Part 17

A Man will sometimes meet his destiny The moment that he turns ill-luck to flee. A father had an only son, and dear He held him; so, as love is kin to fear, He with astrologers held a debate About the stars that ruled the infant's fate. One of these people said the father's care Should of all lions specially beware. Till he was twenty, he should keep him in, And, after that, his safety would begin. The cautious father, resolute to save His offspring from the ever-yawning grave, Knowing the danger turned on one neglect, Guarded him carefully, in this respect;-- Forbad him exit; barred up every door; But other pleasures lavished more and more. With his companions, all the live-long day, He was allowed to walk, and run, and play. When he had reached the age that loves the chase, A closer ward they kept upon the place. They talked with scorn of all the huntsman's joys, Spoke of the dangers--mocked the trumpet's noise. But all in vain were sermons, though well meant; Nothing can change the force of temperament. The youth was restless, fiery, hot, and brave; The stormy impulses came, wave on wave. He sighed for pleasure;--more the obstacle, The more desire; in vain they try to quell: He knew the cause of all his misery. The spacious house, so rich with luxury, Was full of pictures, and of tapestry,-- The subjects hunting scenes, and forest glades: Here animals, there men, strong lights, dark shades,-- The weaver made the lion chief of all: "Out, monster!" cried the youth, and eyed the wall With foaming rage: "'tis you that keep me here, In gloom and fetters. Is it you I fear?" He spoke, and struck, with all a madman's might, The beast so innocent. There, out of sight, Under the hanging, a sharp nail was stuck: It pricked him deeply, by the worst of luck. The arts of Æsculapius were in vain: He joined the shadows that own Pluto's reign. His death was due to his fond sire's regard, That in the locked-up palace kept him barred. It was precaution, too, that whilom slew The poet Æschylus, if they say true. It had been prophesied a house should fall Upon his head, so he shunned tower and wall, The city left, and camped out on the plain. Far from all roofs and danger, he was slain: An eagle, with a tortoise in his grip, flew by; The poet's bald head, from the upper sky, Looked like a smooth boulder; the bird let drop The prey he wished to crush upon the top. So perished Æschylus. From hence, we see, The art, if true, led to the misery That they would shun, all who in it had trust; But I maintain it's false, and quite unjust. I'll ne'er believe that Nature ties our hands, Or would submit herself to such vile bands, As in the skies to write our future fate; Times, persons, places, have far greater weight Than the conjunctions of a charlatan, Under the self-same planet, tell the man. Are kings and shepherds born, though one may sway With golden sceptre, and the other play With ashen crook? "The will of Jupiter,"-- A star has not a soul, my worthy sir; Why should its influence affect these two So diversely? How can it pierce through That sea of air,--those cloudy gulfs profound, Mars and the Sun, and pass each fiery bound? An atom would disturb it on its path. Horoscope-mongers, let me rouse your wrath: The state of Europe,--who predicted that? Did you foresee it?--now, then, answer pat. Think of each planet's distance, and its speed; These sage's passions, it is well agreed, Prevent their judging of our actions right. On them our fate depends: a planet's course Goes like our minds, with a still-varying force. And yet these fools, with compass and with line, Of men's whole lives would map out a design! But do not let the tales that I repeat Weigh in the balance more than it is meet. The fate of boy and Æschylus came true, Blind and deceitful though the art be, too. Once in a thousand times the bull's eye's hit; That is the good luck of your juggling wit.

FABLE CLX.

THE TORRENT AND THE RIVER.

With a roar and a dreadful sound, The Torrent dashed down the rock. All fled from its mighty bound; And horror followed the shock, Shaking the fields around.

No Traveller dared essay To cross the Torrent, save one, Who, meeting thieves by the way, And, finding all chances gone, Rode straight through the foam and spray.

No depth! All menace and din! The Traveller drew his breath With courage, and laughed within Himself at escape from death; But the thieves resolved to win.

His path they pursue and keep, Till he comes to a River clear, Peaceful and tranquil as sleep, And as far removed from fear: Its banks are in no way steep.

But pure and glistening sand Border the placid wave; He leaves the dangerous land, To find a treacherous grave: It was deep, you'll understand.

He drinks of the awful Styx, For deepest waters are still. Beware of quiet men's tricks; But for noisy men--they will Battle with words, not sticks.

FABLE CLXI.

THE ASS AND THE DOG.

We ought to help each other, wise men say: An Ass forgot this motto, one fine day. I know not how our beast ignored the rule, For he's an amiable, good-natured fool. A trusty Dog so gravely paced along, The master took his nap at even-song: The Ass began to roam about and feed, And found, at last, a rank and savoury mead. There were no thistles,--that he must endure: One must not be too much an epicure. The feast was still not bad: while aught remains; 'Twould pass for once, the air's fresh on these plains. The Dog, half dead with hunger, said, at last, "My dear companion, all this time I fast. Stoop down a bit, and let the panniers fall; I'll take my dinner out." No word at all The Ass vouchsafed, fearing to lose a bite; At length he deigned to answer the poor wight: "Friend, when your master rouses from his nap, He's sure at once to call you on his lap, And give you a good meal." A Wolf, just then, Ran forth, half famished, from his forest den. The Ass called loudly to the Dog to aid; The Dog stood still. "My friend," he quickly said, "Fly till your master wakes--he'll not be long;-- Run fast. If caught, avert the coming wrong With a hard kick, and break the wretch's jaw: They've shod you lately, and you're right in law. Mind, stretch him flat." The Dog spoke wise and well. But the Wolf choked the Ass, and down he fell.

Conclusion:--We should always help each other; And every man help carry his lame brother.

FABLE CLXII.

THE TWO DOGS AND THE DEAD ASS.

The Virtues must, surely, sisters be, For that Vices are brothers, we all well know. And if but to one a man's heart be free, All the others, like hurricanes, inward blow. Yet, of course, both of virtues and vices 'tis true That one heart holds but of either few; And not more than once in an age we see The Virtues in one small heart agree. For if a man be valiant, 'tis sure, In a thousand cases, he's also rash; And if he be prudent, the greed for more Will that respectable virtue dash. Above all animals beside, In faithfulness the Dog takes pride; But, far too oft, for food he craves, And even dogs are Folly's slaves.

Two Mastiffs, on a certain day, Beheld a Donkey's carcase floating, And fain had seized it for their prey, But baffling winds deceived their gloating. At length one said, "Your eyes are good, My friend, so look on yonder flood, And tell me what is that I see; If savoury ox or horse it be." "Of what it is," replied the other, "What boots it, friend, to make a bother? For dogs like us, in want of food, Even a scurvy Ass is good. The thing that now the most concerns us Is, how to swim to such a distance, Against this plaguy wind's resistance. But, stay! let's quench the thirst that burns us, By drinking up the river dry; And when we've quenched our thirst, we'll pass And gorge us on that savoury Ass." With haste the Mastiffs now began To quaff the river as it ran; But, well-a-day! it came to pass That, long ere they had reached the Ass, The twain had long since quenched their thirst, And, still persisting, nobly burst. With us weak mortals 'tis the same, When eager seeking wealth or fame. What is hopeless seems not so; So on from ill to ill we go. A king whose states are amply round, Will conquer still, to make them square; And wealthy men, with gold to spare, Sigh for just fifty thousand pound; Whilst others, just as foolish, seek To learn all science,--Hebrew, Greek! In short, we most of us agree, 'Tis easy work to drain the sea! A mortal man, to carry out The projects of his single soul, Would need four bodies, strong and stout,

And then would not complete the whole. For, even should his life extend To twice Methuselah's, depend Ten thousand years would find him still Where he began--the total nil.

FABLE CLXIII.

THE ADVANTAGE OF BEING CLEVER.

Between two citizens there once Arose a quarrel furious; The one was poor, but full of knowledge Ripe, and rare, and curious; The other had not been to college, And was, though rich, a perfect dunce. He, far too fondly oft proclaiming The items of his hoarded pelf, Declared that learned men but came in A rank far underneath himself. The man was quite a fool, and I Can never understand the why Or wherefore wealth alone should place A man above the learned race. The rich one to the wise one said, Full often, "Is your table spread As well as mine? And if not, tell What boots it that you read so well? Night after night you sadly clamber To the dull third-floor's backmost chamber; And in December's cold you wear What in hot June would be too bare; Whilst as for servants, you have none, Unless you call your shadow one. Alack! explain to me the fate Of this or any other State, If all were there like you, and I Spent nothing on my luxury? We rich ones use our wealth, God knows! And forth from us to artisan, To tradesman and to courtesan, In glorious golden floods it flows. And even you, who write your works Chiefly to use the knives and forks Of rich financiers, get your meed Of what you call our hoarded greed." These foolish words, need scarce be said, Simply contemptuous answer had. The wise man had too much to say In answer, and so went away. But, worse than sarcasm, the sword Of rough invader met the hoard Of him who had the wealth: the town In which he dwelt was toppled down. They left the city, and the one Who ignorant was [was] soon undone, And met all men's contempt; whilst he Who knew the sciences was free Of all men call society.

The quarrel so at last was ended; But this is what I always say: In spite of the fool's yea or nay, The wise must be commended.

FABLE CLXIV.

THE WOLF AND THE HUNTER.

O Avarice! thou monster, mad for gain; Whose mind takes in but one idea of good! How often shall I use my words in vain? When shall my tales by thee be understood? Oh, when will man, with heart so cold, Still ever heaping gold on gold, Deaf to the bard as to the wise, At length from his dull drudgery rise, And learn how sagely to employ it,-- Or know, in plain truth, to enjoy it? Towards this course make haste, my friend, For human life has soon an end. And yet, again, a volume in one word compressing, I tell you, wealth is only, when enjoyed, a blessing. "Well," you reply, "to-morrow 'twill be done!" My friend, you may not see to-morrow's sun; Ah! like the Hunter and the Wolf, you'll find 'Tis hard to die, and leave your wealth behind.

A Hunter, having deftly slain A Stag of ten, beheld a Doe; So, having taken aim again, Upon the green sward laid it low. This booty was sufficient quite For modest Hunter's appetite; But, lo! a Boar, of form superb, Starting from the tangled herb, Tempted the Archer's greed anew,-- The bow was twanged, the arrow flew,-- With futile shears the sister dread Had frayed his boarship's vital thread. Full grimly did she now resume The work at her Tartarean loom, Nor yet achieved the monsters doom.

Not yet content?--nor ever will be he Who once has quaffed the cup of victory. The Boar has just begun to rise, When, swift, a red-legged partridge flies Right in the greedy Hunter's view,-- A wretched prize, 'tis very true, Compared with those already got: And yet the sportsman takes a shot; But ere the trigger's pulled, the Boar, Grown strong for just one effort more, The Hunter slays, and on him dies: With thanks, away the partridge flies.

The covetous shall have the best; The miserly may take the rest.-- A Wolf that, passing by, took note Of this sad scene, said, "I devote To Mistress Luck a sumptuous fane. What! corpses four together slain? It seems scarce true! But I must be Prudent midst this satiety, For such good seldom comes to me." (This is, of many vain excuses, The one the miser mostly uses.) "Enough," the Wolf continued, "here, To give me for a month good cheer. Four bodies with four weeks will fit, But, nathless, I will wait a bit, And first this Hunter's bowstring chew, For scent proclaims it catgut true." Thus saying, on the bow he flings His hungry form; when, taking wings, The undischarged bolt quickly flies Through the Wolf's carcase, and he dies.

And now my text I will repeat-- Wealth, only when enjoyed, is sweet. Oh, reader, from these gluttons twain Take warning, ere it be too late. Through greed was the keen Hunter slain; Through hoarding up Wolf met his fate.

FABLE CLXV.

JUPITER AND THE THUNDERBOLTS.

Jove, viewing from on high our faults, Said, one day, in Cerulean vaults, "Let us 'plenish the earth With a race of new guests; For those of Noah's birth Quite weary me out with their endless requests. Fly to hell, Mercury! And bring unto me The Fury most fierce and most grim of the three! For that race that I've cherished Will all soon have perished!" Thus passionate Jupiter spoke, But quickly from anger awoke. And so, let me warn you, O Kings! Of whom Jupiter makes the mere strings, To rule and to guide as you will; For a brief moment pause, To examine the cause, Ere you torture your subjects, or kill. The god with light feet, And whose tongue's honey sweet, Went, as ordered, to visit the Fates. Tisiphone looked at, Megæra then mocked at; And, after inspection, Fixed his choice, of all persons, on ugly Alecton. Rendered proud by this choice, With a horrible voice, The goddess declared, In the caverns of Death, That she'd stop all men's breath, And not one live thing on the earth should be spared.

Unto Mercy's straight path Jove came back from his wrath, Annulled the Eumenide's oath; Nothing loath. Yet his thunders he threw At the vile mortal crew; And one might have thought That destruction were wrought; But the fact was just this-- The bolts managed to miss. For the Thund'rer's pride With our fear's satisfied. He was father of men, And so he knew when, As papas mortal know too, What distance to throw to. But, with mercy thus treated, Man, with wickedness heated, Grew so vicious, at last, That Jove swore he would cast And crush our weak race, Their Creator's disgrace. But yet he still smiled; For a father his child Strikes with merciful hand. So at last it was planned That god Vulcan should have The duty of sending us men to the grave. With bolts of two sorts Vulcan fills his black courts; And of these two there's one That Heaven throws straight, When it fills up its hate, And the thread of a man's life is done. The other falls only On mountain tops lonely; And this kind alone By great Jupiter's thrown.

FABLE CLXVI.

THE FALCON AND THE CAPON.

A treacherous voice will sometimes call; Hear it, but trust it not at all. Not meaningless the thing I tell, But like the clog of Jean Nivelle. A citizen of Mons, by trade, A Capon, one day, was dismayed, Being summoned, very suddenly, Before his master's Lares; he Disliked that tribunal, the spit (It was a fowl of ready wit). Yet all the folks, their scheme to hide, "Coop, coop, coop, coop," so softly cried. "Your servant; your gross bait is vain; You won't catch me, I say again." All this a Falcon saw, perplexed: What had the silly creature vexed? Instinct, experience, or no, Fowls have no faith in us, I know; And this one, caught with endless trouble, To-morrow in a pot would bubble, Or in a stately dish repose-- Small honour, as the Capon knows. The Falcon the poor creature blamed; "I am astonished! I'm ashamed! You scum! you canaille! how you act! You're half an idiot, that's a fact. I come back to my master's fist, And hunt for him whate'er he list. Why, see, he's at the window, there; You're deaf; he's calling, I declare." "I know too well," the Fowl replied, Not caring for the Falcon's pride: "What does he want to say to me? The cook has got his knife, I see. Would you attend to such a bait? Now, let me fly, or I'm too late; So, cease to mock. Nay, now, good master, That wheedling voice portends disaster! Had you seen at the friendly hearth As many Falcons of good birth As I've seen Capons put to roast, You'd not reproach me with vain boast."

FABLE CLXVII.

THE TWO PIGEONS.

Two Pigeons once, as brother [brother], With true affection loved each other; But one of them, foolishly, tired of home, Resolved to distant lands to roam. Then the other one said, with piteous tear, "What! brother, and would you then leave me here? Of all the ills that on earth we share, Absence from loved ones is bitterest woe! And if to your heart this feeling's strange, Let the dangers of travel your purpose change, And, oh, at least for the spring-tide wait! I heard a crow, on a neighbouring tree,

Just now, predicting an awful fate For some wretched bird; and I foresee Falcons and snares awaiting thee. What more can you want than what you've got-- A friend, a good dwelling, and wholesome cot?" The other, by these pleadings shaken, Almost had his whim forsaken; But still, by restless ardour swayed, Soon, in soothing tones, he said-- "Weep not, brother, I'll not stay But for three short days away; And then, quite satisfied, returning, Impart to you my travelled learning. Who stays at home has nought to say; But I will have such things to tell,-- 'Twas there I went,'--'It thus befel,'-- That you will think that you have been In every action, every scene." Thus having said, he bade adieu, And forth on eager pinion flew; But ere a dozen miles were past, The skies with clouds grew overcast; All drenched with rain, the Pigeon sought A tree, whose shelter was but nought; And when, at length, the rain was o'er, His draggled wings could scarcely soar. Soon after this, a field espying, Whereon some grains of corn were lying, He saw another Pigeon there, And straight resolved to have his share. So down he flies, and finds, too late, The treacherous corn is only there To tempt poor birds to hapless fate. As the net was torn and old, however, With beak, and claw, and fluttering wing, And by despairs supreme endeavour, He quickly broke string after string; And, with the loss of half his plumes, Joyous, his flight once more resumes. But cruel fate had yet in store A sadder evil than before; For, as our Pigeon slowly flew, And bits of net behind him drew, Like felon, just from prison 'scaped, A hawk his course towards him shaped. And now the Pigeon's life were ended, But that, just then, with wings extended, An eagle on the hawk descended. Leaving the thieves to fight it out, With beak and talon, helter-skelter, The Pigeon 'neath a wall takes shelter; And now believes, without a doubt, That for the present time released, The series of his woes has ceased. But, lo! a cruel boy of ten (That age knows not compassion's name), Whirling his sling, with deadly aim, Half kills the hapless bird, who then, With splintered wing, half dead, and lame, His zeal for travel deeply cursing, Goes home to seek his brother's nursing. By hook or by crook he hobbled along, And arrived at home without further wrong. Then, united once more, and safe from blows, The brothers forgot their recent woes.

Oh, lover, happy lovers! never separate, I say, But by the nearest rivulet your wandering footsteps stay. Let each unto the other be a world that's ever fair, Ever varied in its aspects, ever young and debonair. Let each be dear to each, and as nothing count the rest. I myself have sometimes been by a lover's ardour blest, And then I'd not have changed for any palace here below, Or for all that in the heavens in lustrous splendour glow, The woods, and lanes, and fields, which were lightened by the eyes, Which were gladdened by the feet of that shepherdess so fair,-- So sweet, and good, and young, to whom, bound by Cupid's ties,-- Fast bound, I thought, for ever, I first breathed my oaths in air. Alas! shall such sweet moments be never more for me? Shall my restless soul no more on earth such tender objects see? Oh, if I dared to venture on the lover's path again, Should I still find sweet contentment in Cupid's broad domain? Or is my heart grown torpid?--are my aspirations vain?

FABLE CLXVIII.

EDUCATION.