Part 22
Jupiter youthful, once on a time, Thought it no crime To bring up his son as the mortal ones do; And straightway this godlike one, given to jollity, Love's sweet frivolity, Thought it no harm maiden's favour to sue, For in him love and reason, Skipping over a season, Long ere the usual time, taught him to woo. Flora was first to set His poor young heart in fret; And with sighs and tears tender, Forgetting no lovers trick, This roguish young hero quick Made her surrender. And shortly it was evident That, thanks to his supreme descent, All other god-born children were Surpassed by Jupiter's young heir; But Jupiter, rather dissatisfied (In his pride), Assembling his council, one thunderous day, Said, "I've hitherto ruled all this universe wide Alone; but I feel, now, the weight of my sway, And would fain to my child give some power away. He's blood of my blood, and already, afar, His altars are worshipped in many a star; But before I entrust him with sovereign place, I should like him to grow, both in knowledge and grace." Thus the God of Thunder spoke, And then, with one acclaim sonorous, A shout of praise, in tuneful chorus, The echoes deep of heaven awoke. When silence was at length restored, Mars, God of War, took up the word, And said, "I will myself impart To this young prodigy the art Through which this realm so vast has grown, And those who mortal were are now as godlike known." Then Apollo, tunefully, Murmured, "He shall learn from me All that sweet and mystic lies In music's deepest harmonies." Next Hercules, with eyes of flame, Exclaimed, "I'll teach him how to tame The monsters that invade the breast, The vain temptations that infest The heart's recesses; yes, I'll teach Your offspring how with toil to reach Heights and honours that alone Are to steadfast virtue known." When all had spoken, with an air of scorn Smiled, in reply, the child of Venus born: "Leave," he said, "the boy alone to me, And all that he can be he'll be." And, speaking thus, well spoke god Cupid; For there's nought on earth more plain That he is not wholly stupid Who, loving well, does all things gain.
FABLE CCIX.
THE OWL AND THE MICE.
Whene'er you have a tale to tell, Ne'er call it marvellous yourself, If you would have it go down well, For, if you do, some spiteful elf Will scorn it; but for once I'll vow The tale that I shall tell you now Is marvellous, and though like fable, May be received as veritable.
So old a forest pine had grown, At last 'twas marked to be cut down. Within its branches' dark retreat
An Owl had made its gloomy seat-- The bird that Atropos thought meet Its cry of vengeance to repeat. Deep in this pine-tree's stem, time-worn, With other living things forlorn, Lived swarms of Mice, who had no toes; But never Mice were fat as those, For Master Owl, who'd snipped and torn, Day after day fed them on corn. The wise bird reasoned thus: "I've oft Caught and stored Mice within my croft, Which ran away, and 'scaped my claws; One remedy is, I'll cut their paws, And eat them slowly at my ease-- Now one of those, now one of these. To eat them all at once were blameful, And my digestion is so shameful."
You see the Owl was, in his way, As wise as we; so, day by day, His Mice had fit and due provision. Yet, after this, some rash Cartesian Is obstinate enough to swear That Owls but mechanism are. But how, then, could this night-bird find This craftily-contrived device, The nibbling of the paws of mice, Were he not furnished with a mind?
See how he argued craftily: "Whene'er I catch these Mice, they flee; And so the only way to save them Is at one huge meal to brave them. But that I cannot do; besides, The wise man for bad days provides. But how to keep them within reach? Why, neatly bite the paws from each." Now, could there, gentle reader mine, Be human reasoning more fine? Could Aristotle's self have wrought A closer chain of argued thought?
FABLE CCX.
THE COMPANIONS OF ULYSSES.
TO THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY.
O Prince! to whom the immortals give Their care, and power, and grace, permit: My verse may on your shrine still live, By burning there, though void of wit. I know 'tis late; but let my muse Plead years and duns for her excuse. My soul is faint, and not like yours, Which as an eagle proudly soars. The hero from whose veins you drew This brilliant soul, is e'en like you, In martial fields; 'tis not his fault His steps at victory's archway halt: Some god retains him; the same king Who once the Rhine with victory's wing Swept over in one month, they say. Then speed was right; but now, delay. But I must pause. The Loves and Smiles Detest the verse that runs to miles: And of the Loves and Smiles your court Is, all men know, the chief resort. But other gods its precincts grace: Good Sense and Reason there have place; And I must beg that you will seek Of these a story from the Greek, Of certain men who, yielding up Their souls to Folly's poisoned cup, From men to beasts were quickly changed, And in brute forms the forest ranged.
After ten years of war and pain, Ulysses' comrades tempt the main; Long tost about by every wind, At length an island shore they find, Where Circe, great Apollo's child, Held sway, and on the strangers smiled. She gave them cups of drink delicious, With poison sweet, with drugs pernicious. Their reason first gave way; and then They lost the forms and souls of men, Ranging about in shapes of beast, Some like the largest, some the least:-- The lion, elephant, and bear, The wolf, and e'en the mole, were there. Ulysses, he alone escaped, Refusing Circe's cups to drain; And, as his form was finely shaped, And god-like wisdom graced his mind, The goddess sought his soul to gain, By poisoned draughts of varied kind: In fact, like any turtle-dove, The goddess cooed, and told her love. Ulysses was too circumspect, Such coign of vantage to neglect, And begged that all his comrades should Resume their manhood's natural mould. "Yes," said the nymph, "it shall be so, If they desire. You ask them, go." Ulysses ran, and, calling round His former comrades, said, "I've found A method sure, by which again You may resume the forms of men; And, as a token that 'tis true, This instant speech returns to you." Then roared the Lion, "I'm no fool, Your offer really is too cool. What! throw away my claws and teeth, With which I tear my foes to death? No! Now I'm King.--In Grecian land I should a private soldier stand. You're very kind, but let me rest; I choose to be a regal beast." Much with this rough-roared speech distressed, Ulysses next the Bear addressed, And said, "My brother, what a sight Are you, who once were trim and slight!" The Bear replied, in accents gruff, "I'm like a bear--that's quite enough; Who shall decide, I'd like to know, sir, That one form's fine, another grosser? Who made of man the judge of bears? With fair dames now I've love affairs. You do not like my shape? 'Tis well;
Pass on. Content and free I dwell Within these woods, and flatly say, I scorn mankind, and here shall stay." The Prince the Wolf accosted then, And, lest refusal came again, Said, "Comrade, I'm in deep distress, For there's a lovely shepherdess Who echo wearies out with cries Against your wolfish gluttonies. In former days your task had been Her sheep from every wolf to screen: You led an honest life. Oh, come, And once more manhood's form resume." "No, no," replied the Wolf; "I'll stay: A ravenous wolf you call me. Pray, If I the sheep had eaten not, Would they have 'scaped your spit and pot? If I were man, should I be less A foe unto the shepherdess? For just a word, or slight mistake, You men each other's heads will break; And are you not, then, wolfish, too? I've weighed the case, and hold it true That wolves are better far than man: I'll be a Wolf, then, whilst I can." To all, in turn, Ulysses went, And used this selfsame argument. But all, both great and small, refused To be of beast-life disabused. To range the woods, to feed and love, To them seemed all things else above. "Let others reap the praise," they cried, "Of noble deeds: we're satisfied." And so, fast bound in Pleasure's chains, They thought that free they roamed the plains.
O Prince! I much had wished to choose A tale which might teach and amuse. The scheme itself was not so bad; But where could such a tale be had? I pondered long: at length the fate Of Circe's victims struck my pate. Such victims in this world below Were always, and are even now: To punish them I will not strike, But hold them up to your dislike.
FABLE CCXI.
THE FARMER, THE DOG, AND THE FOX.
The Wolf and the Fox are neighbours strange, And within their reach I'd not build my grange. One of the latter had long espied The fowls of a Farmer; but though he tried Each art of his cunning, the hens were still Safe from the jaws of the midnight ranger. Perplex'd as he was 'twixt his hungry will And the wholesome dread of impending danger, "Alas!" he cried, "it is fine, forsooth, That wretches like these should mock me. I come and I go, and I whet my tooth, And with brilliant schemes I stock me; And all this time that horrible lout, The Farmer, makes money, week in, week out, Of chicken and capon, or roasts or boils; Whilst I, who surpass him in wit and sense, Would be glad if I could but carry from hence The toughest old hen, as reward for my toils. By the gods above and the gods below, Omnipotent Jove! I should like to know, And I will know, too, why you made me a Fox To suffer such troubles and impudent mocks." So breathing his vengeance, Sir Sly Fox chose A night when the world was bathed in repose; When the Farmer, his servants, and even his dogs, Cocks, chickens, and hens slept as sound as logs. Now the Farmer himself, with a folly extreme, Had left the door open ere he went to dream; And the consequence was, that the Fox entered in it, And its feathered inhabitants slew in a minute. With the morrow's new-born sun, All the slaughter that was done Struck the eye with huge dismay, And almost made the sun avert his rising ray. 'Twas a parallel, in fact, With Apollo's direful act, When, with Atreus' son enraged, With the Greeks such war he waged, That great hillocks of the slain Lay heaped high upon the plain. Not unlike the ghastly scene When great Ajax, filled with spleen, Flocks of sheep and herds of oxen madly slew, Dreaming that he smote the crew Who, with famed Ulysses wise, Had deprived him of his prize. Then the Fox, whom none could parry, Having seized on what he might, Thought it quite unwise to tarry, And discreetly took to flight. Now when the Master rose, be sure Against his men and dogs he swore, For 'tis a common trick of masters Others to blame for their disasters. "Oh, wretched Dog!" he shouted forth; "O Dog! for drowning only worth, Why barked you not to let us know?" "Master," the Dog replied, "I trow, Master and Farmer, 'tis not fair That I your anger now should share. The fowls are yours, and yours the gain; Then why should I, sir, suffer pain, Because you leave your fowls exposed To any thief that way disposed?" Such reasoning, we must all admit, For a mere Dog, was fraught with wit; But, on the other hand, 'tis sure That masters can't such wit endure, As Carlo found, when soundly whipped For words of sense unwisely slipped.
Now, fathers all, whoe'er you be (I aim not at that high degree), When you would sleep, trust none of those Around you, but your own doors close. He who would have a thing well done Should trust unto himself alone.
FABLE CCXII.
THE DREAM OF AN INHABITANT OF MOGUL.
Once on a time, in slumber wrapt, A certain peasant had a vision Of a great Vizier, calmly lapt In endless joys of fields Elysian; Then straightway in a moment's space The dreamer sees another place, Wherein a Hermit bathed in fire Endures such torments as inspire Even those who share his fate With sympathy compassionate. Unusual this; indeed, so curious, It seemed as though the dreams were spurious, And to the dreamer so surprising, That straight he woke, and fell surmising His dreams were ill, as some aver. But soon a wise Interpreter, Consulted, said, "Be not perplexed, For if to me some skill is given To understand a secret text, These dreams are messages from heaven, And mean, On earth, whene'er he could, The Vizier sought sweet solitude; Whereas the Hermit, day by day, To courts of viziers made his way."
Now, if to this I dare to add, I'd praise the pleasures to be had Deep in the bosom of retreat; Pleasures heavenly, pure, and sweet. O Solitude! I know your charms! O Night! I ever in your breast, Far, far from all the world's alarms, By balmy air would still be blest; Oh, who will bear me to your shades? When shall the Nine, the heavenly maids, Far from cities, far from towns, Far from human smiles and frowns, Wholly employ my tranquil hours, And teach me how the mystic powers Aloft, unseen by human eyes, Mysterious, hold their mighty sway? And how the planets, night and day, Fashion and rule our destinies? But if for such pursuits as these I am not born, at least among The groves I'll wander, and in song Describe the woods, the streams, the trees. No golden threads shall weave my fate; 'Neath no rich silk I'll lie in state; And surely yet my eyes shall close In no less deep and sweet repose. To Solitude fresh vows I'll pay; And when, at length, the fatal day Shall place me in the arms of death, As calm I've lived, so calm I'll yield my breath.
FABLE CCXIII.
THE TWO GOATS.
Since goats have ever clambering browsed, By Nature's gentle force aroused, They've wandered far and wandered free, Enjoying sweets of liberty. Their greatest pleasure is to find Paths all unknown to human kind: A rock, or hanging precipice, Suits these wild animals' caprice: No wall can make their gambols cease. Two white-foot Goats, then, thus inspired,
And with adventurous spirit fired, Deserted pastures too well known, And chose their routes, each one his own. But though each separate pathways took, It chanced they reached the self-same brook, O'er which, for bridge, a plank was thrown, That scarce would have sufficed for one. The stream was deep, the flood was wide, And should these dames have terrified; But, spite of danger, each young lady Advanced upon the plank unsteady. And now, by aid of history, Louis le Grand I seem to see Philip the Fourth advance to meet Upon the isle of conference. Well, step by step, with agile feet, Our ramblers, with a proper sense Of what was due to ancestry, Refused to yield; for one Goat, she Could claim that Polyphemus laid Her sire at Galatea's feet; The other, just as boldly, said Her dam was Amalthæa sweet-- The goat who gave her milk to Jove, Who rules below, and reigns above. Neither would yield, so both fell down, And there we leave our Goats to drown.
Of moral I've not much to say: But such things happen every day.
FABLE CCXIV.
THE LION, THE APE, AND THE TWO ASSES.
A young King Lion, desirous to shape By morality's laws his government, On one fine morning, prudently sent For that clever old master of arts, the Ape; And the statesman, consulted, sagely replied, "O King, hold this maxim as your very best guide-- Let your own self-will to the good of the state Be in all cases subordinate; For 'tis simply neglect of this wholesome rule That so oft makes us animals play the fool. It is not in one day, or even in two, That this evil self-love you'll contrive to subdue; But should you succeed, oh, my monarch august, You will never be foolish, and seldom unjust." "Give me examples," replied the King, "Of both the one and the other thing." "Each species has its vanity," The Ape said very seriously; "As, for instance, my own; for the lawyers call All but themselves, mean, base, and small. But, on the other hand, self-esteem Leads us to laud our deeds to the sky, As, by doing this, we fondly deem That our own position is raised as high. And now I deduce, from what I have said, That much so-called talent is mere grimace-- A trick which, as wise men know, has led Many an idiot to power and place.
"Whilst following close, but the other day, The steps of two Asses, who foolishly Fed each other with flattery, I heard the one to the other say, Is it not, sir, a shame and disgrace That the tribe of mankind, that perfect race, Should profane our dignified name, by denoting As asses all those that are stupid or doting? And even has ventured such lengths as to say, That, when mortals speak nonsense, they utter a bray! 'Tis pleasant, forsooth, to perceive how mankind Dream they're above us, and yet are so blind. No, no, let their orators silent remain, For they are the brayers, and fools in grain; But with man let us cease one another to bother: 'Tis enough that we quite comprehend one another. I will only here add that you have but to speak, To make larks seem hoarse, and the blackbird to squeak.' 'These qualities, sir,' then the other replied, 'In yourself, in the fullest perfection, reside.' And, having thus spattered each other with praise, They trot far and wide to repeat the same craze; Each fondly in hope, like a couple of crows, That a caw shall come back for the caw he bestows. But this trait is not asinine only, I own, For I myself many great people have known Who would gladly, instead of my-lording each other, Have said, each to each, 'My Imperial Brother!' But I've spoken too long, and will only request That this secret be hid in your Majesty's breast: Since your Majesty wished me some trait to divulge, Which would show him how those who in self-love indulge Become objects of scorn; it would take me too long To show also, now, how it leads to worse wrong." Thus spoke the Monkey false by nature; But it has still in doubt remained If he the other point explained; Your Monkey is a knowing creature, And knows it is not fortunate To be too truthful with the great.
FABLE CCXV.
THE WOLF AND THE FOX.
Why to the Fox does Æsop ever Give the palm of being clever? I the reason oft have sought, Without of reason finding aught. When the Wolf's engaged in strife, To save his own or take a life, The Fox can do no more than he, Or half as much, and so I might With Master Æsop disagree. But there's a case has come to light, In which 'tis fair I should admit The Fox displayed the greater wit. On one fine night it so befell That Reynard, looking down a well, The moons full silver circle sees, And takes it for a lordly cheese. Two pails, above the well suspended, To draw the water were intended; And into that which higher hung, Good Master Reynard, famished, sprung. Down swift he went, and, to his woe, Found out his sad mistake below. He saw his death before his eyes; For he could never hope to rise, Unless some other famished thing, Enticed by Dian's silver face, Into the other pail should spring, And then, by sinking, take his place. Two days passed on without a visit From any creature; and, meanwhile, Old Time had made a huge deficit In Mistress Moon's well-rounded smile. But, just as all seemed lost, at last A hungry Wolf the well's mouth past; To whom the Fox, with joyous hail, Cried, "Mister Wolf, with me regale; This glorious cheese you here behold, From Fauna's hands received its mould, Of milk which heifer Io gave. If Jupiter were lying ill, I think the god himself would crave Of this delicious cheese to have his fill. I've eaten my share, as you plainly may see, But enough still remains both for you and for me; So, enter that pail, placed expressly for you." Now, whether this story was told well, or not, The Wolf, like a fool, took it all in as true, And into the bucket with eagerness got; When, outweighed, of course, Master Reynard got up, And the other remained, on the moonshine to sup. And yet, why blame the luckless beast? For, tempted by some phantom feast, As easily deceived, That which he hopes, or that he fears, In either of the hemispheres. Is by each man believed.
FABLE CCXVI.
THE SICK STAG.
In a land where stags abounded, One fell very sick indeed; And he saw his bed surrounded By a dozen "friends in need." "Gentlemen!" he muttered, "leave me, Leave me, I implore, to fate: Since your tears can only grieve me, And your solace comes too late." Not a bit;--their lamentations Lasted for a week, or more;
While they took their daily rations From his very scanty store. Bit by bit his food diminished, Under such attacks as these; Till the sufferer's course was finished By starvation--not disease.
For comforters of every kind Some fee is necessary, mind; And nobody will give advice, Or shed a tear, without his price.
FABLE CCXVII.
THE CAT AND THE TWO SPARROWS.
TO THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY.