Part 10

By gold the Miser was so little blessed. Not its possessor, but by it possessed; He buried it a fathom underground; His heart was with it; his delight To ruminate upon it day and night; A victim to the altar ever bound. He seemed so poor, yet not one hour forgot The golden grave, the consecrated spot: Whether he goes or comes, or eats or drinks, Of gold, and gold alone, the Miser thinks. At last a ditcher marks his frequent walks, And muttering talks, Scents out the place, and clears the whole, Unseen by any spies. On one fine day the Miser came, his soul Glowing with joy; he found the empty nest; Bursts into tears, and sobs, and cries, He frets, and tears his thin grey hair; He's lost what he had loved the best. A startled peasant passing there Inquires the reason of his sighs. "My gold! my gold! they've stolen all." "Your treasure! what was it, and where?" "Why, buried underneath this stone." (A moan!) "Why, man, is this a time of war? Why should you bring your gold so far? Had you not better much have let The wealth lie in a cabinet, Where you could find it any hour In your own power?" "What! every hour? a wise man knows Gold comes but slowly, quickly goes; I never touched it." "Gracious me!" Replied the other, "why, then, be So wretched? for if you say true, You never touched it, plain the case; Put back that stone upon the place, 'Twill be the very same to you."

FABLE LVIII.

THE GOUT AND THE SPIDER.

When Mischief made the Spider and the Gout, "My daughters," said she, "you may clearly vaunt That nowhere in a human haunt Are there two plagues more staunch and stout; Come, choose your dwellings where you would abide: Here are the hovels--narrow, dark, and poor, And there the palaces all gilt with pride, You have your choice--now, what can I say more? Here is the lottery prescribed by law, Come, daughters, draw." "The hovel's not my place," the Spider says; Her sister hates the palace, for the Gout Sees men called doctors creeping in and out, They would not leave her half an hour at ease: She crawls and rests upon a poor man's toe, Just so, And says, "I shall now do whate'er I please. No struggles longer with Hippocrates! No call to pack and march, no one can displace me." The Spider camps upon a ceiling high, As if she had a life-long lease, you see, And spins her web continually, Ready for any fly. A servant soon, to clean the room, Sweeps down the product of her loom. With each tissue the girl's at issue: Spiders, busy maids will swish you! The wretched creature every day Was driven from her home away; At last, quite wearied, she gave out, And went to seek her sister Gout, Who in the country mourned her wretched fate: A thousand times more hopeless her estate; Even more miseries betide her Than the misfortunes of the Spider. Her host has made her dig and hoe, And rake and chop, and plough and mow, Until he's all but well. "I can't resist him. Ah! ma belle : Let us change places." Gladly heard. The Spider took her at her word. In the dark hovel she can spin: No broom comes there with bustling din. The Gout, on her part, pleased to trudge, Goes straightway--wise as any judge-- Unto a bishop, and with whims So fetters his tormented limbs, That he from bed can never budge. Spasms! Cataplasms! Heaven knows, the doctors make the curse Steal steadily from bad to worse. Both sisters gloried in the change, And never after wished to range.

FABLE LIX.

THE EYE OR THE MASTER.

A Stag sought refuge from the chase Among the oxen of a stable, Who counselled him--if he was able-- To find a better hiding-place. "My brothers," said the fugitive, "Betray me not; and I will show The richest pastures that I know; Your kindness you will ne'er regret, With interest I'll pay the debt." The oxen promised well to keep The secret: couched for quiet sleep, Safe in a tranquil privacy, The Stag lay down, and breathed more free.

At even-time they brought fresh hay, As was their custom day by day; Men went and came, ah! very near, And last of all the overseer, Yet carelessly, for horns nor hair Showed that the hiding stag was there. The forest dweller's gratitude Was great, and in a joyous mood He waited till the labour ceased, And oxen were from toil released, Leaving the exit once more free, To end his days of slavery. A ruminating bullock cried, "All now goes well; but woe betide When that man with the hundred eyes Shall come, and you, poor soul! surprise? I fear the watchful look he'll take, And dread his visit for your sake; Boast not until the end, for sure Your boasting may be premature." She had not time to utter more, The master opened quick the door. "How's this, you rascal men?" said he; "These empty racks will never do! Go to the loft; this litter, too, Is not the thing. I want to see More care from those that work for me; Whose turn these cobwebs to brush out? These collars, traces?--look about!" Then gazing round, he spies a head, Where a fat ox should be instead; The frightened stag they recognise. In vain the tears roll from his eyes; They fall on him with furious blows, Each one a thrust, until, to close, They kill and salt the wretched beast, And cook him up for many a feast.

Phædrus hath put it pithily, The master's is the eye for me, The lover's, too, is quick to see.

FABLE LX.

THE WOLF AND THE STORK.

Wolves are too prone to play the glutton. One, at a certain feast, 'tis said, Fell with such fury on his mutton, He gave himself quite up for dead, For in his throat a bone stuck fast. A Stork, by special stroke of luck, As he stood speechless, came at last. He beckoned, and she ran to aid, No whit afraid. A surgeon, and a very friend in need, She drew the bone out. For the cure she'd made She simply asked her fee. "Fie!" said the Wolf, "you jeer at me, My worthy gossip. Only see: What! is it not enough that, sound and safe, You drew your neck back from my gullet, My pretty pullet? You are ungrateful. Now, then, go; Beware, another time, my blow."

FABLE LXI.

THE LION DEFEATED BY MAN.

A picture was exhibited, one day, In which an artisan had sought To paint a lion which had fought, And had been beaten in the fray. The passers-by were full of self-applause. A Lion who looked on reproached the crowd: "Yes, here I see," he said, "the victory is man's: The artisan had his own plans; But if my brothers painted, they'd be proud To show you man prostrate beneath our claws."

FABLE LXII.

THE SWAN AND THE COOK.

In a menagerie a Swan and Goose Lived like sworn friends, in peace and amity. This one was meant to please the master's eye, The other fitted for his palate's use: This for the garden, that one for the board. The château's fosse was their long corridor, Where they could swim, in sight of their liege lord, Splash, drink, and paddle, or fly o'er and o'er, Unwearied of their pastime, down the moat. One day the Cook, taking a cup too much, Mistook the birds, and, seizing by the throat, Was just about to kill--his blindness such-- The helpless Swan, and thrust him in the pot. The bird began to sing his dying song: The Cook, in great surprise, Opened his sleepy eyes. "What do I do?" he said; "I had forgot: No, no, Jove willing! may my neck be strung, Before I kill a bird that sings so well."

Thus, in the dangers that around us throng, Soft words are often useful, as it here befell.

FABLE LXIII.

THE WOLF, THE GOAT, AND THE KID.

The She-Goat going out to feed Upon the young grass in the mead, Closed not the latch until she bid Her youngest born, her darling kid, Take care to open door to none, Or if she did, only to one Who gave the watchword of the place-- "Curse to the Wolf and all his race!" The Wolf was just then passing by, And having no bad memory, Laid the spell by, a perfect treasure Ready to be used at leisure. The Kid, so tender and so small, Had never seen a wolf at all. The mother gone, the hypocrite Assumes a voice demure and fit-- "The Wolf be cursed! come, pull the latch." The Kid says, peeping through a chink, "Show me a white foot" (silly patch), "Or I'll not open yet the door, I think." White paws are rare with wolves--not yet in fashion. The Wolf surprised, and dumb with secret passion, Went as he came, and sneaked back to his lair: The Kid had lost her life without that care, Had she but listened to the word The watchful Wolf had overheard. Two sureties are twice as good as one, Without them she had been undone. And so I boldly say, That too much caution's never thrown away.

FABLE LXIV.

THE WOLF, THE MOTHER, AND THE CHILD.

This Wolf recalls another to my mind-- A friend who found Fate more unkind-- Caught in a neater way, you'll see; He perished--here's the history: A peasant dwelt in a lone farm; The Wolf, his watch intent to keep, Saw in and out, not tearing harm, Slim calves and lambs, and old fat sheep, And regiment of turkeys strutting out; In fact, good fare was spread about.

The thief grew weary of vain wishes For dainty dishes; But just then heard an Infant cry, The mother chiding angrily-- "Be quiet! No riot; Or to the Wolf I'll give you, brat!" The Wolf cried, "Now, I quite like that;" And thanked the gods for being good. The Mother, as a mother should, Soon calmed the Child. "Don't cry, my pet! If the Wolf comes, we'll kill him, there!" "What's this?" the thief was in a fret; "First this, then that, there's no truth anywhere; I'm not a fool, you know, And yet they treat me so. Some day, when nutting, it may hap I may surprise the little chap." As these reflections strike the beast, A mastiff stops the way, at one fierce bound, To any future feast, And rough men gird him round. "What brought you here?" cries many a one; He told the tale as I have done. "Good Heavens!" loud the Mother cried; "You eat my boy! what! darling here To stop your hunger? Hush! my dear." They killed the brute and stripped his hide; His right foot and his head in state Adorn the Picard noble's gate; And this was written underneath The shrivelled eyes and grinning teeth-- "Good Master Wolves, believe not all That mothers say when children squall."

FABLE LXV.

THE LION GROWN OLD.

A Lion, once the terror of the plain (Borne clown with age, and weakened by decay) Against rebellious vassals fought in vain, And found his foes the victors of the fray. The Horse advanced, and gave his king a kick-- The Wolf a bite--the Ox a brutal butt: Meanwhile the Lion, worn, and sad, and sick, Could scarce resent this, the "unkindest cut."

But when an Ass came running to the place, The monarch murmured, with his latest breath, "Enough! I wished to die, but this disgrace Imparts a twofold bitterness to death."

FABLE LXVI.

THE DROWNED WOMAN.

I am not one of those who coolly say, "It's nought but just a woman who is drowned!" I say it's much, yes, much in every way. The sex I reverence. Taking them all round, They are the joy of life, then let their praise resound. And these remarks are really apropos : My fable treating of a woman lost In a deep river. Ill luck willed it so. Her husband sought her, at each ford she'd crossed, To place her body in a fitting tomb. And as he wandered by the fatal shore Of the swift stream that bore his wife away, The people passing he asked o'er and o'er, If they had seen her on that luckless day. They'd not e'en heard of his sad loss before. "No," said the first; "but seek her lower down: Follow the stream, and you will find her yet." Another answer'd: "Follow her! no, no; that's wrong. Go further up, and she'll be there, I bet, Whether the current's weak, or the tide strong." It's my conviction, Such is a woman's love of contradiction, She'll float the other way, your soul to fret. The raillery was out of season; And yet the heedless boor had reason, For such is woman's humour still, To follow out her own good will; Yes, from her very birthday morn Till to the churchyard she is borne, She'd contradict to her last breath, And wish she could e'en after death.

FABLE LXVII.

THE WEASEL IN THE GRANARY.

Once Madame Weasel, slender-waisted, thin, Into a granary, by a narrow chink, Crept, sick and hungry; quick she glided in, To eat her fill, and she was wise, I think. There at her ease, No fear of fees, She gnawed, and nibbled:--gracious, what a life! The bacon melted in the strife. Plump and rotund she grew, As fat as two. A week was over, Spent in clover. But one day, when she'd done--and that not badly-- A noise alarmed her sadly. She tried the hole she'd entered, wishing to retreat; 'Twas no such easy feat. Was she mistaken?--no, the selfsame door: She tried it, o'er and o'er. "Yes, yes," she said, "it is the place, I know; I passed here but a week ago." A Rat who saw her puzzled, slily spoke-- "Your pouch was emptier then, before your fast you broke. Empty you came, and empty you must quit: I tell you what I've told a dozen more. But don't perplex the matter, I implore; They differed from you in some ways, I do admit."

FABLE LXVIII.

THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES WITH THE OWNER OF A FIELD.

"Depend upon yourself alone," Is a sound proverb worthy credit. In Æsop's time it was well known, And there (to tell the truth) I read it. The larks to build their nests began, When wheat was in the green blade still-- That is to say, when Nature's plan Had ordered Love, with conquering will, To rule the earth, the sea, and air, Tigers in woods, sea monsters in the deep; Nor yet refuse a share To larks that in the cornfields keep. One bird, however, of these last, Found that one half the spring was past, Yet brought no mate, such as the season sent To others. Then with firm intent Plighting her troth, and fairly matched, She built her nest and gravely hatched. All went on well, the corn waved red Above each little fledgling's head, Before they'd strength enough to fly, And mount into the April sky. A hundred cares the mother Lark compel To seek with patient care the daily food; But first she warns her restless brood To watch, and peep, and listen well, And keep a constant sentinel; "And if the owner comes his corn to see, His son, too, as 'twill likely be, Take heed, for when we're sure of it, And reapers come, why, we must flit." No sooner was the Lark away, Than came the owner with his son. "The wheat is ripe," he said, "so run, And bring our friends at peep of day, Each with his sickle sharp and ready." The Lark returns: alarm already

Had seized the covey. One commences-- "He said himself, at early morn, His friends he'd call to reap the corn." The old Lark said--"If that is all, My worthy children, keep your senses; No hurry till the first rows fall. We'll not go yet, dismiss all fear, To-morrow keep an open ear; Here's dinner ready, now be gay." They ate and slept the time away. The morn arrives to wake the sleepers, Aurora comes, but not the reapers. The Lark soars up: and on his round The farmer comes to view his ground. "This wheat," he said, "ought not to stand; Our friends are wrong no helping hand To give, and we are wrong to trust Such lazy fools for half a crust, Much less for labour. Sons," he cried, "Go, call our kinsmen on each side, We'll go to work." The little Lark Grew more afraid. "Now, mother, mark, The work within an hour's begun." The mother answered--"Sleep, my son; We will not leave our house to-night." Well, no one came; the bird was right. The third time came the master by: "Our error's great," he said, repentantly: "No friend is better than oneself; Remember that, my boy, it's worth some pelf. Now what to do? Why, I and you Must whet our sickles and begin; That is the shortest way, I see; I know at last the surest plan: We'll make our harvest as we can." No sooner had the Lark o'erheard-- "'Tis time to flit, my children; come," Cried out the very prudent bird. Little and big went fluttering, rising, Soaring in a way surprising, And left without a beat of drum.

FABLE LXIX.

THE FLY AND THE ANT.

The Fly and Ant once quarrelled seriously: "O Jupiter!" the first exclaimed, "how vanity Blinds the weak mind! This mean and crawling thing Actually ventures to compare With me, the daughter of the air. The palace I frequent, and on the board I taste the ox before our sovereign lord; While this poor paltry creature lives for days On the small straw she drags through devious ways. Come, Mignon, tell me plainly now, Do you camp ever on a monarch's brow, Or on a beauty's cheek? Well, I do so,-- And on her bosom, too, I'd have you know. I sport among her curls; I place Myself upon her blooming face. The ladies bound for conquest go To us for patches; their necks' snow With spots of blackness well contrast, Of all her toilette cares the last. Come, now, good fellow, rack your brain, And let us hear of sense some grain." "Well, have you done?" replied the Ant. "You haunt king's palaces, I grant; But then, by every one you're cursed. It's very likely you taste first The gods' own special sacred feast: Nor is it better, sir, for that. The fane you enter, with the train-- So do the godless and profane. On heads of kings or dogs, 'tis plain, You settle freely when not wanted, And you are punished often--granted. You talk of patches on a belle, I, too, should patch them just as well. The name your vanity delights, Frenchmen bestow on parasites; Cease, then, to be so grossly vain, Your aspirations, Miss, restrain; Your namesakes are exiled or hung, And you with famine will be clung. With cold and freezing misery, Will come your time of penury, When our King Phœbus goes to cheer And rule the other hemisphere: But I shall live upon my store, My labours for the summer o'er, Nor over mountains and seas go, Through storm and rain, and drifting snow; No sorrow near me will alloy The fulness of the present joy; Past trouble bars out future care, True not false glory is our share; And this I wish to show to you-- Time flies, and I must work. Adieu! This idle chattering will not fill My little granary and till."

FABLE LXX.

THE GARDENER AND HIS MASTER.

An amateur of flowers--bourgeois and yet clown-- Had made a garden far from any town; Neat, trim, and snug, it was the village pride; Green quickset hedges girt its every side; There the rank sorrel and the lettuce grew, And Spanish jasmine for his Margot, too, Jonquils for holidays, and crisp dry thyme; But all this happiness, one fatal time, Was marred by a hare; his grief and woe Compel the peasant to his lord to go. "This cursed animal," he says, "by night And day comes almost hourly for his bite; He spurns my cunning, and defies my snares, For stones and sticks he just as little cares; He is a wizard, that is very sure, And for a wizard is there, sir, a cure?" "Wizard, be hanged!" the lord said; "you shall see, His tricks and his wiles will not avail with me; I'll scare the rascal, on my faith, good man." "And when?" "To-morrow; I have got a plan." The thing agreed, he comes with all his troop. "Good! let us lunch--fowls tender in the coop? That girl your daughter? come to me, my dear! When you betroth her, there's a brave lad here. I know, good man, the matrimonial curse Digs plaguey deep into a father's purse." The lord, so saying, nearer draws his chair, Plays with the clusters of the daughter's hair, Touches her hand, her arm, with gay respect, Follies that make a father half suspect Her coyness is assumed; meantime they dine, Squander the meat, play havoc with the wine. "I like these hams, their flavour and their look." "Sir, they are yours." "Thanks: take them to my cook." He dined, and amply; his retainers, too; Dogs, horses, valets, all well toothed, nor few; My lord commands, such liberties he takes, And fond professions to the daughter makes. The dinner over, and the wine passed round, The hunters rise, and horns and bugles sound; They rouse the game with such a wild halloo, The good man is astonished at the crew; The worst was that, amid this noise and clack, The little kitchen garden went to wrack. Adieu the beds! adieu the borders neat! Peas, chicory, all trodden under feet. Adieu the future soup! The frightened hare Beneath a monster cabbage made his lair. They seek him--find him; "After him, my boys!" He seeks the well-known hole with little noise; Yet not a hole, rather a wound they made In the poor hedge with hoof and hunting-blade. "By the lord's orders it would never do To leave the garden but on horseback, no." The good man says; "Royal your sports may be, Call them whate'er you like, but pity me; Those dogs and people did more harm to-day Than all the hares for fifty years, I say."

FABLE LXXI.

THE WOODMAN AND MERCURY.

TO M. THE COUNT DE B----.