Chapter VII: Part 7

His Majesty Leo, in order to find
The extent of his varied and ample dominions,
Had summoned his vassals of every kind,
Of all colours and shapes, and of divers opinions.
A circular, signed by His Majesty's hand.
Was the means of conveying the King's invitation--
He promised festivities regally grand
(With an evident eye to self-glorification).
His palace was open, of course, to the throng;
What a place!--a mere slaughter-house, putting it plainly,
Where visitors met with an odour so strong,
That they strove to protect their olfactories vainly.
The Bear in disgust put a paw to his nose;
He had scarcely the time to repent his grimaces;
For Leo at once in a fury arose,
And consigned the poor brute to the Styx, to make faces.
The Monkey, true courtier, approved of the deed--
Said the palace was fit for a king's habitation,
And thought neither amber nor musk could exceed
The rich odour that gave him such gratification.
His fulsome behaviour had little success;
He was treated the same as the previous aspirant
(His Leonine Majesty, let us confess,
Was Caligula-like, and a bit of a tyrant).
The Fox trotted up, very servile and sly;
Said the monarch, "No shuffling, but answer me frankly;
Beware how you venture to give your reply:
Do you notice that anything smells rather rankly?"
But Reynard was more than a match for his king,
And replied that his cold being rather a bad one,
He could not at present distinguish a thing
By its odour, or even assert that it <i>had</i> one.
There's a hint for plain-speakers and flatterers here--
You should ne'er be too servile nor over-sincere;
And to answer sometimes in a round-about way,
Is a dozen times better than plain yea or nay.

FABLE CXXXIII.

THE MILK-MAID AND THE MILK-PAIL.

Perette, her Milk-pail balanced on her head,
Tripped gaily and without hindrance down the road,
So slim and trim, and gay she nimbly sped.
For more agility, with such a load,
She'd donned her shortest kirtle and light shoes.
And as she went she counted up her gains--
Her future gains--with her twice one, twice twos.
How long division racked her little brains!
"First buy a hundred eggs, then triple broods;
With care like mine the money soon will grow;

No fox so clever in our neighbour's woods
But must leave me enough, as well I know,
To buy a pig, 'twill fatten very soon;
I buy him large, and for a good round sum
I sell him, mark you that some afternoon;
A cow and calf into our stable come;
Who'll prevent that? that's what I mean to say.
I see the calf skipping among the herd."
Then Perette skipped for joy. Alack-a-day!
Down came the milk, I give you my sworn word:
Adieu cow, calf, pig, chicken, all the rest.
She left with tearful eye her fortune lost,
And ran to tell her husband, dreading lest
He'd beat her, when in anger tempest tossed.
The neighbours, doubling up with laughter,
Called her the Milk-pail ever after.

Who has not raised his tower in Spain,
And in a cloud-land longed to reign?
Picrocolles, Pyrrhus have so done,
Sages or fools, just like this one.
All dream by turns; the dream is sweet;
The world lies prostrate at our feet:
Our souls yield blindly to the vision,
Ours beauty, honour, fields Elysian.
'Tis I alone the bravest smite,
The dethroned Sophy owns my might;
They choose me king, in crowds I'm led;
Gold crowns come raining on my head.
A fly soon wakes me up once more,
And I am Big John, as before.

FABLE CXXXIV.

THE CURATE AND THE CORPSE.

A Dead man, on his mournful way.
To his last lodging went one day.
A Curé, bustling gaily, came
In due form, to inter the same.
Deceased was in a coach, with care
Packed snugly from the sun and air;
Clad in a robe, alas! ye proud,
Summer or winter, called a shroud;
To change it no one is allowed.
The pastor sat the dead beside,
Reciting, without grief or pride,
Lessons, responses, and those done,
The funeral psalms; yes, every one.
Good Mr. Dead-man, let them chant,
The salary is all they want.
The Curé Chouart shut the eyes
Of his dead man, lest he surprise
The priest who snatched from him a prize.
His looks they seemed to say, "My friend,
From you I'll have, before I end,
This much in silver, that in wax,"
And many another little tax;
That soon would bring our good divine
A small cask of the choicest wine;
His pretty niece a new silk gown,
And Paquette something from the town.
Just as his pleasant thoughts took flight,
There came a crash... Curé, good night!
The leaden coffin strikes his head.
Parishioner, lapped up in lead,
Politely you went first, you see,
Now comes the priest for company.

Such is our life, as in this tale:
See Curé Chouart counting on his fee,
Like the poor girl with the milk-pail.

FABLE CXXXV.

THE MAN WHO RUNS AFTER FORTUNE, AND THE MAN WHO WAITS FOR HER.

Is there a man beneath the sun,
Who does not after Fortune run?
I would I were in some snug place,
And high enough to watch the race
Of the long, scuffling, struggling train
That hunt Dame Fortune all in vain.
The phantom flies from land to land,
They follow with an outstretched hand.
Now they have almost caught her. No;
She's vanished like the April bow.
Poor creatures! Pity them, I do:
Fools deserve pity--the whole crew,
By no means rage--"You see, we hope;
That cabbage-planter made a Pope.
Are we not quite as good?" they cry.
"Twenty times better," my reply.
"But what avails your mighty mind,
When Fortune is so densely blind?
Besides, what use the Papacy?
It is not worth the price, may be."
Rest, rest; a treasure that's so great
'Twas once for gods reserved by Fate;
How rarely fickle Fortune sends
Such gifts unto her trusting friends.
Seek not the goddess, stay at home;
Then like her sex she's sure to come.
Two friends there lived in the same place,
Who were by no means in bad case.
One sighed for Fortune night and day:
"Let's quit our sojourn here, I pray,"
He to the other said, "You know,
Prophets in their own country go
Unhonoured; let us seek elsewhere."
"Seek!" said the other; "I'll stay here.
I wish no better land or sky:
Content yourself, and I will try
To sleep the time out patiently."
The friend--ambitious, greedy soul!--
Set out to reach the wished-for goal;
And on the morrow sought a place
Where Fortune ought to show her face,
And frequently--the Court, I mean;
So there he halts, to view the scene;
Still seeking early, seeking late,
The hours propitious to Fate;
But yet, though seeking everywhere,
He only found regret and care.
"It's of no use," at last he cried;
"Queen Fortune elsewhere must abide;
And yet I see her, o'er and o'er,
Enter by this and that man's door:
And how, then, is it I can never
Meet her, though I seek her ever?"
These sort of people, I'm afraid,
Ambition find a losing trade.
Adieu, my lords; my lords, adieu;
Follow the shadow ruling you.
Fortune at Surat temples boasts;
Let's seek those distant Indian coasts,
Ye souls of bronze who e'er essayed
This voyage; nay, diamond arms arrayed
The man who first crossed the abyss.
Many a time our friend, I wis,
Thought of his village and his farm,
Fearing incessantly some harm
From pirates, tempests, rocks and sands,
All friends of death. In many lands
Man seeks his foeman, round and round,
Who soon enough at home is found.
In Tartary they tell the man
That Fortune's busy at Japan:
Then off he hurries, ne'er downcast.
Seas weary of the man at last,
And all the profit that he gains
Is this one lesson for his pains:
Japan, no more than Tartary,
Brought good to him or wealthy fee.
At last he settles it was shame
To leave his home, and takes the blame.
Then he returns: the well-loved place
Makes tears of joy run down his face.
"Happy," he cries, "the man at ease,
Who lives at home himself to please;
Ruling his passions, by report
Knowing alone of sea or Court,
Or Fortune, of thy empire, Jade,
Which has by turns to all displayed
Titles and wealth, that lead us on
From rising to the setting sun;
And yet thy promises astray
Still lead us to our dying day.
Henceforth I will not budge again,
And shall do better, I see plain."
While he thus schemed, resolved, and planned,
And against Fortune clenched his hand,
He found her in the open air
At his friend's door, and sleeping there.

FABLE CXXXVI.

THE TWO FOWLS.

Two Barn-door Fowls in peace spent all their life,
Until, at last, love, love lit up the strife:
War's flames burst out. O Love! that ruined Troy,
'Twas thou who, by fierce quarrel, banished joy,
And stained with blood and crime the Xanthus' tide!
Long, long the combat raged 'tween wrath and pride,
Until the rumour spread the whole town through,
And all the crested people ran to view.
Many a well-plumed Helen was the prize
Of him who conquered; but the vanquished flies--
Skulks to the darkest and most hidden place,

And mourns his love with a dejected face.
His rival, proud of recent victory,
Exulting crows, and claims the sovereignty.
The conquered rival, big with rage, dilates,
Sharpens his beak, and Fortune invocates,
Clapping his wings, while, maddened by defeat,
The other skulks and plans a safe retreat.
The victor on the roof is perched, to crow;
A vulture sees the bragger far below.
Adieu! love, pride, and glory, all are vain
Beneath the vulture's beak;--so ends that reign.
The rival soon returns to make his court
To the fair dame, and victory to report,
As he had half-a-dozen other wives, to say the least,
You'll guess the chattering at his wedding feast.

Fortune always rejoices in such blows:
Insolent conquerors, beware of those.
Still mistrust Fate, and dread security,
Even the evening after victory.

FABLE CXXXVII.

THE COACH AND THE FLY.

Up a long dusty hill, deep sunk in sand,
Six sturdy horses drew a Coach. The band
Of passengers were pushing hard behind:
Women, old men, and monks, all of one mind.
Weary and spent they were, and faint with heat;
Straight on their heads the sunbeams fiercely beat.
In the hot air, just then, came buzzing by,
Thinking to rouse the team, a paltry Fly.
Stings one, and then another; views the scene:
Believing that this ponderous machine
Is by his efforts moved, the pole bestrides;
And now upon the coachman's nose he rides.
Soon as the wheels begin again to grind
The upward road, and folks to push behind,
He claims the glory; bustles here and there,
Fussy and fast, with all the toil and care
With which a general hurries up his men,
To charge the broken enemy again,
And victory secure. The Fly, perplexed
With all the work, confessed that she was vexed
No one was helping, in that time of need.
The monk his foolish breviary would read:
He chose a pretty time! a woman sang:
Let her and all her foolish songs go hang!
Dame Fly went buzzing restless in their ears,
And with such mockery their journey cheers.
After much toil, the Coach moves on at last:
"Now let us breathe; the worst of it is past,"
The Fly exclaimed; "it is quite smooth, you know;
Come, my good nags, now pay me what you owe."

So, certain people give themselves great airs,
And meddlers mix themselves with one's affairs;
Try to be useful, worry more and more,
Until, at last, you show the fools the door.

FABLE CXXXVIII.

THE INGRATITUDE AND INJUSTICE OF MEN TOWARDS FORTUNE.

A merchant, trading o'er the seas,
Became enriched by every trip.
No gulf nor rock destroyed his ease;
He lost no goods, from any ship.

To others came misfortunes sad,
For Fate and Neptune had their will.
Fortune for him safe harbours had;
His servants served with zeal and skill.

He sold tobacco, sugar, spices,
Silks, porcelains, or what you please;
Made boundless wealth (this phrase suffices),
And "lived to clutch the golden keys."

'Twas luxury that gave him millions:
In gold men almost talked to him.
Dogs, horses, carriages, postillions,
To give this man seemed Fortune's whim.

A Friend asked how came all this splendour:
"I know the 'nick of time,'" he said,
"When to be borrower and lender:
My care and talent all this made."

His profit seemed so very sweet,
He risked once more his handsome gains;
But, this time, baffled was his fleet:
Imprudent, he paid all the pains.

One rotten ship sank 'neath a storm,
And one to watchful pirates fell;
A third, indeed, made port in form,
But nothing wanted had to sell.

Fortune gives but one chance, we know:
All was reversed,--his servants thieves.
Fate came upon him with one blow,
And made the mark that seldom leaves.

The Friend perceived his painful case.
"Fortune, alas!" the merchant cries.
"Be happy," says his Friend, "and face
The world, and be a little wise."

"To counsel you is to give health:
I know that all mankind impute
To Industry their peace and wealth,
To Fortune all that does not suit."

Thus, if each time we errors make,
That bring us up with sudden halt,
Nothing's more common than to take
Our own for Fate or Fortune's fault.

Our good we always make by force,
The evil fetters us so strong;
For we are always right, of course,
And Destiny is always wrong.

FABLE CXXXIX.

AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON.

Some sages argue that all men are dupes,
And that their senses lead the fools in troops;
Other philosophers reverse this quite,
And prove that man is nearly always right.
Philosophy says true, senses mislead,
If we judge only by them without heed;
But if we mark the distance and reflect
On atmosphere and what it will effect,
The senses cheat none of us; Nature's wise:
I'll give an instance. With my naked eyes
I see the sun; how large is it, think you?
Three feet at farthest? It appears so, true!
But could I see it from a nearer sky,
'Twould seem of our vast universe the eye:
The distance shows its magnitude, you see;
My hand discovers angles easily.
Fools think the earth is flat; it's round, I know;
Some think it motionless, it moves so slow.
Thus, in a word, my eyes have wisdom got,
The illusions of the senses cheat me not.
My soul, beneath appearances, sees deep;
My eye's too quick, a watch on it I keep;
My ear, not slow to carry sounds, betrays;
When water seems to bend a stick ten ways,
My reason helps me out, and if my sight
Lies always, yet it never cheats me quite:
If I would trust my senses, very soon
They'd tell me of the woman in the moon.
What is there really?--No, mistrust your eyes,
For what you see are inequalities.
The surface of the moon has many regions,
Here spread the plains, there mountains rise in legions.
In light and shade strange figures you can trace---
An elephant, an ox, a human face.
Not long ago, in England men perplexed,
Saw, in a telescope, what <i>savants</i> vexed,
A monster in this planet's mirror fair;
Wild cries of horror filled the midnight air.
Some change was pending--some mysterious change,
Predicting wars, or a misfortune strange.
The monarch came, he favoured learned men;
The wondrous monster showed itself again:
It was a mouse between the glasses shut--
The source of war--the nibbler of a nut.
The people laughed--oh, nation blessed with ease,
When will the French have time for toils like these?
Mars brings us glory's harvests; still the foe
Shrinks down before us, dreading every blow;
'Tis we who seek them, sure that victory,
Slave to our Louis, follows ceaselessly
His flag; his laurels render us renowned:
Yet memory has not left this mortal round.
We wish for peace--for peace alone we sigh;
Charles tastes the joys of rest: he would in war
Display his valour, and his flag bear far,
To reach the tranquil joy that now he shares.
Would he could end our quarrels and our cares!
What incense would be his, what endless fame!
Did not Augustus win a glorious name,
Equal to Cæsar's in its majesty,
And worthy of like reverence, may be?
Oh, happy people, when will Peace come down,
To dower our nation with her olive-crown?

FABLE CXL.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Opinion is the child of Chance,
And this Opinion forms our taste.
Against all people I advance
These words. I find the world all haste--
Infatuation; justice gone;
A torrent towards a goal unseen.
We only know things will be done
In their own way, as they have been.

In Paris lived a Sorceress,
Who told the people of their fate.
All sought her:--men; girls loverless;
A husband whom his wife thought late
In dying; many a jealous woman.
Ill-natured mothers, by the score,
Came--for they all were simply human--
To hear what Fortune had in store.

Her tricks of trade were hardihood,
Some terms of art, a neat address.
Sometimes a prophecy proved good,
And then they thought her nothing less
Than Delphi's Pythoness of yore:
Though ignorance itself was she;
And made her wretched garret floor
Highway for gullibility.

Grown rich, she took a house, and bought
A place of profit for her lord.
The witch's garret soon was sought
By a young girl, who never soared
To witchery, save by eyes and voice.
But yet they all came, as of old--
The lucky, who in wealth rejoice,
And poor--to have their fortunes told.

The regulation had been made
For this poor place, by her who late
Had been its tenant; and the shade
Sybillic hovered o'er its state.
In vain the maiden said, "You mock.
Read Fate!--I scarcely know my letters!"
But though such words, of course, might shock,
They never could convince "her betters."

"Predict--divine;--here's gold in pay,
More than the learned get together."
What wonder if the maid gave way,
Despite herself, such gold to gather?
For fortune-telling seemed the place
All tumble-down, and weird, and broken:
A broomstick, for the witches' chase,
And many another mystic token;

The witches' sabbath; all suggested
The change of body, and of face;
And so in Fate fools still invested.
But what of her who made the place?
She seeks the golden prize to gain,
In gorgeous state, like any parrot;
But people jeer and pass. In vain;
They all go rushing to the garret.

'Tis custom governs everything.
I've often seen, in courts of law,
Some stupid barrister, who'll bring
Briefs such as clever men ne'er saw.
All a mistake: his eyes may glisten;
They'll take him for some other man:
One unto whom the world will listen.
Explain me this, now, if you can.

FABLE CXLI.

THE COBBLER AND THE BANKER.

A Cobbler, who would sing from dawn to dark
(A very merry soul to hear and see,
As satisfied as all the Seven Wise Men could be),
Had for a neighbour, not a paltry clerk,
But a great Banker, who could roll in gold:
A Crœsus, singing little, sleeping less;
Who, if by chance he had the happiness,
Just towards morning, to drop off, I'm told,
Was by the Cobbler's merry singing woke.
Loud he complain'd that Heaven did not keep
For sale, in market-places, soothing sleep.
He sent, then, for the Cobbler ('twas no joke):--
"What, Gregory, do you earn in the half-year?"
"Half-year, sir!" said the Cobbler, very gaily;
"I do not reckon so. I struggle daily
For the day's bread, and only hunger fear."
"Well, what a day?--what is your profit, man?"
"Now more, now less;--the worst thing is those fêtes.
Why, without them--and hang their constant dates!--
The living would be tidy--drat the plan!
Monsieur the Curé always a fresh saint
Stuffs in his sermon every other week."
The Banker laughed to hear the fellow speak,
And utter with such <i>naïveté</i> his complaint.
"I wish," he said, "to mount you on a throne;
Here are a hundred crowns, knave--keep them all,
They'll serve you well, whatever ill befall."
The Cobbler thought he saw before him thrown
All money in the earth that had been found.
Home went he to conceal it in a vault,
Safe from discovery and thieves' assault.
There, too, he buried joy,--deep under ground;
No singing now: he'd lost his voice from fear.

His guests were cares, suspicions, vain alarms;
All day he watch'd,--at night still dreading harms:
If but a cat stirr'd, robbers he could hear.
At last the poor fool to his neighbour ran;
He had not woke him lately, I'm afraid:
"Return my songs and tranquil sleep," he said,
"And take your hundred crowns, my generous man."

FABLE CXLII.

THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE LITTLE RABBIT.

A little Rabbit's charming nook
A Weasel seized upon one morn;
His household gods with him he took,
Jane Rabbit's mansion to adorn.

At break of day departed Jane,
To munch amongst the thyme and roses,
Returning, at her window-pane--
"Why, there the wicked Weasel's nose is!"

"Oh, gracious goodness! what is here?
Turned out of my paternal hall!
From this you quickly disappear,
Or I'll give all the rats a call."

The Weasel simply said the Earth
Always belonged to the first comer;
All other claims were little worth:
A sufferance tenant a misnomer.

A little kingdom he had found:
"Now, tell me, what more right have you
To these domains, this patch of ground,
Than Tom or Dick, than Nan or Sue?"

"Usage and custom of the law,"
The Rabbit said, "give me the place:
On sire's and grandsire's claims I stand--
I, who here represent their race."

"A law most wise! can't be more wise!"
Said cunning Weasel. "What of that?
Our claims to settle, I devise
A reference to our friend the Cat."

It was a Cat of solemn mien--
A very hermit of a Cat:--
A saint, upon whose face was seen
Precept and practice, law, and--fat.

The Rabbit here agreed, and then
They sought the pious Pussy's home.
"Approach--I'm deaf, he said; and when
They came, they told him why they'd come.

"Approach, fear not, for calm is law;
For law no one here ever lacks;"
And, stretching on each side a claw,
He broke both litigants' weak backs.

This story calls unto my mind
The sad result which often springs
From squabbles of a larger kind,
Which small grand-dukes refer to kings.

FABLE CXLIII.

THE LION, THE WOLF, AND THE FOX.

A Lion, sickly, weak, and full of years,
Desired a remedy against old age
(<i>Impossible</i>'s a word no monarch hears
Without directly flying in a rage).
He sent for doctors--men of draughts and pills;
From far and near, obedient to the call,
Came makers-up of recipes and pills:
The Fox alone declined to come at all.
At court the Wolf malignantly referred
To Reynard's absence, whereupon the King--
Whose anger was aroused at what he heard---
Decided on a rather cruel thing.
He sent a force to smoke sly Reynard out,
And bring him, willy nilly. When he came,
The Fox could scarcely entertain a doubt
As to whose tongue had put him thus to shame.
"I greatly fear, your Majesty," said he,
"You think me rude; you wrong me, if you do:
For I was on a pilgrimage, you see,
And went to offer up my vows for <i>you.</i>
I scarcely need inform you I have met
Expert physicians whilst I was away,
And hope to cure you of your sickness yet,
Which comes from coldness of the blood, they say
You must, sire, skin a Wolf, and wrap the skin
About you close, to get the body warmed;
And when the heat has kindled up within
The fires of life again, the cure's performed.
Our friend, I'm sure, will take immense delight
In lending you his coat; so, take it, sire."
The Lion supped upon the Wolf that night,
And made the skin a part of his attire.

Courtiers, discretion is your safest plan:
Malice is sure to find its source again;
And, while you do yourself what good you can,
Reflect that slandering others is in vain.

FABLE CXLIV.

THE HEAD AND THE TAIL OF THE SERPENT.

The Snake has two parts, it is said,
Hostile to man--his tail and head;
And both, as all of us must know,
Are well known to the Fates below.
Once on a time a feud arose
For the precedence--almost blows.
"I always walked before the Tail,"
So said the Head, without avail.
The Tail replied, "I travel o'er
Furlongs and leagues--ay, score on score--
Just as I please. Then, is it right
I should be always in this plight?
Jove! I am sister, and not slave:
Equality is all I crave.
Both of the selfsame blood, I claim
Our treatment, then, should be the same.
As well as her I poison bear,
Powerful and prompt, for men to fear.
And this is all I wish to ask;
Command it--'tis a simple task:
Let me but in my turn go first;
For her 'twill be no whit the worst.
I sure can guide, as well as she;
No subject for complaint shall be."
Heaven was cruel in consenting:
Such favours lead but to repenting.
Jove should be deaf to such wild prayers:
He was not then; so first she fares;
She, who in brightest day saw not,
No more than shut up in a pot,
Struck against rocks, and many a tree--
'Gainst passers-by, continually;
Until she led them both, you see,
Straight into Styx. Unhappy all
Those wretched states who, like her, fall.

FABLE CXLV.

THE DOG WHICH CARRIED ROUND HIS NECK HIS MASTER'S DINNER.

Few eyes are against beauty proof;
Few hands from gold can keep aloof;
Few people guard a treasure well,
Or of strict faithfulness can tell.
A certain Dog, true, brave, and stout,
Carried his master's dinner out.
This self-denial pressed him hard,
When he had dainty food to guard:
Yet long he kept it safe and sound.
Well, we are tempted oft, 'tis found,
By good things near us! Strange, we learn
From dogs, and yet we hopeless turn
From men when temperance is in view!
One day this Dog, so staunch and true,
A mastiff met, who wished to seize
The dinner. Not so, if you please.
The Dog put down the food, to fight
A mighty combat. Left and right
Came other dogs,--mere thieves and foes,
Who cared not for the hardest blows.
Our Dog, who dreaded every stranger,
And saw the food was much in danger,
Wanted his share. "Come, gentlemen,
This rabbit does for me; now, then,
You take the rest!" so he leaped on it,
And then the others fell upon it.
He snapped the best, and then they flew
And shared the plunder,--the whole crew.
So, sometimes, when they yield a town,
And soldiers burghers trample down,
Sheriffs and provosts are the worst
To rob and pillage, being first:

Pleasant to see them pistoles seize,
Filling their purses at their ease!
And if, by chance, to one more cool
Some scruples come, they call him fool:
Then he repents him of the blunder,
And is the first to lead the plunder.

FABLE CXLVI.

DEATH AND THE DYING MAN.

Death never yet surprised the sage,
Who's always ready for the stage;
Knowing each hour that comes may be
His passage to eternity.
Death's rule embraces every day:
Each moment is beneath his sway.
We all pay tribute to that lord;
We all bow down beneath his sword.
The instant the king's child has birth--
And looks forth on this desert earth---
That instant Death may it surprise,
And close its scarcely-opened eyes.
Beauty, youth, virtue, every day,
Death steals so ruthlessly away.
One day the world will be his prey:
This knowledge is most largely shared;
For no event we're less prepared.

A dying man, a century old,
Complained to Death, that he was told
Too suddenly, before his will
Was made; he'd duties to fulfil;
"Now, is it just," this was his cry,
"To call me, unprepared, to die?
No; wait a moment, pray, sir, do;
My wife would wish to join me, too.
For still one nephew I'd provide:
And I have causes to decide.
I must enlarge my house, you know.
Don't be so pressing, pray, sir, go."
"Old man," said Death, "for once be wise;
My visit can be no surprise.
What! I impatient? In the throng
Of Paris who has lived so long?
Find me in all France even ten;
I should have warned you, you say then?
And so your will you would have made,
Your grandson settled; basement laid.
What! not a warning, when your feet
Can scarcely move, and fast retreat
Your memory makes, when half your mind
And wit is left a league behind?
When nearly all fails?--no more hearing--
No taste--all fading, as I'm fearing.
The star of day shines now in vain
For you: why sigh to view again
The pleasures out of reach? Just see
Your comrades drop continually,
Dead, dying: is no warning there?
I put it to you, is this fair?
Come, come, old man; what! wrangling still?
No matter, you must leave your will;
The great republic cares not, sir,
For one or no executor."

And Death was right: old men, at least,
Should die as people leave a feast,
Thanking the host--their luggage trim:
Death will not stay to please their whim.
You murmur, dotard! look and sigh,
To see the young, that daily die;
Walk to the grave or run, a name
To win of everlasting fame:
Death glorious may be, yet how sure,
And sometimes cruel to endure.
In vain I preach; with foolish zeal,
Those most akin to death but feel
The more regret in quitting life,
And creep reluctant from the strife.

FABLE CXLVII.

THE POWER OF FABLES.

TO M. DE BARILLON.

How can a great ambassador descend
To simple tales a patient ear to lend?
How could I trifling verses to you bring,
Or dare with transient playfulness to sing?
For if, sometimes, I vainly tried to soar,
Would you not only deem me rash once more?
You have more weighty matters to debate
Than of a Weasel and a Rabbit's fate.
Read me, or read me not; but, oh, debar
All Europe banding against us in war.
Lest from a thousand places there arise
Fresh enemies our legions to surprise.
England already wearies of her rest,
And views our king's alliance as a jest.
Is it not time that Louis sought repose?
What Hercules but wearies of his blows
At the huge Hydra?--will it show its might,
And press again the lately ended fight,
By thrusting forth another head to meet,
At his strong sinewy arm, a fresh defeat?
If your mind, pliant, eloquent, and strong,
Could soften hearts, and but avert this wrong,
I'd sacrifice a hundred sheep to you--
A pretty thing for a poor bard to do.
Have then, at least, the kindness graciously
This pinch of incense to receive from me.
Accept my ardent vows, and what I write:
The subject suits you that I here indite.
I'll not repeat the praises Envy owns
Are due to you, who need not fear her groans.

In Athens' city, fickle, vain, of old,
An Orator, who dangers manifold
Saw crowding on his country, one day went
Up in the tribune, with the wise intent,
With his skill'd tongue, and his despotic art,
Towards a republic to force every heart.
He spoke with fervour 'bout the common weal;
They would not listen: they were hard as steel.
The Orator, to rouse them, had recourse
To metaphors of greater fire and force,
To sting the basest. He awoke the dead.
He, Zeus-like, flamed and thunder'd o'er each head:
The wind bore all away,--yes, every word.
The many-headed monster had not heard:
They ran to see the rabble children play,
Or two boys fighting made them turn away.
What did the speaker do?--he tried once more:
"Ceres," he said, "once made, we hear, a tour.
An Eel and Swallow follow'd her:
A river gave them some demur.
The Eel it swam: the Swallow flew,
Now what I tell you's really true."
And as he utter'd this, the crowd
"And Ceres, what did she?" cried loud.
"Just what she did:--then pious rage
Stirr'd him to execrate the age.
What children's tales absorb your mind,
Careless of all the woes behind!
Thou only careless Grecian state,
What Philip does you should debate."
At this reproach the mob grew still,
And listen'd with a better will:
Such silence a mere fable won!
We're like the Greeks, all said and done.
And I myself, who preach so well,
If any one to me would tell
"Le Peau d'Ane," I should, with delight,
Listen for half the livelong night.
The world is old, as I have heard,
And I believe it, on my word;
Yet still, though old, I'm reconciled
To entertain it like a child.

FABLE CXLVIII.

THE BEAR AND THE AMATEUR OF GARDENING.

A certain Mountain Bruin once, they say,
Was wont within a lonely wood to stray,--
A new Bellerophon secluded there,
His mind had gone, and left his brain-pan bare.
Reason on lonely people sheds no ray;
It's good to speak--better to silent stay:
Both in excess are bad. No animal
Was ever seen, or was within a call.
Bear though he was, he wearied of this life,
And longed for the world's joy and the world's strife:
Then "Melancholy marked him for her own."
Not far from him an old man lived alone:

Dull as the Bear, he loved his garden well;
Was priest of Flora and Pomona; still,
Though the employment's pleasant, a kind friend
Is needful, its full charms to it to lend:
Gardens talk little, save in my small book.
Weary at last of their mere smiling look,
And those his dumb companions, one fine day,
Our man set forth upon his lonely way,
To seek a friend. The Bear, with the same thought,
Had left his mountain, satisfied with nought.
By chance most strange the two adventurers meet
At the same turning. He's afraid to greet
The Bear; but fly he can't. What can he do?
Well, like a Gascon, he gets neatly through:
Conceals his fright. The bear is not well bred;
Still growls, "Come, see me!" but the other said,
"Here is my cottage; pray come in, my lord;
Do me the honour at my frugal board
To lunch <i>al fresco.</i> I have milk and fruit,
That will, perhaps, your worship's pleasure suit
For once, though not your ordinary fare;
I offer all I have." With friendly air
They're chums already before reaching home;
Still better friends when there they've fairly come.
In my opinion it's a golden rule:
Better be lonely than be with a fool.
The Bear, who did not speak two words a day,
Left the drudge there to work and toil away.
Bruin went hunting, and brought in the game,
Or flapped the blow-flies, when the blow-flies came;
And kept from off his sleeping partner's face
Of winged parasites the teasing race.
One day a buzzer o'er the sleeping man
Poised, and then settled on his nose,--their plan.
The Bear was crazy: all his chase was vain;
"I'll catch you, thief!" he cried: it came again.
'Twas said, 'twas done; the flapper seized a stone,
And launched it bravely--bravely it was thrown.
He crushed the fly, but smashed the poor man's skull--
A sturdy thrower, but a reasoner dull.
Nothing's so dangerous as a foolish friend;
Worse than a real wise foe, you may depend.

FABLE CXLIX.

THE MAN AND THE FLEA.

People pray to and weary the gods, now and then,
About trifles unworthy to interest men;
Thinking Providence cruel unless it contrives
To design to their likings the whole of their lives.
Why believe that Olympus should study us more
Than it studied the Greeks and the Trojans of yore?

A gaby was bit on the shoulder, one night,
By a Flea, which took refuge instanter in flight.
"O Hercules, Hercules, prithee come down,
And exterminate Fleas!" cried the suppliant clown.
"O Jupiter, strike with your lightning the beasts,
And avenge me on them and their horrible feasts!"

To punish a Flea, 'twould be rather a wonder
If gods went to work with their clubs and their thunder.

FABLE CL.

THE WOMAN AND THE SECRET.

A secret is a dreadful weighty thing:
Few women carry secrets very far;
And this remark doth to my memory bring
Some men, too, born beneath the female star.
To try his wife, a husband one night cried,
"Ye gods, I perish! spare me, spare, I pray:
For, lo! I have just laid an egg." "An egg?" she sighed.
"Here it is--newly laid: but do not say
A single word, or they will call me 'hen.'
Be silent, darling." Then, in full belief,
She swore by all the gods to keep all men
Quite in the dark, so she assured her chief.
But with the shadows pass those words of hers.
Foolish and indiscreet, at earliest dawn,
She seeks her neighbour, and she thus avers:
"My gossip, such a thing took place last night!
You must say nothing, or I shall be beat.
My husband laid an egg, yes, large and white.
And big as any four; but don't repeat,
In Heaven's name, nor mention anywhere
This strange occurrence." "Now, I see you mock,"
The other said. "What! mention the affair!
You know me not. Go, I am like a rock!"
The hen's wife hastened homeward presently;
The other spreads the tale in twenty places.
The one big egg she quickly turns to three;
Nor was this all: to many startled faces
Another chatterer makes the number four.
Whispering is no more needful--all is known.
Before the day was over there had flown
A rumour that the man had forty score
Of chickens of his own all cackling round his door.

FABLE CLI.

TIRCIS AND AMARANTH.

FOR MADEMOISELLE DE SILLERY.

I quitted Æsop, long ago,
For pleasant old Boccaccio;
But now a fair Divinity
Would once more from Parnassus see
Fables in my poor manner; so
To answer with a boorish "No,"
Without a valid, stout excuse,
To goddesses would be no use;
Divinities need more than this,
And belles especially, I wis.
Her wishes are all queens, you see;
She rules us all, does Sillery;
Who wishes once again to know
Of Master Wolf, and Master Crow.
Who can refuse her majesty?
None can deny her. How can I?
Well, to her mind my stories are
Obscure, and too mysterious far;
For, sometimes, even <i>beaux esprits</i>
Are puzzled and astray, you see.
Let us, then, write in plainer tune,
That she may so decipher soon.
I'll sing of simple shepherds, then,
Before I rhyme of wolves again.

Tircis to youthful Amaranth, one day,
Said, "Ah! but if you knew the griefs that slay!
Pleasing enchantments! Heaven-kindled woe!
The greatest joy of earth you then would know.
Oh, let me picture them! you need not fear.
Could I deceive you? Stay, then, sweet, and hear.
What! I betray?--I, whose poor heart is cleft
By fondest hopes that cruel Love has left?"
Then Amaranth exclaimed, "What is this pain?
How call you it?--now, tell me once again!"
"'Tis Love!" "A pretty word, its symptoms tell:
How shall I know it--I, who am so well?"
"A malady, to which all pleasant things--
Yes, even all the pleasures of great kings--
Seem poor and faded. Lovers thus are known:
In gloomy forests they will walk alone;
Muse by the river, watch the stream beside,
Yet their own faces rise not from the tide;
One image only in the flood shows day by day;
This lovely shadow comes, but to betray:
To other things they're blind. A shepherd speaks;
His voice, his name, raise blushes on your cheeks:
You like to think of him, yet know not why;
You wonder at the wish, and yet you sigh;
You fear to see him, and yet, absent, cry."
Amaranth leaped for joy: "Is this, then, love?
Is that the pain you rank all things above?
It is not new to me: I think I know it."
Tircis thought he was safe, but dared not show it.
The maid said, "Yes, and that, I freely grant,
Is what I feel for dear, dear Clidamant."
Then Tircis almost burst with rage and spite;
But yet it served the cheating fellow right.
Thinking to gain the prize, he lost the game,
And only cleared the road for him who came.

FABLE CLII.

THE JOKER AND THE FISHES.

He's vastly popular, your "Funny Man;"
For <i>my</i> part I avoid him when I can.
I generally find him rather hollow;--
The joker's is no easy art to follow.
I think sarcastic people were created
For fools to grin at, when exhilarated.
Let me present one at a dinner-table,
To point a moral and adorn a fable.

A wag, dining out at a banker's, one day,
Had some very small fishes put near him.
He saw there were finer ones farther away,
So, pretending the fishes could hear him,
He mutter'd some words to the poor little creatures,
And feign'd to receive their replies.
It was done with such grave and unchangeable features,
That people all opened their eyes.
Then he said that some very particular friend
Was <i>en route</i> for the Indies, or thereabouts;
And he feared he might come to a watery end,
So he wanted some hints of his whereabouts.
"The fishes had answered," he added, politely,
"That <i>they</i> were too young to reply;
But they fancied their fathers could answer him rightly,
Should one of them chance to be by."
To say that the company relished the jest,
Or the jester, is more than I'm able;
But it answered his end, for they gave him the best
Of the fishes that lay on the table.
'Twas a monster that might have related him stories
As much as a century old;
Long tales of the sea, of its perils and glories,
As wondrous as ever were told.

FABLE CLIII.

THE RAT AND THE OYSTER.

A Rustic Rat, of mighty little sense,
Weary of home, would needs go travel thence;
And quitted the paternal hearth, one day,
To study life in places far away.
At each wide prospect, hitherto unscanned,
He murmured, "Oh, how beautiful! how grand!
Yon mount is Caucasus, begirt with pines;
That range, methinks, must be the Apennines."
For every molehill, to his wondering eyes,
Became a mountain of terrific size.
He reached a province of the land, at last,
Where Tethys, deity of seas, had cast
Some Oysters on the sand, which looked at least
Like first-rate frigates to our simple beast.
"My father is a timid soul," he said,
"Who fears to travel: what an empty dread!
As to myself, what marvels I have seen;
What scores of wonders, earthly and marine!"
Thus boasted he, in magisterial tone,
And boasted loud, though speaking all alone.
Most rats, I beg to say, are more discreet,
And use their lips but when they wish to eat.
Meanwhile, one Oyster--a luxurious one--
With shells apart, was basking in the sun.
Tasting the balmy breeze, it lay agape,--
A fine fat morsel of seductive shape.
The Rat, with moistenings of the under lip
(Mistaking still the Oyster for a ship),
Ran up, and, smelling something nice to eat,
Prepared, straightway, his grinders for a treat.
"The crew," quoth he, "have left a feast on board,--
A cold collation, fit for any lord;
If it deceive me not, I've got a prize,
Or else I do not know the use of eyes."
So saying, Master Rat, resolving well,
Peered round the pearly margin of the shell.
It held him fast: the Oyster from his nap
Had woke, and sharply shut his treacherous trap.
This all arose from fatal ignorance:
The fable's useful to the folks of France,--
Nor France alone: it shows with what surprise
The simplest object strikes a booby's eyes.
And notice, oftentimes, for want of wit,
The fool, who thinks he's biting, is first bit.

FABLE CLIV.

THE TWO FRIENDS.

Two steadfast Friends lived once in Monomtàpa;
They loved as if really they'd had the same pàpa:
What one earned the other earned. Ah! for that land;
It's worth ten such countries as ours, understand.
One night, when a deep sleep had fallen on all,
And the sun had gone off in the dark, beyond call,
One of these worthy men, woke by a nightmare,
Ran to his friend, in a shiver, and quite bare.
The other at once takes his purse and his sword,
Accosts his companion, and says, "'Pon my word
You seldom are up when all other men snore;
You make better use of the night than to pore
Over books; but come, tell me, you're ruined at play,
Or you have quarrelled with some one; now, speak out, I say.
Here's my sword and my purse; or, if eager to rest
On a fond wife's compassionate, fondling breast,
Take this slave: she is fair." "No, no," said the other,
"'Twas neither of these things that startled me, brother.
Thanks, thanks for your zeal; 'twas a dream that I had:
I saw you appear to me, looking so sad;
I feared you were ill, and ran to you to see:
'Twas that dream, so detestable, brought me to thee."

Which friend loved the most?--come, reader, speak out!
The question is hard, and leaves matter for doubt.
A true friend is choicest of treasures indeed;
In the depths of your heart he will see what you need:
He'll spare you the pain to disclose woes yourself,
Indifferent to either his trouble or pelf:
A dream, when he loves, or a trifle--mere air--
Will strike him with terror, lest danger be there.

FABLE CLV.

THE PIG, THE GOAT, AND THE SHEEP.

A Goat, a Sheep, and a fat Pig were sent
To market, to their mutual discontent;
Not for the pleasures of the noisy fair,
But just to sell--the farmer's only care.
Not to see jugglers' tricks drove on the carter,
Bent only on his traffic and his barter.
Sir Porker screeched, as if he felt the knife,
Or heard ten butchers plotting 'gainst his life.
It was a noise to deafen any one:
His mild companions prayed him to have done.
The carter shouts, "Good heavens! why this riot?
You'll drive us silly; fool! can't you be quiet?
These honest folks should teach you manners, man;
So hold your tongue, you coward, if you can.
Observe this sheep, he has not said a word,
And he is wise." "Now, fool! you talk absurd.
If he the dangers knew as well as I,
Till he was hoarse and blind he'd bleat and cry.
And this my other friend, so calm and still,
Would scream his life out, as I, carter, will.
They think you're only going, on the morrow,
From this his milk, from that his wool to borrow:
<i>They</i> may be right or wrong, I do not know;
But <i>I</i> am certain of the deadly blow:
I'm good but for the spit. Farewell to you,
My house, and wife, and children! now, adieu."
Sir Porker reasoned with sufficient skill;
But all was useless: he was fit to kill.
Fear nor complaint could change his destiny:
He who looks forward least will wisest be.

FABLE CLVI.

THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT.

In France there's many a man of small degree
Fond of asserting his own mightiness:
A "nobody" turns "somebody." We see
In this the nation's natural flightiness.
In Spain men are not vain; their high-flown schools
Have made them proud, yet have not made them fools.

A tiny Rat saw a huge Elephant
Travelling slowly with his equipage;
'Mongst beasts a sultan, knowing not a want.
His suite comprised within a monstrous cage

His household gods, his favourite dog and cat,
His parroquet, his monkey, and all that.

The Rat, astonished to see people stare
At so much bulk and state, which took up all
The space where he of right should have his share,
Upon the citizens began to call:
"Fools! know you not that smallest rats are equal
To biggest elephants?" (Alas! the sequel.)

"Is it his monstrous bulk you're staring at?
It can but frighten little girls and boys;
<i>Why, I can do the same.</i> You see, a Rat
Is scarce less than an Elephant." A noise!
The Cat sprang from her cage; and, with one pant,
The Rat found he was not an Elephant.

FABLE CLVII.

THE FUNERAL OF THE LIONESS.

The Lion lost his wife, one day;
And everybody made his way
To bring the prince that consolation
Which makes us feel our desolation.
The King announced the funeral
On such a day, to one and all.
They regulate the obsequy,
And marshal the vast company:
As you may guess, each one was there;
The prince's groanings filled the air;
And the den shook, above, below--
Lions have got great lungs, you know.
As the King does, all the others do;
So the best courtiers blubbered too.

Let me define a court: a place
Sad--gay; where every changeful face,
Careless of joy, is ready still
To change again at the King's will;
And if some cannot change, they try
To watch the change in the King's eye:
Chameleons, apes, in every feature;
Plastic and pliant in their nature.
One soul by turns fills many bodies:
These knaves are soulless, which more odd is.

But to return. The Stag alone
Uttered no single sigh or groan.
It could not well be otherwise;
This death avenged old injuries.
The Queen had cruel, mischief done;
Strangled his wife, and slain his son:
Therefore he shed no single tear.
A flatterer noticed, hovering near;
Moreover, the spy saw him smile.
The anger of a King, meanwhile
(I may observe, with Solomon,
The wisest man beneath the sun),
Is terrible; but to our friend
No book could much instruction lend.
"Base creature of the woods!" with scorn
The Lion cried, "you do not mourn!
What should prevent our sacred claws
Teaching you friendship's holy laws?
Come, Wolves, avenge that Queen of mine:
Offer this victim on her shrine!"
The Stag replied, "The time for grief
Is passed; tears now are useless, Chief.
Your wife, whose features well I know,
Appeared to me an hour ago,
Half hid in flowers. 'My friend,' she said,
'For me your tears are vainly shed.
Weep not: in the Elysian fields
I've every pleasure that life yields,
Conversing with my holy friends;
But for a time the King descends
To a despair that charms me so.'"
Scarce had he spoken thus, when, lo!
"A miracle!" the courtiers cry.
The Stags rewarded, instantly;
And safely, without punishment,
Back to his native woods is sent.

With dreams amuse a listening king,
With falsehoods sweet and flattering;
Whatever rage within may burn,
He'll gorge the bait, and friendly turn.

FABLE CLVIII

THE BASHAW AND THE MERCHANT.

An old Greek Merchant, one day, sought
Protection from a Bashaw, bought
At pasha's, not at merchant's, price
(Such guardians are not very nice).
It cost so much, that he complained
His purse and coffer were both drained.
Three other Turks, of lower station,
Offered, from sheer commiseration,
Their joint help, by word and deed,
For less than half the first to cede:

The Greek he listens, then agrees.
The Bashaw, cheated of his fees,
Is told that if of time the nick
He'd seize, these rascals he must trick--
Send them to Mahomet, to bear
A message for his private ear;
And quickly, too, or they united,
Knowing his friends, would see him righted;
Would send him some vile poison-broth,
To show the keenness of their wrath;
And that would send him to protect
The Stygian merchants, they expect.
The Turk--an Alexander--strode
Unto the Merchant's snug abode:
Down at the table sat--his air
Generous, bold, and free from care,
For he feared nothing,--how could he?
"My friend," he said, "you're quitting me;
And people tell me to watch keenly.--
You are too worthy: so serenely
No poisoner ever looks, I know;
So no more on that tack we'll go.
But for these patrons you have found,
Hear me,--to tell a tale I'm bound.
To wrong you I have no intent,
With reasoning, or with argument.

"Once a poor shepherd used to keep
A dog, to guard his silly sheep;
Till some one asked him, plain and pat,
How he could keep a beast like that,
With such a ravenous appetite:
It really wasn't fair or right.
'Twas their and every one's desire
He'd give the dog up to the squire.
Three terriers were best for him,
To guard his flocks, in life and limb:
The cur ate three times more than they.--
But the fool meddlers did not say
He also fought with treble teeth,
When wolves came howling out for death.
The shepherd listened--three dogs bought:
They cost him less, but never fought.
The flock discovered their ill lot
Almost as soon as you, I wot.
Your wretched choice will quickly do:
Now mark what I have said to you;
If you'll do well, return to me."
The Greek obeyed him speedily.