The Fables of La Fontaine, translated by Elizur Wright

A gardener's ass complain'd to Destiny
    Of being made to rise before the dawn.
'The cocks their matins have not sung,' said he,
      'Ere I am up and gone.
And all for what? To market herbs, it seems.
Fine cause, indeed, to interrupt my dreams!'
    Fate, moved by such a prayer,
    Sent him a currier's load to bear,
Whose hides so heavy and ill-scented were,
    They almost choked the foolish beast.
'I wish me with my former lord,' he said;
'For then, whene'er he turn'd his head,
        If on the watch, I caught
    A cabbage-leaf, which cost me nought.
    But, in this horrid place, I find
    No chance or windfall of the kind:--
        Or if, indeed, I do,
        The cruel blows I rue.'
        Anon it came to pass
        He was a collier's ass.
Still more complaint. 'What now?' said Fate,
          Quite out of patience.
      'If on this jackass I must wait,
    What will become of kings and nations?
    Has none but he aught here to tease him?
    Have I no business but to please him?'
      And Fate had cause;--for all are so.
      Unsatisfied while here below
    Our present lot is aye the worst.
      Our foolish prayers the skies infest.
      Were Jove to grant all we request,
    The din renew'd, his head would burst.

XII.--THE SUN AND THE FROGS.[16]

    Rejoicing on their tyrant's wedding-day,
The people drown'd their care in drink;
While from the general joy did Aesop shrink,
    And show'd its folly in this way.
'The sun,' said he, 'once took it in his head
    To have a partner for his bed.
From swamps, and ponds, and marshy bogs,
Up rose the wailings of the frogs.
"What shall we do, should he have progeny?"
      Said they to Destiny;
    "One sun we scarcely can endure,
    And half-a-dozen, we are sure,
      Will dry the very sea.
      Adieu to marsh and fen!
      Our race will perish then,
      Or be obliged to fix
      Their dwelling in the Styx!"
    For such an humble animal,
    The frog, I take it, reason'd well.'

[16] There is another fable with this title, viz., Fable XXIV., Book XII. This fable in its earlier form will be found in Phaedrus, I.6.

XIII.--THE COUNTRYMAN AND THE SERPENT.[17]

      A countryman, as Aesop certifies,
      A charitable man, but not so wise,
        One day in winter found,
        Stretch'd on the snowy ground,
        A chill'd or frozen snake,
        As torpid as a stake,
        And, if alive, devoid of sense.
      He took him up, and bore him home,
        And, thinking not what recompense
      For such a charity would come,
        Before the fire stretch'd him,
        And back to being fetch'd him.
      The snake scarce felt the genial heat
    Before his heart with native malice beat.
He raised his head, thrust out his forkèd tongue,
Coil'd up, and at his benefactor sprung.
'Ungrateful wretch!' said he, 'is this the way
      My care and kindness you repay?
Now you shall die.' With that his axe he takes,
And with two blows three serpents makes.
Trunk, head, and tail were separate snakes;
    And, leaping up with all their might,
    They vainly sought to reunite.

    'Tis good and lovely to be kind;
    But charity should not be blind;
    For as to wretchedness ingrate,
You cannot raise it from its wretched state.

XIV.--THE SICK LION AND THE FOX.[18]

    Sick in his den, we understand,
    The king of beasts sent out command
    That of his vassals every sort
    Should send some deputies to court--
    With promise well to treat
    Each deputy and suite;
    On faith of lion, duly written,
None should be scratch'd, much less be bitten.
    The royal will was executed,
    And some from every tribe deputed;
    The foxes, only, would not come.
    One thus explain'd their choice of home:--
    'Of those who seek the court, we learn,
      The tracks upon the sand
      Have one direction, and
    Not one betokens a return.
    This fact begetting some distrust,
    His majesty at present must
    Excuse us from his great levee.
      His plighted word is good, no doubt;
    But while how beasts get in we see,
      We do not see how they get out.'

XV.--THE FOWLER, THE HAWK, AND THE LARK.[19]

From wrongs of wicked men we draw
    Excuses for our own:--
Such is the universal law.
    Would you have mercy shown,
    Let yours be clearly known.

A fowler's mirror served to snare
The little tenants of the air.
A lark there saw her pretty face,
And was approaching to the place.
    A hawk, that sailed on high
    Like vapour in the sky,
Came down, as still as infant's breath,
On her who sang so near her death.
She thus escaped the fowler's steel,
The hawk's malignant claws to feel.
    While in his cruel way,
    The pirate pluck'd his prey,
Upon himself the net was sprung.
'O fowler,' pray'd he in the hawkish tongue,
    'Release me in thy clemency!
    I never did a wrong to thee.'
    The man replied, ''Tis true;
    And did the lark to you?'

XVI.--THE HORSE AND THE ASS.[20]

      In such a world, all men, of every grade,
      Should each the other kindly aid;
      For, if beneath misfortune's goad
      A neighbour falls, on you will fall his load.

    There jogg'd in company an ass and horse;
    Nought but his harness did the last endorse;
    The other bore a load that crush'd him down,
      And begg'd the horse a little help to give,
    Or otherwise he could not reach the town.
      'This prayer,' said he, 'is civil, I believe;
    One half this burden you would scarcely feel.'
    The horse refused, flung up a scornful heel,
And saw his comrade die beneath the weight:--
      And saw his wrong too late;
        For on his own proud back
        They put the ass's pack,
        And over that, beside,
        They put the ass's hide.

XVII.--THE DOG THAT DROPPED THE SUBSTANCE FOR THE SHADOW.[21]

      This world is full of shadow-chasers,
        Most easily deceived.
      Should I enumerate these racers,
        I should not be believed.
      I send them all to Aesop's dog,
      Which, crossing water on a log,
      Espied the meat he bore, below;
      To seize its image, let it go;
    Plunged in; to reach the shore was glad,
With neither what he hoped, nor what he'd had.

XVIII.--THE CARTER IN THE MIRE.[22]

      The Phaëton who drove a load of hay
        Once found his cart bemired.
      Poor man! the spot was far away
        From human help--retired,
      In some rude country place,
      In Brittany, as near as I can trace,
        Near Quimper Corentan,--
        A town that poet never sang,--
Which Fate, they say, puts in the traveller's path,
When she would rouse the man to special wrath.
      May Heaven preserve us from that route!
      But to our carter, hale and stout:--
      Fast stuck his cart; he swore his worst,
        And, fill'd with rage extreme,
      The mud-holes now he cursed,
        And now he cursed his team,
      And now his cart and load,--
      Anon, the like upon himself bestow'd.
      Upon the god he call'd at length,
      Most famous through the world for strength.
        'O, help me, Hercules!' cried he;
          'For if thy back of yore
          This burly planet bore,
        Thy arm can set me free.'
This prayer gone up, from out a cloud there broke
A voice which thus in godlike accents spoke:--
      'The suppliant must himself bestir,
      Ere Hercules will aid confer.
      Look wisely in the proper quarter,
        To see what hindrance can be found;
      Remove the execrable mud and mortar,
    Which, axle-deep, beset thy wheels around.
      Thy sledge and crowbar take,
      And pry me up that stone, or break;
      Now fill that rut upon the other side.
      Hast done it?' 'Yes,' the man replied.
      'Well,' said the voice, 'I'll aid thee now;
      Take up thy whip.' 'I have ... but, how?
        My cart glides on with ease!
        I thank thee, Hercules.'
    'Thy team,' rejoin'd the voice, 'has light ado;
    So help thyself, and Heaven will help thee too.'

XIX.--THE CHARLATAN.[23]

    The world has never lack'd its charlatans,
    More than themselves have lack'd their plans.
      One sees them on the stage at tricks
      Which mock the claims of sullen Styx.
      What talents in the streets they post!
      One of them used to boast
      Such mastership of eloquence
      That he could make the greatest dunce
      Another Tully Cicero
      In all the arts that lawyers know.
      'Ay, sirs, a dunce, a country clown,
      The greatest blockhead of your town,--
      Nay more, an animal, an ass,--
      The stupidest that nibbles grass,--
      Needs only through my course to pass,
      And he shall wear the gown
      With credit, honour, and renown.'
The prince heard of it, call'd the man, thus spake:
          'My stable holds a steed
          Of the Arcadian breed,[24]
      Of which an orator I wish to make.'
            'Well, sire, you can,'
            Replied our man.
        At once his majesty
        Paid the tuition fee.
    Ten years must roll, and then the learned ass
    Should his examination pass,
        According to the rules
        Adopted in the schools;
    If not, his teacher was to tread the air,
    With halter'd neck, above the public square,--
      His rhetoric bound on his back,
      And on his head the ears of jack.
      A courtier told the rhetorician,
        With bows and terms polite,
        He would not miss the sight
      Of that last pendent exhibition;
      For that his grace and dignity
      Would well become such high degree;
      And, on the point of being hung,
      He would bethink him of his tongue,
      And show the glory of his art,--
      The power to melt the hardest heart,--
        And wage a war with time
        By periods sublime--
      A pattern speech for orators thus leaving,
      Whose work is vulgarly call'd thieving.
        'Ah!' was the charlatan's reply,
        'Ere that, the king, the ass, or I,
        Shall, one or other of us, die.'
      And reason good had he;
      We count on life most foolishly,
      Though hale and hearty we may be.
In each ten years, death cuts down one in three.

XX.--DISCORD.

The goddess Discord, having made, on high,
      Among the gods a general grapple,
      And thence a lawsuit, for an apple,
Was turn'd out, bag and baggage, from the sky.
The animal call'd man, with open arms,
Received the goddess of such naughty charms,--
    Herself and Whether-or-no, her brother,
    With Thine-and-mine, her stingy mother.
    In this, the lower universe,
    Our hemisphere she chose to curse:
    For reasons good she did not please
    To visit our antipodes--
    Folks rude and savage like the beasts,
    Who, wedding-free from forms and priests,
      In simple tent or leafy bower,
      Make little work for such a power.
    That she might know exactly where
      Her direful aid was in demand,
      Renown flew courier through the land,
    Reporting each dispute with care;
Then she, outrunning Peace, was quickly there;
    And if she found a spark of ire,
    Was sure to blow it to a fire.
    At length, Renown got out of patience
    At random hurrying o'er the nations,
    And, not without good reason, thought
    A goddess, like her mistress, ought
    To have some fix'd and certain home,
    To which her customers might come;
    For now they often search'd in vain.
    With due location, it was plain
    She might accomplish vastly more,
    And more in season than before.
    To find, howe'er, the right facilities,
    Was harder, then, than now it is;
    For then there were no nunneries.

    So, Hymen's inn at last assign'd,
    Thence lodged the goddess to her mind.[25]

[25] La Fontaine, gentle reader, does not mean to say that Discord lodges with all married people, but that the foul fiend is never better satisfied than when she can find such accommodation.--Translator.

XXI.--THE YOUNG WIDOW.[26]

    A husband's death brings always sighs;
    The widow sobs, sheds tears--then dries.
    Of Time the sadness borrows wings;
    And Time returning pleasure brings.
    Between the widow of a year
    And of a day, the difference
        Is so immense,
    That very few who see her
    Would think the laughing dame
    And weeping one the same.
    The one puts on repulsive action,
    The other shows a strong attraction.
The one gives up to sighs, or true or false;
The same sad note is heard, whoever calls.
    Her grief is inconsolable,
    They say. Not so our fable,
    Or, rather, not so says the truth.

      To other worlds a husband went
    And left his wife in prime of youth.
      Above his dying couch she bent,
    And cried, 'My love, O wait for me!
    My soul would gladly go with thee!'
      (But yet it did not go.)
    The fair one's sire, a prudent man,
    Check'd not the current of her woe.
      At last he kindly thus began:--
    'My child, your grief should have its bound.
    What boots it him beneath the ground
    That you should drown your charms?
      Live for the living, not the dead.
      I don't propose that you be led
    At once to Hymen's arms;
    But give me leave, in proper time,
    To rearrange the broken chime
    With one who is as good, at least,
    In all respects, as the deceased.'
    'Alas!' she sigh'd, 'the cloister vows
    Befit me better than a spouse.'
    The father left the matter there.
    About one month thus mourn'd the fair;
    Another month, her weeds arranged;
    Each day some robe or lace she changed,
Till mourning dresses served to grace,
And took of ornament the place.
    The frolic band of loves
    Came flocking back like doves.
    Jokes, laughter, and the dance,
    The native growth of France,
    Had finally their turn;
    And thus, by night and morn,
    She plunged, to tell the truth,
    Deep in the fount of youth.
    Her sire no longer fear'd
    The dead so much endear'd;
      But, as he never spoke,
      Herself the silence broke:--
'Where is that youthful spouse,' said she,
'Whom, sir, you lately promised me?'

EPILOGUE.

Here check we our career:
Long books I greatly fear.
I would not quite exhaust my stuff;
The flower of subjects is enough.
To me, the time is come, it seems,
To draw my breath for other themes.
Love, tyrant of my life, commands
That other work be on my hands.
      I dare not disobey.
Once more shall Psyche be my lay.
I'm call'd by Damon to portray
      Her sorrows and her joys.
I yield: perhaps, while she employs,
My muse will catch a richer glow;
    And well if this my labour'd strain
    Shall be the last and only pain
Her spouse[27] shall cause me here below.

[27] Her spouse.--Cupid, the spouse of Psyche. The "other work on my hands" mentioned in this Epilogue (the end of the poet's first collection of Fables) was no doubt the writing of his "Psyche," which was addressed to his patron the Duchess de Bouillon, and published in 1659, the year following the publication of the first six Books of the Fables. See also Translator's Preface.

BOOK VII.[1]

To Madame De Montespan[2]

The apologue[3] is from the immortal gods;
    Or, if the gift of man it is,
    Its author merits apotheosis.
Whoever magic genius lauds
    Will do what in him lies
To raise this art's inventor to the skies.
    It hath the potence of a charm,
    On dulness lays a conquering arm,
    Subjects the mind to its control,
    And works its will upon the soul.
    O lady, arm'd with equal power,
    If e'er within celestial bower,
    With messmate gods reclined,
    My muse ambrosially hath dined,
    Lend me the favour of a smile
      On this her playful toil.
If you support, the tooth of time will shun,
And let my work the envious years outrun.
    If authors would themselves survive,
    To gain your suffrage they should strive.
On you my verses wait to get their worth;
To you my beauties all will owe their birth,--
      For beauties you will recognize
      Invisible to other eyes.
    Ah! who can boast a taste so true,
        Of beauty or of grace,
        In either thought or face?
For words and looks are equal charms in you.
Upon a theme so sweet, the truth to tell,
        My muse would gladly dwell:
    But this employ to others I must yield;--
    A greater master claims the field.
    For me, fair lady, 'twere enough
    Your name should be my wall and roof.
    Protect henceforth the favour'd book
    Through which for second life I look.
      In your auspicious light,
      These lines, in envy's spite,
      Will gain the glorious meed,
      That all the world shall read.
    'Tis not that I deserve such fame;--
    I only ask in Fable's name,
    (You know what credit that should claim;)
    And, if successfully I sue,
    A fane will be to Fable due,--
A thing I would not build--except for you.

[1] Here commences the second collection of La Fontaine's Fables, comprising Books VII. to XI. This collection was published in 1678-9, ten years after the publication of the foregoing six Books. See Translator's Preface.
[2] Madame de Montespan.--Francoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart de Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan, born 1641, died 1707. She became one of the mistresses of the "Grand Monarque," Louis XIV., in 1668.
[3] The apologue.--Here, as in the opening fable of Books V. and VI., and elsewhere, La Fontaine defines Fable and defends the art of the Fabulist.

I.--THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE.[4]

    The sorest ill that Heaven hath
    Sent on this lower world in wrath,--
    The plague (to call it by its name,)
        One single day of which
      Would Pluto's ferryman enrich,--
    Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame.
    They died not all, but all were sick:
    No hunting now, by force or trick,
    To save what might so soon expire.
    No food excited their desire;
    Nor wolf nor fox now watch'd to slay
    The innocent and tender prey.
            The turtles fled;
    So love and therefore joy were dead.
    The lion council held, and said:
    'My friends, I do believe
    This awful scourge, for which we grieve,
    Is for our sins a punishment
    Most righteously by Heaven sent.
    Let us our guiltiest beast resign,
    A sacrifice to wrath divine.
    Perhaps this offering, truly small,
    May gain the life and health of all.
    By history we find it noted
    That lives have been just so devoted.
    Then let us all turn eyes within,
    And ferret out the hidden sin.
    Himself let no one spare nor flatter,
    But make clean conscience in the matter.
For me, my appetite has play'd the glutton
    Too much and often upon mutton.
    What harm had e'er my victims done?
        I answer, truly, None.
    Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger press'd,
    I've eat the shepherd with the rest.
    I yield myself, if need there be;
    And yet I think, in equity,
Each should confess his sins with me;
    For laws of right and justice cry,
    The guiltiest alone should die.'
      'Sire,' said the fox, 'your majesty
    Is humbler than a king should be,
    And over-squeamish in the case.
      What! eating stupid sheep a crime?
      No, never, sire, at any time.
    It rather was an act of grace,
    A mark of honour to their race.
    And as to shepherds, one may swear,
      The fate your majesty describes,
    Is recompense less full than fair
      For such usurpers o'er our tribes.'

      Thus Renard glibly spoke,
    And loud applause from flatterers broke.
    Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear,
    Did any keen inquirer dare
    To ask for crimes of high degree;
      The fighters, biters, scratchers, all
    From every mortal sin were free;
      The very dogs, both great and small,
    Were saints, as far as dogs could be.

      The ass, confessing in his turn,
    Thus spoke in tones of deep concern:--
    'I happen'd through a mead to pass;
    The monks, its owners, were at mass;
    Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass,
      And add to these the devil too,
      All tempted me the deed to do.
    I browsed the bigness of my tongue;
    Since truth must out, I own it wrong.'

    On this, a hue and cry arose,
    As if the beasts were all his foes:
    A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise,
    Denounced the ass for sacrifice--
    The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout,
    By whom the plague had come, no doubt.
    His fault was judged a hanging crime.
      'What? eat another's grass? O shame!
    The noose of rope and death sublime,'
      For that offence, were all too tame!
      And soon poor Grizzle felt the same.

    Thus human courts acquit the strong,
    And doom the weak, as therefore wrong.

[4] One of the most original as well as one of the most beautiful of the poet's fables, yet much of the groundwork of its story may be traced in the Fables of Bidpaii and other collections. See also note to Fable XXII., Book I.

II.--THE ILL-MARRIED.

If worth, were not a thing more rare
Than beauty in this planet fair,
There would be then less need of care
    About the contracts Hymen closes.
But beauty often is the bait
To love that only ends in hate;
And many hence repent too late
    Of wedding thorns from wooing roses.[5]
My tale makes one of these poor fellows,
    Who sought relief from marriage vows,
    Send back again his tedious spouse,
Contentious, covetous, and jealous,
    With nothing pleased or satisfied,
    This restless, comfort-killing bride
    Some fault in every one descried.
    Her good man went to bed too soon,
    Or lay in bed till almost noon.
    Too cold, too hot,--too black, too white,--
    Were on her tongue from morn till night.
    The servants mad and madder grew;
    The husband knew not what to do.
    'Twas, 'Dear, you never think or care;'
    And, 'Dear, that price we cannot bear;'
    And, 'Dear, you never stay at home;'
    And, 'Dear, I wish you would just come;'
    Till, finally, such ceaseless dearing
    Upon her husband's patience wearing,
    Back to her sire's he sent his wife,
    To taste the sweets of country life,
    To dance at will the country jigs,
    And feed the turkeys, geese, and pigs.
    In course of time, he hoped his bride
    Might have her temper mollified;
    Which hope he duly put to test.
      His wife recall'd, said he,
    'How went with you your rural rest,
      From vexing cares and fashions free?
    Its peace and quiet did you gain,--
    Its innocence without a stain?'
      'Enough of all,' said she; 'but then
      To see those idle, worthless men
    Neglect the flocks, it gave me pain.
    I told them, plainly, what I thought,
    And thus their hatred quickly bought;
    For which I do not care--not I.'
    'Ah, madam,' did her spouse reply,
    'If still your temper's so morose,
    And tongue so virulent, that those
    Who only see you morn and night
    Are quite grown weary of the sight,
    What, then, must be your servants' case,
    Who needs must see you face to face,
        Throughout the day?
    And what must be the harder lot
        Of him, I pray,
      Whose days and nights
    With you must be by marriage rights?
    Return you to your father's cot.
      If I recall you in my life,
      Or even wish for such a wife,
    Let Heaven, in my hereafter, send
    Two such, to tease me without end!'

[5] The badinage of La Fontaine having been misunderstood, the translator has altered the introduction to this fable. The intention of the fable is to recommend prudence and good nature, not celibacy. So the peerless Granville understands it, for his pencil tells us that the hero of the fable did finally recall his wife, notwithstanding his fearful imprecation. It seems that even she was better than none.--Translator; (in his sixth edition).

III.--THE RAT RETIRED FROM THE WORLD.

The sage Levantines have a tale
    About a rat that weary grew
Of all the cares which life assail,
    And to a Holland cheese withdrew.
His solitude was there profound,
Extending through his world so round.
Our hermit lived on that within;
And soon his industry had been
With claws and teeth so good,
    That in his novel hermitage,
    He had in store, for wants of age,
Both house and livelihood.
What more could any rat desire?
    He grew fair, fat, and round.
    'God's blessings thus redound
To those who in His vows retire.'[6]
One day this personage devout,
Whose kindness none might doubt,
Was ask'd, by certain delegates
That came from Rat-United-States,
For some small aid, for they
To foreign parts were on their way,
For succour in the great cat-war.
Ratopolis beleaguer'd sore,
    Their whole republic drain'd and poor,
No morsel in their scrips they bore.
    Slight boon they craved, of succour sure
In days at utmost three or four.
'My friends,' the hermit said,
'To worldly things I'm dead.
How can a poor recluse
To such a mission be of use?
What can he do but pray
That God will aid it on its way?
And so, my friends, it is my prayer
That God will have you in his care.'
His well-fed saintship said no more,
But in their faces shut the door.
What think you, reader, is the service
    For which I use this niggard rat?
To paint a monk? No, but a dervise.
    A monk, I think, however fat,
    Must be more bountiful than that.

[6] God's blessing, &c.--So the rat himself professed to consider the matter.--Translator.

IV.--THE HERON.[7]

    One day,--no matter when or where,--
    A long-legg'd heron chanced to fare
      By a certain river's brink,
      With his long, sharp beak
      Helved on his slender neck;
    'Twas a fish-spear, you might think.
    The water was clear and still,
    The carp and the pike there at will
      Pursued their silent fun,
      Turning up, ever and anon,
      A golden side to the sun.
    With ease might the heron have made
    Great profits in his fishing trade.
    So near came the scaly fry,
    They might be caught by the passer-by.
    But he thought he better might
    Wait for a better appetite--
    For he lived by rule, and could not eat,
    Except at his hours, the best of meat.
    Anon his appetite return'd once more;
    So, approaching again the shore,
    He saw some tench taking their leaps,
    Now and then, from their lowest deeps.
    With as dainty a taste as Horace's rat,
    He turn'd away from such food as that.
    'What, tench for a heron! poh!
    I scorn the thought, and let them go.'
The tench refused, there came a gudgeon;
'For all that,' said the bird, 'I budge on.
I'll ne'er open my beak, if the gods please,
For such mean little fishes as these.'
              He did it for less;
              For it came to pass,
    That not another fish could he see;
    And, at last, so hungry was he,
    That he thought it of some avail
    To find on the bank a single snail.
      Such is the sure result
      Of being too difficult.
      Would you be strong and great,
      Learn to accommodate.
    Get what you can, and trust for the rest;
    The whole is oft lost by seeking the best.
    Above all things beware of disdain;
    Where, at most, you have little to gain.
    The people are many that make
    Every day this sad mistake.
    'Tis not for the herons I put this case,
    Ye featherless people, of human race.
    --List to another tale as true,
And you'll hear the lesson brought home to you.[8]

[7] Abstemius.
[8] The lesson brought home to you. The two last lines refer the reader to the next fable.

V.--THE MAID.[9]

    A certain maid, as proud as fair,
      A husband thought to find
      Exactly to her mind--
    Well-form'd and young, genteel in air,
    Not cold nor jealous;--mark this well.
    Whoe'er would wed this dainty belle
    Must have, besides rank, wealth, and wit,
    And all good qualities to fit--
    A man 'twere difficult to get.
    Kind Fate, however, took great care
    To grant, if possible, her prayer.
    There came a-wooing men of note;
      The maiden thought them all,
      By half, too mean and small.
    'They marry me! the creatures dote:--
      Alas! poor souls! their case I pity.'
    (Here mark the bearing of the beauty.)
      Some were less delicate than witty;
    Some had the nose too short or long;
    In others something else was wrong;
    Which made each in the maiden's eyes
    An altogether worthless prize.
    Profound contempt is aye the vice
    Which springs from being over-nice,
    Thus were the great dismiss'd; and then
    Came offers from inferior men.
    The maid, more scornful than before,
      Took credit to her tender heart
    For giving then an open door.
      'They think me much in haste to part
    With independence! God be thank'd
      My lonely nights bring no regret;
      Nor shall I pine, or greatly fret,
    Should I with ancient maids be rank'd.'
Such were the thoughts that pleased the fair:
Age made them only thoughts that were.
    Adieu to lovers:--passing years
    Awaken doubts and chilling fears.
    Regret, at last, brings up the train.
    Day after day she sees, with pain,
    Some smile or charm take final flight,
    And leave the features of a 'fright.'
    Then came a hundred sorts of paint:
    But still no trick, nor ruse, nor feint,
    Avail'd to hide the cause of grief,
    Or bar out Time, that graceless thief.
    A house, when gone to wreck and ruin,
    May be repair'd and made a new one.
    Alas! for ruins of the face
    No such rebuilding e'er takes place.
    Her daintiness now changed its tune;
    Her mirror told her, 'Marry soon!'
    So did a certain wish within,
    With more of secrecy than sin,--
    A wish that dwells with even prudes,
    Annihilating solitudes.
    This maiden's choice was past belief,
    She soothing down her restless grief,
    And smoothing it of every ripple,
        By marrying a cripple.

VI.--THE WISHES.

Within the Great Mogul's domains there are
    Familiar sprites of much domestic use:
They sweep the house, and take a tidy care
    Of equipage, nor garden work refuse;
    But, if you meddle with their toil,
    The whole, at once, you're sure to spoil.
    One, near the mighty Ganges flood,
    The garden of a burgher good
      Work'd noiselessly and well;
    To master, mistress, garden, bore
    A love that time and toil outwore,
      And bound him like a spell.
      Did friendly zephyrs blow,
        The demon's pains to aid?
        (For so they do, 'tis said.)
      I own I do not know.
    But for himself he rested not,
    And richly bless'd his master's lot.
    What mark'd his strength of love,
      He lived a fixture on the place,
    In spite of tendency to rove
      So natural to his race.
    But brother sprites conspiring
    With importunity untiring,
    So teased their goblin chief, that he,
    Of his caprice, or policy,
    Our sprite commanded to attend
    A house in Norway's farther end,
Whose roof was snow-clad through the year,
And shelter'd human kind with deer.
    Before departing to his hosts
    Thus spake this best of busy ghosts:--
    'To foreign parts I'm forced to go!
    For what sad fault I do not know;--
    But go I must; a month's delay,
    Or week's perhaps, and I'm away.
    Seize time; three wishes make at will;
    For three I'm able to fulfil--
    No more.' Quick at their easy task,
    Abundance first these wishers ask--
    Abundance, with her stores unlock'd--
    Barns, coffers, cellars, larder, stock'd--
      Corn, cattle, wine, and money,--
      The overflow of milk and honey.
    But what to do with all this wealth!
      What inventories, cares, and worry!
    What wear of temper and of health!
      Both lived in constant, slavish hurry.
    Thieves took by plot, and lords by loan;
    The king by tax, the poor by tone.
        Thus felt the curses which
        Arise from being rich,--
      'Remove this affluence!' they pray;
      The poor are happier than they
      Whose riches make them slaves.
      'Go, treasures, to the winds and waves;
      Come, goddess of the quiet breast,
      Who sweet'nest toil with rest,
        Dear Mediocrity, return!'
    The prayer was granted as we learn.
      Two wishes thus expended,
          Had simply ended
      In bringing them exactly where,
      When they set out they were.
          So, usually, it fares
With those who waste in such vain prayers
    The time required by their affairs.
    The goblin laugh'd, and so did they.
    However, ere he went away,
    To profit by his offer kind,
    They ask'd for wisdom, wealth of mind,--
    A treasure void of care and sorrow--
    A treasure fearless of the morrow,
    Let who will steal, or beg, or borrow.

VII.--THE LION'S COURT.[10]

His lion majesty would know, one day,
What bestial tribes were subject to his sway.
      He therefore gave his vassals all,
          By deputies a call,
        Despatching everywhere
        A written circular,
      Which bore his seal, and did import
      His majesty would hold his court
      A month most splendidly;--
      A feast would open his levee,
      Which done, Sir Jocko's sleight
      Would give the court delight.
      By such sublime magnificence
      The king would show his power immense.

        Now were they gather'd all
        Within the royal hall.--
      And such a hall! The charnel scent
      Would make the strongest nerves relent.
      The bear put up his paw to close
      The double access of his nose.
      The act had better been omitted;
      His throne at once the monarch quitted,
      And sent to Pluto's court the bear,
      To show his delicacy there.
      The ape approved the cruel deed,
      A thorough flatterer by breed.
      He praised the prince's wrath and claws,
      He praised the odour and its cause.
      Judged by the fragrance of that cave,
      The amber of the Baltic wave,
      The rose, the pink, the hawthorn bank,
      Might with the vulgar garlic rank.
      The mark his flattery overshot,
      And made him share poor Bruin's lot;
      This lion playing in his way,
      The part of Don Caligula.
      The fox approach'd. 'Now,' said the king,
      'Apply your nostrils to this thing,
      And let me hear, without disguise,
      The judgment of a beast so wise.'
    The fox replied, 'Your Majesty will please
Excuse'--and here he took good care to sneeze;--
      'Afflicted with a dreadful cold,
      Your majesty need not be told:
      My sense of smell is mostly gone.'

      From danger thus withdrawn,
        He teaches us the while,
        That one, to gain the smile
    Of kings, must hold the middle place
    'Twixt blunt rebuke and fulsome praise;
    And sometimes use with easy grace,
    The language of the Norman race.[11]

[10] Phaedrus. IV. 13.
[11] The Normans are proverbial among the French for the oracular noncommittal of their responses.--Un Normand, says the proverb, a son dit et son détit.--Translator.

XI.--THE ASS AND HIS MASTERS.[15]