and timid, all from him hid;And each one brushes
THE FROGS WHO ASKED FOR A KING.
THE FROGS WHO ASKED FOR A KING.
To hide in reeds, or sneak in rushes;And from their swampy holes, poor little souls!For a long time they dared not peepAt the great giant, still asleep.And yet the monarch of the bogWas but aLOG,Whose solemn gravity inspired with aweThe first who venturing saw:He hobbled somewhat near,With trembling and with fear;Then others followed, and another yet,Until a crowd there met;At last the daring mob grew bolder,And leaped upon the royal shoulder;Good man, he did not take it ill,But as before kept still.Soon Jupiter is deafened with the din—"Give us a king who'll move," they all begin.The monarch of the gods sends down a Crane,Who with a vengeance comes to reign.He gobbles and he munches,He sups and lunches;Till louder still the Frogs complain."Why, see!" great Jupiter replied,"How foolishly you did decide.You'd better kept your first—the last is worst.You must allow, if you are fair,King Log was calm anddebonair:With him, then, be ye now content,For fear a third, and worse, be sent."
FABLE XL.
THE DOG AND HER COMPANION.
A Dog, proud of her new-born family,And needing shelter for her restless brood,Begged a snug kennel with such urgency,A generous friend at last was found who wouldSupply her pressing need—so it was lent.After a week or so the good soul wentAnd asked it back.—"Only a fortnight more:"The little ones could hardly walk as yet;'Twas kindly granted as before.The second term expired, again they met:The friend demands her house, her room, her bed.This time the graceless Dog showed teeth, and scowled;"I and my children are prepared to go," she growled,"If you can put us out and reign instead."By this time they were grown,And better left alone.Lend to bad men, and you'll regret it much;To draw from them the money right,You must plead, and you must fight,Or else your gold you'll never touch.Only the truth I mean to tell:Give them an inch, they'll take an ell.
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES.
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES.
FABLE XLI.
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES.
A Certain hungry Fox, of Gascon breed(Or Norman—but the difference is small),Discovered, looking very ripe indeed,Some Grapes that hung upon an orchard-wall.Striving to clamber up and seize the prey,He found the fruit was not within his power;"Well, well," he muttered, as he walked away,"It's my conviction that those Grapes are sour."The Fox did wisely to accept his lot;'Twas better than complaining, was it not?
FABLE XLII.
THE EAGLE AND THE BEETLE.
John Rabbit, by an Eagle followed, fled,And in his terror hid his headIn a poor Beetle's hole, that happened to be there.You well may guess that this poor lairWas insecure; but where to hide? alack!He crouched—the Eagle pounced upon his back.The friendly Beetle intercedes,And, all in tears, he kindly pleads:"Queen of the Birds! no doubt, in spite of me,You can this trembling creature bear away;But spare me this affront, this grief, I pray.John Rabbit begs his little life of thee;Grant it for pity's sake, sweet ma'am, now do!"The bird of Jove disdained to make reply,But struck the Beetle with her wing—one—two—Then bore John Rabbit to the upper sky.Indignant Beetle, of revenge in quest,Flew straight to the proud Eagle's nest;Broke in her absence all her eggs—the lot—Her sweetest hopes—the eggs she held so dear.Angry people have no fear.The Eagle, coming to the well-loved spot,And seeing all the hideous fricassee,Filled heaven with shrieks; but could not findOn whom to vent her wrath—you see,Her fury made her blind.She mourned in vain; that year it was her fateChildless to be, and desolate.The next she built a loftier nest—in vain,The Beetle addled all the eggs again.John Rabbit's death was well avenged indeed!For six long months the Eagle's moanings flew,And woke the echoing forest through.The bird that bore off Ganymede,Furious and loud remonstrance made,And flew to Jupiter for aid.Her eggs she placed upon the Thunderer's lap—There could come no mishap;Jove must defend them: who would dareTo touch the objects of his care?The enemy now changed his note; he soared,And let some earth fall where they're stored;The god, his vestment shaking carelessly,Let the eggs fall into infinity.The Eagle, mad with rage at the event(Merely an accident),Swore she would leave the wicked court,And make the desert her resort;With such vagaries.—(In rage all fair is.)Poor Jupiter in silence heard;The Beetle came, and charged the bird—In the tribunal of the upper airRelated the affair.The god pronounced the Eagle in the wrong,But still the mutual hate was strong.To make a truce, Jove then arrangedThe time for Eagles' hatching should be changedTo winter, when the marmots sleep,And Beetles from the daylight keep.
FABLE XLIII.
THE RAVEN WHO WISHED TO IMITATE THE EAGLE.
The bird of Jove bore off a heavy "mutton;"A Raven, witness of the whole affair,Weaker in back, but scarcely less a glutton,Resolved to do the same, whate'erMight come of it.With greedy wit,Around the flock he made a sweep,Marking, among the fattest sheep,One of enormous size,Fit for a sacrifice.Said Master Raven, winking both his eyes,"Your nurse's name I cannot tell,But such fat flesh will suit me well:You're ready for my eating."Then on the sheep, slow, sluggish, bleating,The Raven settled down, not knowingThe beast weighed more than a mere cream-cheese could.It had a fleece as thickly growingAs beard of Polyphemus—tangled wood—That clung to either claw; the animal could not withdraw.The shepherd comes, and calling to his boy,Gives him the Raven for a toy.We must take care; the moral is quite clear—The footpad mustn't rob on the highway.Example is a dangerous lure, I fear:Men-eaters are not all great people; no, I say,Where wasps passed last week gnats are crushed to-day.
FABLE XLIV.
THE WOLVES AND THE SHEEP.
After a thousand years of open war,The Wolves signed treaty with their foes, the Sheep:It seemed to be the best for both, by far;For if the Wolves contrived their tithes to reap,The shepherds liked a coat of tanned Wolf-skin.No liberty for pasture had there been,Neither for carnage; never was there rest!None could enjoy what pleasures seemed the best;Peace was concluded—hostages surrendered.The Wolves their cubs, the Sheep their watch-dogs rendered;
THE WOLVES AND THE SHEEP.
THE WOLVES AND THE SHEEP.
Th' exchange was made in form and order due,Commissioners were there and not a few;Some time elapsed, but soon the Wolf-cubs grewTo perfect Wolves, and with a taste for killing;They chose a time the shepherds were away,Choked all the fattest lambs that they could slay,And bore them to the woods; no whit unwilling,Their fellow-plotters waited for them there.The dogs, who, full of trust, had thrown by care,Were slain so quickly, that not one e'en knewWho their assailants were that bit and slew.War 'gainst the bad, a war that never ends;Peace is a wholesome thing, good men are friends.That I allow; yet peace is but a word, a senseless joke,With wicked people, and such faithless folk.
FABLE XLV.
THE CAT CHANGED INTO A WOMAN.
A Man loved, heart and soul, his favourite Cat;She was his pet, his beauty, and all that.Her mewing was so sweet, and was so sad:—He was far madder than the mad.This man, then, by his tears and praying,By wizard charms and much soothsaying,Wrought things so well, that Destiny,One fine day, changed the Cat into a Woman(A change uncommon).And they were married, soon as they could be.Mad friends became mad lovers then;And not the fairest dame e'er knownHad ever such affection shownTo him she'd chosen from all men.The love-blind fool, delighted with his bride,Found not a trace of Cat was left at all,No scratch or caterwaul;He fondles her, she him: she is his pride;She is the fairest of her kind,A perfect woman, to his mind.One night some mice came gnawing at the curtain;It broke the lady's sleep, that's certain;At once she leaped upon her feet—To cats revenge is very sweet—And on all-fours she ran to seizeThose creatures always prone to tease;But she was changed—in shape and wit—They did not care for her a bitThis aberration on her partWas grief perpetual to his heart.It never ceased to be the wayWhenever mice were out at play;For when a certain time has gone,The jug is seasoned; and the cloth gets wrinkles.In vain we try to alter what is done,The warning bell unheeded tinkles.Things will not change again; one knowsThere is no way to end the matter,Neither by pitchforks nor by blows;Though Habit you should beat and tatter.You'll not be master of the place,Saddle or bridle—how you will;For if the door's slammed in its face,It comes back o'er the window-sill.
PHILOMEL AND PROGNE.
PHILOMEL AND PROGNE.
FABLE XLVI.
PHILOMEL AND PROGNE.
Progne, the Swallow, set forth from her dwelling,And, leaving the cities afar, took flightFor the grove that Philomel chose for tellingHer ancient griefs to the listening night."Sister," said Progne, "I have not met youFor nearly the space of a thousand years.Why are we parted? I cannot forget you,Nor banish our Thracian trials and tears.Come, leave this wood; it is dark and lonely.""What haunt could be pleasanter?" Philomel asked."And is it," said Progne, "for animals only,Or peasants at best, that your efforts are tasked?With a note so rich 'tis a thousand pitiesTo scatter its charms to the desert air.Come, quit this grove to delight our cities,And waste no longer a gift so rare.These woods, my sister, must oft remind youOf all the sorrow King Tereus wrought.Leave, leave the terrible days behind you,And give to the past not a tearful thought.""'Tis the memory, dear, of our Thracian troubles,"Said Philomel, sadly, "that bids me stay;For the sight of humanity only doublesThe grief of the times that have passed away!"
FABLE XLVII.
THE LION AND THE ASS.
The King of Animals abattuemadeUpon his birthday, bent to fill his bags.The Lion's game is not with sparrows played;But boars of bulk, and good-sized portly stags.For an ally in this affair,He had an able minister.The Ass, with Stentor's voice, served as his hunting-horn;The Lion hid deep 'mid the thickest wood,And ordered him to bray loud as he could;So that the clamour shrilly borne,Might drive from every nook and lairThose not initiated to the sound.The hideous tempest came; the airShook with the dreadful discord; roundIt flew, and scared the fiercest forest creatures;They fled with terror-stricken features.And fell into the ready snare,Where the King Lion stood to meet his prey."Have I not served thee brave and true?"The Ass said, taking to himself the palm."Yes," quoth the Lion, grave and calm,"'Twas nobly brayed; I own to you,Had I not known your name and race,I had been almost frightened too!"Had he been rash, the Ass, his rageWould not have hidden, I'll engage.Just was the rallying, though severe;For who can bear a bragging Ass?It does not fit their rank or class,And very ill becomes their business here.
FABLE XLVIII.
THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT.
I've read in some old Fabulist, I know,A second Nibblelard, of CatsThe Alexander, and of RatsThe Attila, struck many a fatal blow;And this exterminating creatureWas quite a Cerberus by nature.(The author writes) For miles away,This Cat was feared; he'd vowed, they say,To clear the world of mice,And in a trice.The disks within a jar hung gingerly,"The death to Rats:" the traps, and gins, and springs,The nooses, poisons, and such things,Were nothing to this Cat, but merely toys.Soon as he heard no longer stir or noise,The mice being prisoned in each hole,Cheek and jowl;So that it was in vain to hope for prey,He tried another "lay."Shammed death, laid down fast holding by a cord;A trickster, eager for the horde—The mice, good folk, deem he is hungFor stealing meat or cheese, tight strungFor scratching some one, or for breaking done.At last they think the monster's sand is run;His funeral will be quite a gala day.Then out they slowly creep,First one small nose, and then another,Next a young mouse, then an old brother,And then they scurry back in fright;But four step once more to the light,And lastly all come out to play,And now begins another sort of treat: