The Fables of La Fontaine
THE TWO ADVENTURERS AND THE TALISMAN.
I have never heard or read
In annals true or fabled story,
That paths of pleasure ever led
Mortal heroes unto glory;
And in proof of this one sees
The labours twelve of Hercules.
However, once, by Talisman
Induced, a knight conceived the plan
Of mounting horse and couching lance,
And seeking lands of fair romance,
Accompanied by one he knew.
After a time there came in view
A post upon the public way,
On which was writ--"A moment stay,
Adventurous knight. If you would see
That which no knight has seen before,
Venture across yon torrent's roar,
And from the root of yonder tree
Yon elephant's huge head of stone
Raise up, and, without resting, bear
To yonder mountain's crest, which proudly stands alone."
Now of these knights one was of those
Who shudder at your swashing blows.
"The torrent's deep and broad," he cried;
"And if we reach the other side?
Why climb unto a mountain's crest,
With a stone elephant opprest?
'Tis true the artist may have wrought
His work on such a scale, a man
Might bear it for a yard, then rest;
But tell me not that mortal can
Bear it to yonder mountain's top,
Not daring once for breath to stay.
Perhaps this mystic head is naught
But such as one might bear away;
And if the latter be the truth,
Success were honour small, in sooth.
The whole thing is so plain a trick,
I'll leave it. Come, my friend, be quick."
This wise man having passed along,
The other crossed his breast, and made
A dash across the torrent strong,
And found beneath the tree the beast's head laid.
He raised it, and, with breathless stride,
He bore it to the mountain's brow,
And there, upon a terrace wide,
Gazed on a city fair that stretched below.
"Umph!" cried the elephant, and then
Forth swarmed a host of armed men.
All other errant knights but this
Would now have shown some cowardice;
But he, so far from turning back,
Couched lance in rest, and spurred to the attack.
But what the hero's great surprise,
When all the crowd, with joyful cries,
Proclaimed him monarch, in the place
Of one just dead! With modest grace
The knight declared he was not fit
A crown to wear, and then took it.
Sixtus the Pope once said so, too;
(And is it, then, so bad a thing
To be a pope, or be a king?)
But Sixtus said what was not true.
Blind fortune to blind courage is a friend;
And often he will gain his end
Who rashly acts; whilst he who tarries,
By prudence quite deceived, miscarries.
FABLE CXCVI.
THE MISER AND HIS FRIEND.
A Miser once who'd got much money,
Was puzzled how to hide that honey;
For ignorance and love of gain
Being ever sisters twain,
Had left him at a total loss
Where to secrete his golden dross;
And why the Miser was so hot to find
A place of safety for his hoarded pelf,
Was simply the great fear that filled his mind,
That some day he should spend and rob himself:
Yes, rob himself by gathering pleasure
From the usage of his treasure.
Poor Miser! how I pity your mistake!
Wealth is not wealth unless we use it,
And when we do not we abuse it.
Why keep money till the sense
Of pleasure dies in impotence?
To gather gold alone is wretched slaving;
To have to watch it makes it not worth having.
However this may be, our Miser might
Have found some trusty banker for his gold;
But it seemed better, to his purblind sight,
To give it to the depths of earth to hold.
So with a comrade's aid
It soon beneath the turf was laid;
But when a little time was past,
Our Miser going to re-visit
His buried treasure, found a huge deficit.
At first despair oppressed him; but at last
He hurried to his comrade, and he said--
"To-morrow I shall want your help again;
Some bags of gold still in my house remain,
And they had better with the rest be laid."
The comrade immediately hurried away,
And returned all the gold he had taken,
Intending to grasp the whole lot the next day;
But in this he was somewhat mistaken;
For the Miser grown wise by the loss of his store,
Resolved 'neath the earth to conceal it no more,
But to use and enjoy it; and thus the poor thief,
By being too clever, came headlong to grief.
In my belief there is no ill in
Playing the rascal to a villain.
FABLE CXCVII.
THE WOLF AND THE PEASANTS.
A Conscientious Wolf one day
(If conscientious Wolves there be),
Lamenting he was beast of prey,
Though such but by necessity,
Exclaimed--"I'm dreaded far and near,
To all a thing of hate and fear;
Dogs, hunters, and peasants combine to pursue me,
And weary out Jove with their prayers to undo me:
In England long since a price paid for my head,
Has caused the whole race to be utterly dead.
I'm an object of wrath to each ignorant squire,
Who orders his people to hunt me and kill;
And if a child cries, all that mothers require
Is to mention my name to make it be still.
And why this universal spite,
In all the country round,
Which never leaves the Wolf at rest?
Because, perchance, by hunger prest,
To satisfy my appetite,
I've eaten scurvy sheep, or ass, or mangy hound.
Ah! well, henceforth I'll eat no living thing,
But feed on herbs, and water from the spring;
Or starve and die--a cruel, cruel fate--
Sooner than be a thing of universal hate."
Saying these words, a pleasant savour drew
Our wolf's attention to some shepherds near,
Feasting on what his wolfish instinct knew
Had once been lambkin, to some mother dear.
"Ah, ah!" he exclaimed, "this is strange, by my troth;
I'm reproaching myself for each lamb that I've slain,
Whilst the shepherds and sheep-dogs themselves are not loth
To regale on roast lamb is abundantly plain;
And shall I, then, a Wolf, feed on nothing but grass?
No, not if I know it! The day shall not pass
Till a lambkin has gone down my cavernous jaws,
Without waiting for any of cookery's laws.
A lamb, did I say? I should just think so, rather;
Aye, the mother that bore him, and also his father."
Well, the Wolf was right; for as long as we feed
On animals' flesh, it is surely unjust
That we should endeavour to make them recede
To the primitive food of a root or a crust.
And beasts of prey, we should always remember,
Know not the use of spit or ember.
Shepherds, shepherds! trust to me;
The Wolf a hermit ne'er can be.
And sure the Wolf is only wrong
When he is weak and you are strong.
FABLE CXCVIII.
THE RABBITS.
TO THE DUKE DE ROCHEFOUCAULD.
I Have often said, on seeing
How men like animals seem to act,
That the lord of the earth, a poor frail being,
Is not much better, in fact,
Than the beasts whom he rules; and that Nature
Has given to each living creature
A sense of morality's force,
That its origin owes to the one same source.
At that witching hour when day
In the brown of the eve melts away,
Or at that when the long-brooding night
Has just lifted its pinions for flight,
I climb up some tree, at the edge of a wood,
And there, like a Jove, so wise and so good,
I startle with fear
Some young Rabbits gambolling near.
Then the nation of Rabbits,
Which, in tune with its habits,
With eyes and ears both open wide,
Played and browsed on the woodland side,
Perfuming its banquets with odours of thyme,
With a hurry and scurry,
Tails turned in a hurry,
Seeks its earth-sheltered burrows (thieves flying from crime.)
But five minutes, or so,
Have not vanished, when, lo!
More gay than before,
On the fragrant green floor,
A rollicking band,
The Rabbits are there, again, under my hand!
Ah! do we not in this perceive
A picture of the race of men
Who, shipwrecked once, will still again
The safety of the harbour leave,
Risking fresh shipwreck from the selfsame wind?
True Rabbits! They, to fortune blind,
Entrust their wealth, and all their store!
And of this truth take one example more.
When stranger dogs pass through some place
Where they do not of wont reside,
The native dogs at once give chase,
With hungry jaws, all opening wide
(Fearing that the intruders may
Snatch the true owner's food away),
And never weary till th' intruders
Are safely driven from their borders.
Just so with those whom gracious fates
Have made the governors of states;
And those whom many artful plans
Have made much-favoured courtesans;
And merchants; men of any kind;
In all you'll find this jealous mind.
Each one, in his several place,
To the intruder grants no grace.
Your fine coquettes and authors are
Precisely of this character.
Woe to the unknown writer who
Dares publish something bright and new!
Poets forgive you any crime,
If you'll not rival them in rhyme.
A thousand instances of this
I might recite; but well I wish
That works should never be too long.
Moreover, you should always show
You think your readers wise, you know;
So now I'll close this song.
Ah! you, to whom I owe so much;
Whose greatness, and whose modesty
Are in exact equality;
Who cannot bear that men should touch
With praiseful tongues your well-earned fame,
Who still will blush with needless shame:
You, who scarcely have allowed
That I should make my verses proud,
And from critics and from time
Protect my insufficient rhyme,
By heading them with one of those
Great names which make our nation's pride,
Our France, whose annals long disclose
More famous names than all the world beside;
Oh, let me tell the universe
That you gave me this subject for my verse.
FABLE CXCIX.
THE SWALLOW AND THE SPIDER.
"O Jupiter! who from thy regal brow
Drew forth Minerva, my old enemy,
List to the prayer of a poor Spider now;
Listen, I pray to thee.
Progne here and there, all day, and everywhere,
Ever skimming, flitting, fifty times a day,
Passes by me sitting in my trimly woven lair;
Passes by me impudent, and bears away my prey:
Yes, swallows up the flies that are crowding to my net,
Which with skilful patience 'tween the laurel boughs I've set."
Thus the Spider, who of yore so artistically wove,
But now reduced in rank to the state of humble spinner,
Regarding every fly as hers of right for dinner,
Complained in noisy accents unto all-deciding Jove.
But in spite of this harangue,
Still Philomel's swift sister sprang
Past the luckless Spider's door,
Ever with her main and might,
And with pitiless delight,
Bearing to her brood incessantly the food,
Which the clamorous little gluttons demanded more and more.
But sad it is to tell! still worse was yet to come,
For the Swallow, skimming, flitting,
Spied the Spider sadly sitting,
And snatched her hanging helpless from her once well-ordered
home.
In this world here below, it is Jupiter's plan
Two tables to spread for two different classes;