Fables of La Fontaine Part 59

IX.--THE WOLF AND THE FOX.

Whence comes it that there liveth not A man contented with his lot?

Here's one who would a soldier be, Whom soldiers all with envy see.

A fox to be a wolf once sigh'd.

With disappointments mortified, Who knows but that, his wolfship cheap, The wolf himself would be a sheep?

I marvel that a prince[16] is able, At eight, to put the thing in fable; While I, beneath my seventy snows, Forge out, with toil and time, The same in labour'd rhyme, Less striking than his prose.

The traits which in his work we meet, A poet, it must be confess'd, Could not have half so well express'd: He bears the palm as more complete.

'Tis mine to sing it to the pipe; But I expect that when the sands Of Time have made my hero ripe, He'll put a trumpet in my hands.

My mind but little doth aspire To prophecy; but yet it reads On high, that soon his glorious deeds Full many Homers will require-- Of which this age produces few.

But, bidding mysteries adieu, I try my powers upon this fable new.

'Dear wolf,' complain'd a hungry fox, 'A lean chick's meat, or veteran c.o.c.k's, Is all I get by toil or trick: Of such a living I am sick.

With far less risk, you've better cheer; A house you need not venture near, But I must do it, spite of fear.

Pray, make me master of your trade.

And let me by that means be made The first of all my race that took Fat mutton to his larder's hook: Your kindness shall not be repented.'

The wolf quite readily consented.

'I have a brother, lately dead: Go fit his skin to yours,' he said.

'Twas done; and then the wolf proceeded: 'Now mark you well what must be done, The dogs that guard the flock to shun.'

The fox the lessons strictly heeded.

At first he boggled in his dress; But awkwardness grew less and less, Till perseverance gave success.

His education scarce complete, A flock, his scholarship to greet, Came rambling out that way.

The new-made wolf his work began, Amidst the heedless nibblers ran, And spread a sore dismay.

Such terror did Patroclus[17] spread, When on the Trojan camp and town, Clad in Achilles' armour dread, He valiantly came down.

The matrons, maids, and aged men All hurried to the temples then.-- The bleating host now surely thought That fifty wolves were on the spot: Dog, shepherd, sheep, all homeward fled, And left a single sheep in p.a.w.n, Which Renard seized when they were gone.

But, ere upon his prize he fed, There crow'd a c.o.c.k near by, and down The scholar threw his prey and gown, That he might run that way the faster-- Forgetting lessons, prize and master.

How useless is the art of seeming!

Reality, in every station, Is through its cloak at all times gleaming, And bursting out on fit occasion.

Young prince, to your unrivall'd wit My muse gives credit, as is fit, For what she here hath labour'd with-- The subject, characters, and pith.

[16] A prince.--The infant Duke de Bourgogne. See Note to Table IV., Book XII. The context shows that La Fontaine was over seventy when this fable was written.

[17] _Patroclus_.--In the Trojan war, when Achilles, on his difference with Agamemnon, remained inactive in his tent, Patroclus, his friend, put on Achilles' "armour dread," and so caused dire alarm to the Trojans, who thought that Achilles had at last taken the field.

X.--THE LOBSTER AND HER DAUGHTER.[18]

The wise, sometimes, as lobsters do, To gain their ends back foremost go.

It is the rower's art; and those Commanders who mislead their foes, Do often seem to aim their sight Just where they don't intend to smite.

My theme, so low, may yet apply To one whose fame is very high, Who finds it not the hardest matter A hundred-headed league to scatter.

What he will do, what leave undone, Are secrets with unbroken seals, Till victory the truth reveals.

Whatever he would have unknown Is sought in vain. Decrees of Fate Forbid to check, at first, the course Which sweeps at last with torrent force.

One Jove, as ancient fables state, Exceeds a hundred G.o.ds in weight.

So Fate and Louis[19] would seem able The universe to draw, Bound captive to their law.-- But come we to our fable.

A mother lobster did her daughter chide: 'For shame, my daughter! can't you go ahead?'

'And how go you yourself?' the child replied; 'Can I be but by your example led?

Head foremost should I, singularly, wend, While all my race pursue the other end.'

She spoke with sense: for better or for worse, Example has a universal force.

To some it opens wisdom's door, But leads to folly many more.

Yet, as for backing to one's aim, When properly pursued The art is doubtless good, At least in grim Bellona's game.

[18] Aesop; also in Avia.n.u.s.

[19] _Louis_.--Louis XIV.

XI.--THE EAGLE AND THE MAGPIE.[20]

The eagle, through the air a queen, And one far different, I ween, In temper, language, thought, and mien,-- The magpie,--once a prairie cross'd.

The by-path where they met was drear, And Madge gave up herself for lost; But having dined on ample cheer, The eagle bade her, 'Never fear; You're welcome to my company; For if the king of G.o.ds can be Full oft in need of recreation,-- Who rules the world,--right well may I, Who serve him in that high relation: Amuse me, then, before you fly.'

Our cackler, pleased, at quickest rate Of this and that began to prate.

Not he of whom old Flaccus writes, The most impertinent of wights, Or any babbler, for that matter, Could more incontinently chatter.

At last she offer'd to make known-- A better spy had never flown-- All things, whatever she might see, In travelling from tree to tree.

But, with her offer little pleased-- Nay, gathering wrath at being teased,-- For such a purpose, never rove,-- Replied th' impatient bird of Jove.

'Adieu, my cackling friend, adieu; My court is not the place for you: Heaven keep it free from such a bore!'

Madge flapp'd her wings, and said no more.

'Tis far less easy than it seems An entrance to the great to gain.

The honour oft hath cost extremes Of mortal pain.

The craft of spies, the tattling art, And looks more gracious than the heart, Are odious there; But still, if one would meet success, Of different parishes the dress He, like the pie, must wear.

[20] Abstemius.

XII.--THE KING, THE KITE, AND THE FALCONER.[21]

To His August Highness, Monseigneur The Prince De Conti.[22]

The G.o.ds, for that themselves are good, The like in mortal monarchs would.

The prime of royal rights is grace; To this e'en sweet revenge gives place.

So thinks your highness,--while your wrath Its cradle for its coffin hath.

Achilles no such conquest knew-- In this a hero less than you.

That name indeed belongs to none, Save those who have, beneath the sun, Their hundred generous actions done.

The golden age produced such powers, But truly few this age of ours.

The men who now the topmost sit, Are thank'd for crimes which they omit.

For you, unharm'd by such examples, A thousand n.o.ble deeds are winning temples, Wherein Apollo, by the altar-fire, Shall strike your name upon his golden lyre.

The G.o.ds await you in their azure dome; One age must serve for this your lower home.

One age entire with you would Hymen dwell:[23]

O that his sweetest spell For you a destiny may bind By such a period scarce confined!

The princess and yourself no less deserve.