Fables of La Fontaine — a New Edition, with Notes

  A fox once journey'd, and for company
  A certain bearded, horned goat had he;
  Which goat no further than his nose could see.
  The fox was deeply versed in trickery.
    These travellers did thirst compel
    To seek the bottom of a well.
    There, having drunk enough for two,
    Says fox, 'My friend, what shall we do?
    'Tis time that we were thinking
    Of something else than drinking.
    Raise you your feet upon the wall,
    And stick your horns up straight and tall;
    Then up your back I'll climb with ease,
    And draw you after, if you please.'
    'Yes, by my beard,' the other said,
    ''Tis just the thing. I like a head
    Well stock'd with sense, like thine.
        Had it been left to mine,
            I do confess,
    I never should have thought of this.'
      So Renard clamber'd out,
      And, leaving there the goat,
      Discharged his obligations
      By preaching thus on patience:--
    'Had Heaven put sense thy head within,
    To match the beard upon thy chin,
    Thou wouldst have thought a bit,
    Before descending such a pit.
        I'm out of it; good bye:
        With prudent effort try
        Yourself to extricate.
        For me, affairs of state
        Permit me not to wait.'

        Whatever way you wend,
        Consider well the end.

      A certain hollow tree
      Was tenanted by three.
    An eagle held a lofty bough,
    The hollow root a wild wood sow,
    A female cat between the two.
  All busy with maternal labours,
  They lived awhile obliging neighbours.
    At last the cat's deceitful tongue
    Broke up the peace of old and young.
    Up climbing to the eagle's nest,
    She said, with whisker'd lips compress'd,
  'Our death, or, what as much we mothers fear,
    That of our helpless offspring dear,
      Is surely drawing near.
    Beneath our feet, see you not how
    Destruction's plotted by the sow?
    Her constant digging, soon or late,
    Our proud old castle will uproot.
  And then--O, sad and shocking fate!--
  She'll eat our young ones, as the fruit!
  Were there but hope of saving one,
  'Twould soothe somewhat my bitter moan.'
  Thus leaving apprehensions hideous,
  Down went the puss perfidious
  To where the sow, no longer digging,
  Was in the very act of pigging.
    'Good friend and neighbour,' whisper'd she,
  'I warn you on your guard to be.
    Your pigs should you but leave a minute,
    This eagle here will seize them in it.
      Speak not of this, I beg, at all,
      Lest on my head her wrath should fall.'
      Another breast with fear inspired,
      With fiendish joy the cat retired.
      The eagle ventured no egress
      To feed her young, the sow still less.
      Fools they, to think that any curse
      Than ghastly famine could be worse!
  Both staid at home, resolved and obstinate,
  To save their young ones from impending fate,--
      The royal bird for fear of mine,
      For fear of royal claws the swine.
        All died, at length, with hunger,
        The older and the younger;
        There staid, of eagle race or boar,
    Not one this side of death's dread door;--
          A sad misfortune, which
          The wicked cats made rich.
        O, what is there of hellish plot
        The treacherous tongue dares not!
      Of all the ills Pandora's box[13] outpour'd,
      Deceit, I think, is most to be abhorr'd.

      Each has his fault, to which he clings
        In spite of shame or fear.
      This apophthegm a story brings,
        To make its truth more clear.
      A sot had lost health, mind, and purse;
        And, truly, for that matter,
        Sots mostly lose the latter
      Ere running half their course.
  When wine, one day, of wit had fill'd the room,
  His wife inclosed him in a spacious tomb.
      There did the fumes evaporate
      At leisure from his drowsy pate.
        When he awoke, he found
        His body wrapp'd around
        With grave-clothes, chill and damp,
        Beneath a dim sepulchral lamp.
      'How's this? My wife a widow sad?'
      He cried, 'and I a ghost? Dead? dead?'
        Thereat his spouse, with snaky hair,
        And robes like those the Furies wear,
        With voice to fit the realms below,
          Brought boiling caudle to his bier--
          For Lucifer the proper cheer;
        By which her husband came to know--
        For he had heard of those three ladies--
        Himself a citizen of Hades.
          'What may your office be?'
          The phantom question'd he.
        'I'm server up of Pluto's meat,
        And bring his guests the same to eat.'
    'Well,' says the sot, not taking time to think,
    'And don't you bring us anything to drink?'

    When Nature angrily turn'd out
    Those plagues, the spider and the gout,--
  'See you,' said she, 'those huts so meanly built,
  These palaces so grand and richly gilt?
      By mutual agreement fix
    Your choice of dwellings; or if not,
        To end th' affair by lot,
      Draw out these little sticks.'
  'The huts are not for me,' the spider cried;
    'And not for me the palace,' cried the gout;
  For there a sort of men she spied
    Call'd doctors, going in and out,
    From whom, she could not hope for ease.
    So hied her to the huts the fell disease,
    And, fastening on a poor man's toe,
    Hoped there to fatten on his woe,
    And torture him, fit after fit,
    Without a summons e'er to quit,
      From old Hippocrates.
    The spider, on the lofty ceiling,
    As if she had a life-lease feeling.
      Wove wide her cunning toils,
      Soon rich with insect spoils.
  A maid destroy'd them as she swept the room:
  Repair'd, again they felt the fatal broom.
    The wretched creature, every day,
    From house and home must pack away.
    At last, her courage giving out,
    She went to seek her sister gout,
      And in the field descried her,
    Quite starved: more evils did betide her
    Than e'er befel the poorest spider--
    Her toiling host enslaved her so,
    And made her chop, and dig, and hoe!
      (Says one, "Kept brisk and busy,
      The gout is made half easy.")
    'O, when,' exclaim'd the sad disease,
      'Will this my misery stop?
    O, sister spider, if you please,
        Our places let us swop.'
      The spider gladly heard,
      And took her at her word,--
    And flourish'd in the cabin-lodge,
    Not forced the tidy broom to dodge
    The gout, selecting her abode
      With an ecclesiastic judge,
    Turn'd judge herself, and, by her code,
      He from his couch no more could budge.
    The salves and cataplasms Heaven knows,
    That mock'd the misery of his toes;
    While aye, without a blush, the curse,
    Kept driving onward worse and worse.
  Needless to say, the sisterhood
  Thought their exchange both wise and good.

  The wolves are prone to play the glutton.
    One, at a certain feast, 'tis said,
  So stuff'd himself with lamb and mutton,
    He seem'd but little short of dead.
  Deep in his throat a bone stuck fast.
    Well for this wolf, who could not speak,
  That soon a stork quite near him pass'd.
    By signs invited, with her beak
        The bone she drew
        With slight ado,
    And for this skilful surgery
    Demanded, modestly, her fee.
      'Your fee!' replied the wolf,
      In accents rather gruff;
      'And is it not enough
    Your neck is safe from such a gulf?
      Go, for a wretch ingrate,
      Nor tempt again your fate!'

      A picture once was shown,
      In which one man, alone,
      Upon the ground had thrown
      A lion fully grown.
    Much gloried at the sight the rabble.
    A lion thus rebuked their babble:--
    'That you have got the victory there,
      There is no contradiction.
    But, gentles, possibly you are
      The dupes of easy fiction:
  Had we the art of making pictures,
  Perhaps our champion had beat yours!'

  A fox, almost with hunger dying,
  Some grapes upon a trellis spying,
  To all appearance ripe, clad in
      Their tempting russet skin,
  Most gladly would have eat them;
  But since he could not get them,
    So far above his reach the vine--
  'They're sour,' he said; 'such grapes as these,
  The dogs may eat them if they please!'

    Did he not better than to whine?

  The pleasures of a poultry yard
  Were by a swan and gosling shared.
  The swan was kept there for his looks,
  The thrifty gosling for the cooks;
  The first the garden's pride, the latter
  A greater favourite on the platter.
  They swam the ditches, side by side,
  And oft in sports aquatic vied,
  Plunging, splashing far and wide,
  With rivalry ne'er satisfied.
    One day the cook, named Thirsty John,
    Sent for the gosling, took the swan,
        In haste his throat to cut,
        And put him in the pot.
    The bird's complaint resounded
        In glorious melody;
    Whereat the cook, astounded
        His sad mistake to see,
    Cried, 'What! make soup of a musician!
    Please God, I'll never set such dish on.
    No, no; I'll never cut a throat
    That sings so sweet a note.'

  'Tis thus, whatever peril may alarm us,
    Sweet words will never harm us.

    By-gone a thousand years of war,
      The wearers of the fleece
      And wolves at last made peace;
    Which both appear'd the better for;
    For if the wolves had now and then
      Eat up a straggling ewe or wether,
    As often had the shepherd men
      Turn'd wolf-skins into leather.
    Fear always spoil'd the verdant herbage,
    And so it did the bloody carnage.
  Hence peace was sweet; and, lest it should be riven,
    On both sides hostages were given.
    The sheep, as by the terms arranged,
    For pups of wolves their dogs exchanged;
      Which being done above suspicion,
      Confirm'd and seal'd by high commission,
    What time the pups were fully grown,
    And felt an appetite for prey,
    And saw the sheepfold left alone,
      The shepherds all away,
    They seized the fattest lambs they could,
    And, choking, dragg'd them to the wood;
    Of which, by secret means apprised,
        Their sires, as is surmised,
  Fell on the hostage guardians of the sheep,
        And slew them all asleep.
    So quick the deed of perfidy was done,
      There fled to tell the tale not one!

    From which we may conclude
    That peace with villains will be rued.
      Peace in itself, 'tis true,
      May be a good for you;
    But 'tis an evil, nathless,
    When enemies are faithless.

  A lion, mourning, in his age, the wane
  Of might once dreaded through his wild domain,
      Was mock'd, at last, upon his throne,
          By subjects of his own,
        Strong through his weakness grown.
    The horse his head saluted with a kick;
        The wolf snapp'd at his royal hide;
        The ox, too, gored him in the side;
      The unhappy lion, sad and sick,
      Could hardly growl, he was so weak.
        In uncomplaining, stoic pride,
      He waited for the hour of fate,
      Until the ass approach'd his gate;
      Whereat, 'This is too much,' he saith;
      'I willingly would yield my breath;
      But, ah! thy kick is double death!'

  From home and city spires, one day,
  The swallow Progne flew away,
      And sought the bosky dell
      Where sang poor Philomel.[23]
  'My sister,' Progne said, 'how do you do?
  'Tis now a thousand years since you
  Have been conceal'd from human view;
  I'm sure I have not seen your face
    Once since the times of Thrace.
  Pray, will you never quit this dull retreat?'
  'Where could I find,' said Philomel, 'so sweet?'
    'What! sweet?' cried Progne--'sweet to waste
    Such tones on beasts devoid of taste,
    Or on some rustic, at the most!
    Should you by deserts be engross'd?
    Come, be the city's pride and boast.
    Besides, the woods remind of harms
    That Tereus in them did your charms.'
  'Alas!' replied the bird of song,
  'The thought of that so cruel wrong
      Makes me, from age to age,
      Prefer this hermitage;
    For nothing like the sight of men
    Can call up what I suffer'd then.'

    I hate that saying, old and savage,
    "'Tis nothing but a woman drowning."
  That's much, I say. What grief more keen should have edge
    Than loss of her, of all our joys the crowning?
    Thus much suggests the fable I am borrowing.
      A woman perish'd in the water,
        Where, anxiously, and sorrowing,
        Her husband sought her,
      To ease the grief he could not cure,
      By honour'd rites of sepulture.
      It chanced that near the fatal spot,
        Along the stream which had
        Produced a death so sad,
      There walk'd some men that knew it not.
      The husband ask'd if they had seen
      His wife, or aught that hers had been.
        One promptly answer'd, 'No!
        But search the stream below:
        It must nave borne her in its flow.'
        'No,' said another; 'search above.
            In that direction
        She would have floated, by the love
            Of contradiction.'
        This joke was truly out of season;--
        I don't propose to weigh its reason.
        But whether such propensity
          The sex's fault may be,
        Or not, one thing is very sure,
        Its own propensities endure.
        Up to the end they'll have their will,
          And, if it could be, further still.

  A weasel through a hole contrived to squeeze,
        (She was recovering from disease,)
        Which led her to a farmer's hoard.
  There lodged, her wasted form she cherish'd;
    Heaven knows the lard and victuals stored
      That by her gnawing perish'd!
      Of which the consequence
      Was sudden corpulence.
      A week or so was past,
    When having fully broken fast.
      A noise she heard, and hurried
    To find the hole by which she came,
    And seem'd to find it not the same;
      So round she ran, most sadly flurried;
    And, coming back, thrust out her head,
    Which, sticking there, she said,
    'This is the hole, there can't be blunder:
    What makes it now so small, I wonder,
  Where, but the other day, I pass'd with ease?'
        A rat her trouble sees,
    And cries, 'But with an emptier belly;
    You enter'd lean, and lean must sally.'
    What I have said to you
  Has eke been said to not a few,
  Who, in a vast variety of cases,[26]
  Have ventured into such-like places.

      A story-writer of our sort
      Historifies, in short,
      Of one that may be reckon'd
      A Rodilard the Second,--[28]
      The Alexander of the cats,
      The Attila,[29] the scourge of rats,
      Whose fierce and whisker'd head
      Among the latter spread,
      A league around, its dread;
      Who seem'd, indeed, determined
      The world should be unvermined.
  The planks with props more false than slim,
    The tempting heaps of poison'd meal,
    The traps of wire and traps of steel,
  Were only play compared with him.
    At length, so sadly were they scared.
    The rats and mice no longer dared
      To show their thievish faces
      Outside their hiding-places,
    Thus shunning all pursuit; whereat
    Our crafty General Cat
    Contrived to hang himself, as dead,
    Beside the wall with downward head,
    Resisting gravitation's laws
    By clinging with his hinder claws
      To some small bit of string.
      The rats esteem'd the thing
    A judgment for some naughty deed,
        Some thievish snatch,
        Or ugly scratch;
    And thought their foe had got his meed
        By being hung indeed.
        With hope elated all
        Of laughing at his funeral,
    They thrust their noses out in air;
    And now to show their heads they dare;
    Now dodging back, now venturing more;
      At last upon the larder's store
      They fall to filching, as of yore.
  A scanty feast enjoy'd these shallows;
  Down dropp'd the hung one from his gallows,
      And of the hindmost caught.
    'Some other tricks to me are known,'
    Said he, while tearing bone from bone,
      'By long experience taught;
    The point is settled, free from doubt,
    That from your holes you shall come out.'
    His threat as good as prophecy
    Was proved by Mr. Mildandsly;
    For, putting on a mealy robe,
    He squatted in an open tub,
    And held his purring and his breath;--
    Out came the vermin to their death.
    On this occasion, one old stager,
    A rat as grey as any badger,
    Who had in battle lost his tail,
    Abstained from smelling at the meal;
    And cried, far off, 'Ah! General Cat,
    I much suspect a heap like that;
    Your meal is not the thing, perhaps,
    For one who knows somewhat of traps;
    Should you a sack of meal become,
    I'd let you be, and stay at home.'

      Well said, I think, and prudently,
      By one who knew distrust to be
      The parent of security.

    Sévigné, type of every grace
    In female form and face,
    In your regardlessness of men,
    Can you show favour when
    The sportive fable craves your ear,
    And see, unmoved by fear,
      A lion's haughty heart
  Thrust through by Love's audacious dart?
  Strange conqueror, Love! And happy he,
  And strangely privileged and free,
      Who only knows by story
      Him and his feats of glory!
    If on this subject you are wont
    To think the simple truth too blunt,
    The fabulous may less affront;
  Which now, inspired with gratitude,
  Yea, kindled into zeal most fervent,
    Doth venture to intrude
    Within your maiden solitude,
  And kneel, your humble servant.--
  In times when animals were speakers,
  Among the quadrupedal seekers
    Of our alliance
    There came the lions.
  And wherefore not? for then
  They yielded not to men
  In point of courage or of sense,
  Nor were in looks without pretence.
  A high-born lion, on his way
  Across a meadow, met one day
  A shepherdess, who charm'd him so,
  That, as such matters ought to go,
  He sought the maiden for his bride.
  Her sire, it cannot be denied,
  Had much preferr'd a son-in-law
  Of less terrific mouth and paw.
  It was not easy to decide--
  The lion might the gift abuse--
  'Twas not quite prudent to refuse.
  And if refusal there should be,
  Perhaps a marriage one would see,
  Some morning, made clandestinely.
    For, over and above
  The fact that she could bear
  With none but males of martial air,
    The lady was in love
  With him of shaggy hair.
  Her sire, much wanting cover
  To send away the lover,
  Thus spoke:--'My daughter, sir,
  Is delicate. I fear to her
    Your fond caressings
    Will prove rough blessings.
    To banish all alarm
    About such sort of harm,
  Permit us to remove the cause,
  By filing off your teeth and claws.
  In such a case, your royal kiss
  Will be to her a safer bliss,
    And to yourself a sweeter;
  Since she will more respond
  To those endearments fond
    With which you greet her.'
    The lion gave consent at once,
    By love so great a dunce!
  Without a tooth or claw now view him--
    A fort with cannon spiked.
  The dogs, let loose upon him, slew him,
    All biting safely where they liked.

  O, tyrant Love! when held by you,
  We may to prudence bid adieu.

      A shepherd, neighbour to the sea,
      Lived with his flock contentedly.
        His fortune, though but small,
        Was safe within his call.
      At last some stranded kegs of gold
      Him tempted, and his flock he sold,
      Turn'd merchant, and the ocean's waves
      Bore all his treasure--to its caves.
      Brought back to keeping sheep once more,
      But not chief shepherd, as before,
      When sheep were his that grazed the shore,
      He who, as Corydon or Thyrsis,
      Might once have shone in pastoral verses,
      Bedeck'd with rhyme and metre,
      Was nothing now but Peter.
      But time and toil redeem'd in full
      Those harmless creatures rich in wool;
      And as the lulling winds, one day,
  The vessels wafted with a gentle motion,
  'Want you,' he cried, 'more money, Madam Ocean?
    Address yourself to some one else, I pray;
        You shall not get it out of me!
        I know too well your treachery.'

        This tale's no fiction, but a fact,
        Which, by experience back'd,
        Proves that a single penny,
          At present held, and certain,
        Is worth five times as many,
          Of Hope's, beyond the curtain;
  That one should be content with his condition,
  And shut his ears to counsels of ambition,
  More faithless than the wreck-strown sea, and which
  Doth thousands beggar where it makes one rich,--
  Inspires the hope of wealth, in glorious forms,
  And blasts the same with piracy and storms.

    A fly and ant, upon a sunny bank,
    Discuss'd the question of their rank.
    'O Jupiter!' the former said,
    'Can love of self so turn the head,
      That one so mean and crawling,
      And of so low a calling,
    To boast equality shall dare
    With me, the daughter of the air?
    In palaces I am a guest,
    And even at thy glorious feast.
    Whene'er the people that adore thee
      May immolate for thee a bullock,
    I'm sure to taste the meat before thee.
      Meanwhile this starveling, in her hillock,
    Is living on some bit of straw
    Which she has labour'd home to draw.
    But tell me now, my little thing,
    Do you camp ever on a king,
    An emperor, or lady?
    I do, and have full many a play-day
    On fairest bosom of the fair,
    And sport myself upon her hair.
    Come now, my hearty, rack your brain
    To make a case about your grain.'
    'Well, have you done?' replied the ant.
    'You enter palaces, I grant,
    And for it get right soundly cursed.
      Of sacrifices, rich and fat,
    Your taste, quite likely, is the first;--
      Are they the better off for that?
    You enter with the holy train;
    So enters many a wretch profane.
    On heads of kings and asses you may squat;
    Deny your vaunting I will not;
    But well such impudence, I know,
    Provokes a sometimes fatal blow.
    The name in which your vanity delights
    Is own'd as well by parasites,
  And spies that die by ropes--as you soon will
    By famine or by ague-chill,
      When Phoebus goes to cheer
      The other hemisphere,--
    The very time to me most dear.
      Not forced abroad to go
      Through wind, and rain, and snow,
    My summer's work I then enjoy,
    And happily my mind employ,
    From care by care exempted.
    By which this truth I leave to you,
  That by two sorts of glory we are tempted,
      The false one and the true.
    Work waits, time flies; adieu:--
      This gabble does not fill
      My granary or till.'

  A lover of gardens, half cit and half clown,
  Possess'd a nice garden beside a small town;
  And with it a field by a live hedge inclosed,
  Where sorrel and lettuce, at random disposed,
  A little of jasmine, and much of wild thyme,
      Grew gaily, and all in their prime
      To make up Miss Peggy's bouquet,
      The grace of her bright wedding day.
  For poaching in such a nice field--'twas a shame;
  A foraging, cud-chewing hare was to blame.
      Whereof the good owner bore down
      This tale to the lord of the town:--
  'Some mischievous animal, morning and night,
  In spite of my caution, comes in for his bite.
  He laughs at my cunning-set dead-falls and snares;
  For clubbing and stoning as little he cares.
  I think him a wizard. A wizard! the coot!
  I'd catch him if he were a devil to boot!'
  The lord said, in haste to have sport for his hounds,
  'I'll clear him, I warrant you, out of your grounds;
  To morrow I'll do it without any fail.'

  The thing thus agreed on, all hearty and hale,
  The lord and his party, at crack of the dawn,
  With hounds at their heels canter'd over the lawn.
  Arrived, said the lord in his jovial mood,
  'We'll breakfast with you, if your chickens are good.
  That lass, my good man, I suppose is your daughter:
  No news of a son-in-law? Any one sought her?
  No doubt, by the score. Keep an eye on the docket,
  Eh? Dost understand me? I speak of the pocket.'
  So saying, the daughter he graciously greeted,
  And close by his lordship he bade her be seated;
  Avow'd himself pleased with so handsome a maid,
  And then with her kerchief familiarly play'd,--
  Impertinent freedoms the virtuous fair
  Repell'd with a modest and lady-like air,--
  So much that her father a little suspected
  The girl had already a lover elected.
  Meanwhile in the kitchen what bustling and cooking!
  'For what are your hams? They are very good looking.'
  'They're kept for your lordship.' 'I take them,' said he;
  'Such elegant flitches are welcome to me.'
  He breakfasted finely his troop, with delight,--
  Dogs, horses, and grooms of the best appetite.
  Thus he govern'd his host in the shape of a guest,
  Unbottled his wine, and his daughter caress'd.
  To breakfast, the huddle of hunters succeeds,
  The yelping of dogs and the neighing of steeds,
  All cheering and fixing for wonderful deeds;
  The horns and the bugles make thundering din;
  Much wonders our gardener what it can mean.
  The worst is, his garden most wofully fares;
  Adieu to its arbours, and borders, and squares;
  Adieu to its chiccory, onions, and leeks;
  Adieu to whatever good cookery seeks.

  Beneath a great cabbage the hare was in bed,
  Was started, and shot at, and hastily fled.
  Off went the wild chase, with a terrible screech,
  And not through a hole, but a horrible breach,
  Which some one had made, at the beck of the lord,
  Wide through the poor hedge! 'Twould have been quite absurd
  Should lordship not freely from garden go out,
  On horseback, attended by rabble and rout.
  Scarce suffer'd the gard'ner his patience to wince,
  Consoling himself--'Twas the sport of a prince;
  While bipeds and quadrupeds served to devour,
  And trample, and waste, in the space of an hour,
  Far more than a nation of foraging hares
  Could possibly do in a hundred of years.

        Small princes, this story is true,
        When told in relation to you.
  In settling your quarrels with kings for your tools,
  You prove yourselves losers and eminent fools.

    One's native talent from its course
    Cannot be turned aside by force;
    But poorly apes the country clown
    The polish'd manners of the town.
    Their Maker chooses but a few
    With power of pleasing to imbue;
    Where wisely leave it we, the mass,
    Unlike a certain fabled ass,
  That thought to gain his master's blessing
  By jumping on him and caressing.
    'What!' said the donkey in his heart;
    'Ought it to be that puppy's part
      To lead his useless life
      In full companionship
    With master and his wife,
      While I must bear the whip?
    What doth the cur a kiss to draw?
    Forsooth, he only gives his paw!
    If that is all there needs to please,
    I'll do the thing myself, with ease.'
      Possess'd with this bright notion,--
    His master sitting on his chair,
    At leisure in the open air,--
      He ambled up, with awkward motion,
    And put his talents to the proof;
    Upraised his bruised and batter'd hoof,
    And, with an amiable mien,
    His master patted on the chin,
    The action gracing with a word--
    The fondest bray that e'er was heard!
    O, such caressing was there ever?
    Or melody with such a quaver?
  'Ho! Martin![6] here! a club, a club bring!'
    Out cried the master, sore offended.
  So Martin gave the ass a drubbing,--
    And so the comedy was ended.

  The weasels live, no more than cats,
  On terms of friendship with the rats;
    And, were it not that these
    Through doors contrive to squeeze
        Too narrow for their foes,
      The animals long-snouted
      Would long ago have routed,
      And from the planet scouted
        Their race, as I suppose.

    One year it did betide,
    When they were multiplied,
    An army took the field
    Of rats, with spear and shield,
    Whose crowded ranks led on
    A king named Ratapon.
      The weasels, too, their banner
      Unfurl'd in warlike manner.
    As Fame her trumpet sounds,
      The victory balanced well;
    Enrich'd were fallow grounds
      Where slaughter'd legions fell;
    But by said trollop's tattle,
    The loss of life in battle
    Thinn'd most the rattish race
    In almost every place;
    And finally their rout
    Was total, spite of stout
    Artarpax and Psicarpax,
    And valiant Meridarpax,[8]
    Who, cover'd o'er with dust,
    Long time sustain'd their host
    Down sinking on the plain.
    Their efforts were in vain;
    Fate ruled that final hour,
    (Inexorable power!)
    And so the captains fled
    As well as those they led;
    The princes perish'd all.
    The undistinguish'd small
    In certain holes found shelter,
    In crowding, helter-skelter;
    But the nobility
    Could not go in so free,
    Who proudly had assumed
    Each one a helmet plumed;
    We know not, truly, whether
    For honour's sake the feather,
    Or foes to strike with terror;
    But, truly, 'twas their error.
    Nor hole, nor crack, nor crevice
      Will let their head-gear in;
    While meaner rats in bevies
      An easy passage win;--
    So that the shafts of fate
    Do chiefly hit the great.

    A feather in the cap
    Is oft a great mishap.
    An equipage too grand
    Comes often to a stand
    Within a narrow place.
    The small, whate'er the case,
    With ease slip through a strait,
    Where larger folks must wait.

      It was the custom of the Greeks
    For passengers o'er sea to carry
        Both monkeys full of tricks
  And funny dogs to make them merry.
    A ship, that had such things on deck,
    Not far from Athens, went to wreck.
    But for the dolphins, all had drown'd.
      They are a philanthropic fish,
    Which fact in Pliny may be found;--
      A better voucher who could wish?
    They did their best on this occasion.
      A monkey even, on their plan
    Well nigh attain'd his own salvation;
      A dolphin took him for a man,
    And on his dorsal gave him place.
    So grave the silly creature's face,
    That one might well have set him down
    That old musician of renown.[10]
    The fish had almost reach'd the land,
      When, as it happen'd,--what a pity!--
    He ask'd, 'Are you from Athens grand?'
      'Yes; well they know me in that city.
    If ever you have business there,
      I'll help you do it, for my kin
      The highest offices are in.
    My cousin, sir, is now lord mayor.'
    The dolphin thank'd him, with good grace,
    Both for himself and all his race,
    And ask'd, 'You doubtless know Piraeus,
  Where, should we come to town, you'll see us.'
    'Piraeus? yes, indeed I know;
    He was my crony long ago.'
    The dunce knew not the harbour's name,
    And for a man's mistook the same.
      The people are by no means few,
    Who never went ten miles from home,
    Nor know their market-town from Rome,
      Yet cackle just as if they knew.
    The dolphin laugh'd, and then began
    His rider's form and face to scan,
    And found himself about to save
    From fishy feasts, beneath the wave,
    A mere resemblance of a man.
    So, plunging down, he turn'd to find
    Some drowning wight of human kind.