Fables of La Fontaine Part 43

Such luck had been enough to sate A hunter wise and moderate.

Meantime a boar, as big as e'er was taken, Our archer tempted, proud, and fond of bacon.

Another candidate for Styx, Struck by his arrow, foams and kicks.

But strangely do the shears of Fate To cut his cable hesitate.

Alive, yet dying, there he lies, A glorious and a dangerous prize.

And was not this enough? Not quite, To fill a conqueror's appet.i.te; For, ere the boar was dead, he spied A partridge by a furrow's side-- A trifle to his other game.

Once more his bow he drew; The desperate boar upon him came, And in his dying vengeance slew: The partridge thank'd him as she flew.

Thus much is to the covetous address'd; The miserly shall have the rest.

A wolf, in pa.s.sing, saw that woeful sight.

'O Fortune,' cried the savage, with delight, 'A fane to thee I'll build outright!

'Four carca.s.ses! how rich! But spare-- 'I'll make them last--such luck is rare,'

(The miser's everlasting plea.) 'They'll last a month for--let me see-- One, two, three, four--the weeks are four If I can count--and some days more.

Well, two days hence And I'll commence.

Meantime, the string upon this bow I'll stint myself to eat; For by its mutton-smell I know 'Tis made of entrails sweet.'

His entrails rued the fatal weapon, Which, while he heedlessly did step on, The arrow pierced his bowels deep, And laid him lifeless on the heap.

Hark, stingy souls! insatiate leeches!

Our text this solemn duty teaches,-- Enjoy the present; do not wait To share the wolf's or hunter's fate.

[38] Bidpaii; and the _Hitopadesa_. See extract from Sir William Jones's translation of the latter in Translator's Preface.

BOOK IX.

I.--THE FAITHLESS DEPOSITARY.[1]

Thanks to Memory's daughters nine, Animals have graced my line: Higher heroes in my story Might have won me less of glory.

Wolves, in language of the sky, Talk with dogs throughout my verse; Beasts with others shrewdly vie, Representing characters; Fools in furs not second-hand, Sages, hoof'd or feather'd, stand: Fewer truly are the latter, More the former--ay, and fatter.

Flourish also in my scene Tyrants, villains, mountebanks, Beasts incapable of thanks, Beasts of rash and reckless pranks, Beasts of sly and flattering mien; Troops of liars, too, I ween.

As to men, of every age, All are liars, saith the sage.

Had he writ but of the low, One could hardly think it so; But that human mortals, all, Lie like serpents, great and small, Had another certified it, I, for one, should have denied it.

He who lies in Aesop's way, Or like Homer, minstrel gray, Is no liar, sooth to say.

Charms that bind us like a dream, Offspring of their happy art, Cloak'd in fiction, more than seem Truth to offer to the heart.

Both have left us works which I Think unworthy e'er to die.

Liar call not him who squares All his ends and aims with theirs; But from sacred truth to vary, Like the false depositary, Is to be, by every rule Both a liar and a fool.

The story goes:

A man of trade, In Persia, with his neighbour made Deposit, as he left the state, Of iron, say a hundredweight.

Return'd, said he, 'My iron, neighbour.'

'Your iron! you have lost your labour; I grieve to say it,--'pon my soul, A rat has eaten up the whole.

My men were sharply scolded at, But yet a hole, in spite of that, Was left, as one is wont to be In every barn or granary, By which crept in that cursed rat.'

Admiring much the novel thief, The man affected full belief.

Ere long, his faithless neighbour's child He stole away,--a heavy lad,-- And then to supper bade the dad, Who thus plead off in accents sad:-- 'It was but yesterday I had A boy as fine as ever smiled, An only son, as dear as life, The darling of myself and wife.

Alas! we have him now no more, And every joy with us is o'er.'

Replied the merchant, 'Yesternight, By evening's faint and dusky ray, I saw a monstrous owl alight, And bear your darling son away To yonder tott'ring ruin gray.'

'Can I believe you, when you say An owl bore off: so large a prey?

How could it be?' the father cried; 'The thing is surely quite absurd; My son with ease had kill'd the bird.'

'The how of it,' the man replied, 'Is not my province to decide; I know I saw your son arise, Borne through, the air before my eyes.

Why should it seem a strange affair, Moreover, in a country where A single rat contrives to eat A hundred pounds of iron meat, That owls should be of strength to lift ye A b.o.o.by boy that weighs but fifty?'

The other plainly saw the trick, Restored the iron very quick.

And got, with shame as well as joy, Possession of his kidnapp'd boy.

The like occurr'd two travellers between.

One was of those Who wear a microscope, I ween, Each side the nose.

Would you believe their tales romantic, Our Europe, in its monsters, beats The lands that feel the tropic heats, Surcharged with all that is gigantic.

This person, feeling free To use the trope hyperbole, Had seen a cabbage with his eyes Exceeding any house in size.

'And I have seen,' the other cries, Resolved to leave his fellow in the lurch, 'A pot that would have held a church.

Why, friend, don't give that doubting look,-- The pot was made your cabbages to cook.'

This pot-discov'rer was a wit; The iron-monger, too, was wise.

To such absurd and ultra lies Their answers were exactly fit.

'Twere doing honour overmuch, To reason or dispute with such.

To overbid them is the shortest path, And less provocative of wrath.

[1] Bidpaii.

II.--THE TWO DOVES.[2]

Two doves once cherish'd for each other The love that brother hath for brother.

But one, of scenes domestic tiring, To see the foreign world aspiring, Was fool enough to undertake A journey long, o'er land and lake.

'What plan is this?' the other cried; 'Wouldst quit so soon thy brother's side?

This absence is the worst of ills; Thy heart may bear, but me it kills.

Pray, let the dangers, toil, and care, Of which all travellers tell, Your courage somewhat quell.

Still, if the season later were-- O wait the zephyrs!--hasten not-- Just now the raven, on his oak, In hoa.r.s.er tones than usual spoke.

My heart forebodes the saddest lot,-- The falcons, nets--Alas, it rains!

My brother, are thy wants supplied-- Provisions, shelter, pocket-guide, And all that unto health pertains?'

These words occasion'd some demur In our imprudent traveller.

But restless curiosity Prevail'd at last; and so said he,-- 'The matter is not worth a sigh; Three days, at most, will satisfy, And then, returning, I shall tell You all the wonders that befell,-- With scenes enchanting and sublime Shall sweeten all our coming time.

Who seeth nought, hath nought to say.

My travel's course, from day to day, Will be the source of great delight.

A store of tales I shall relate,-- Say there I lodged at such a date, And saw there such and such a sight.

You'll think it all occurr'd to you.--'

On this, both, weeping, bade adieu.

Away the lonely wanderer flew.-- A thunder-cloud began to lower; He sought, as shelter from the shower, The only tree that graced the plain, Whose leaves ill turn'd the pelting rain.

The sky once more serene above, On flew our drench'd and dripping dove, And dried his plumage as he could.

Next, on the borders of a wood, He spied some scatter'd grains of wheat, Which one, he thought, might safely eat; For there another dove he saw.-- He felt the snare around him draw!

This wheat was but a treacherous bait To lure poor pigeons to their fate.

The snare had been so long in use, With beak and wings he struggled loose: Some feathers perish'd while it stuck; But, what was worst in point of luck, A hawk, the cruellest of foes, Perceived him clearly as he rose, Off dragging, like a runaway, A piece of string. The bird of prey Had bound him, in a moment more, Much faster than he was before, But from the clouds an eagle came, And made the hawk himself his game.

By war of robbers profiting, The dove for safety plied the wing, And, lighting on a ruin'd wall, Believed his dangers ended all.

A roguish boy had there a sling, (Age pitiless!

We must confess,) And, by a most unlucky fling, Half kill'd our hapless dove; Who now, no more in love With foreign travelling, And lame in leg and wing, Straight homeward urged his crippled flight, Fatigued, but glad, arrived at night, In truly sad and piteous plight.

The doves rejoin'd, I leave you all to say, What pleasure might their pains repay.