[XV].--THE STAG AND THE VINE.[[19]]
A stag, by favour of a vine,
Which grew where suns most genial shine,
And form'd a thick and matted bower
Which might have turn'd a summer shower,
Was saved from ruinous assault.
The hunters thought their dogs at fault,
And call'd them off. In danger now no more
The stag, a thankless wretch and vile,
Began to browse his benefactress o'er.
The hunters, listening the while,
The rustling heard, came back,
With all their yelping pack,
And seized him in that very place.
'This is,' said he, 'but justice, in my case.
Let every black ingrate
Henceforward profit by my fate.'
The dogs fell to--'twere wasting breath
To pray those hunters at the death.
They left, and we will not revile 'em,
A warning for profaners of asylum.
[[19]] Aesop.
[XVI].--THE SERPENT AND THE FILE.[[20]]
A serpent, neighbour to a smith,
(A neighbour bad to meddle with,)
Went through his shop, in search of food,
But nothing found, 'tis understood,
To eat, except a file of steel,
Of which he tried to make a meal.
The file, without a spark of passion,
Address'd him in the following fashion:--
'Poor simpleton! you surely bite
With less of sense than appetite;
For ere from me you gain
One quarter of a grain,
You'll break your teeth from ear to ear.
Time's are the only teeth I fear.'
This tale concerns those men of letters,
Who, good for nothing, bite their betters.
Their biting so is quite unwise.
Think you, ye literary sharks,
Your teeth will leave their marks
Upon the deathless works you criticise?
Fie! fie! fie! men!
To you they're brass--they're steel--they're diamond!
[[20]] Phaedrus, Book IV. 8; also Aesop.
[XVII].--THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE.
Beware how you deride
The exiles from life's sunny side:
To you is little known
How soon their case may be your own.
On this, sage Aesop gives a tale or two,
As in my verses I propose to do.
A field in common share
A partridge and a hare,
And live in peaceful state,
Till, woeful to relate!
The hunters' mingled cry
Compels the hare to fly.
He hurries to his fort,
And spoils almost the sport
By faulting every hound
That yelps upon the ground.
At last his reeking heat
Betrays his snug retreat.
Old Tray, with philosophic nose,
Snuffs carefully, and grows
So certain, that he cries,
'The hare is here; bow wow!'
And veteran Ranger now,--
The dog that never lies,--
'The hare is gone,' replies.
Alas! poor, wretched hare,
Back comes he to his lair,
To meet destruction there!
The partridge, void of fear,
Begins her friend to jeer:--
'You bragg'd of being fleet;
How serve you, now, your feet?'
Scarce has she ceased to speak,--
The laugh yet in her beak,--
When comes her turn to die,
From which she could not fly.
She thought her wings, indeed,
Enough for every need;
But in her laugh and talk,
Forgot the cruel hawk!
[XVIII].--THE EAGLE AND THE OWL.[[21]]
The eagle and the owl, resolved to cease
Their war, embraced in pledge of peace.
On faith of king, on faith of owl, they swore
That they would eat each other's chicks no more.
'But know you mine?' said Wisdom's bird.[[22]]
'Not I, indeed,' the eagle cried.
'The worse for that,' the owl replied:
'I fear your oath's a useless word;
I fear that you, as king, will not
Consider duly who or what:
You kings and gods, of what's before ye,
Are apt to make one category.
Adieu, my young, if you should meet them!'
'Describe them, then, or let me greet them,
And, on my life, I will not eat them,'
The eagle said. The owl replied:
'My little ones, I say with pride,
For grace of form cannot be match'd,--
The prettiest birds that e'er were hatch'd;
By this you cannot fail to know them;
'Tis needless, therefore, that I show them.
Pray don't forget, but keep this mark in view,
Lest fate should curse my happy nest by you.'
At length God gives the owl a set of heirs,
And while at early eve abroad he fares,
In quest of birds and mice for food,
Our eagle haply spies the brood,
As on some craggy rock they sprawl,
Or nestle in some ruined wall,
(But which it matters not at all,)
And thinks them ugly little frights,
Grim, sad, with voice like shrieking sprites.
'These chicks,' says he, 'with looks almost infernal,
Can't be the darlings of our friend nocturnal.
I'll sup of them.' And so he did, not slightly:--
He never sups, if he can help it, lightly.
The owl return'd; and, sad, he found
Nought left but claws upon the ground.
He pray'd the gods above and gods below
To smite the brigand who had caused his woe.
Quoth one, 'On you alone the blame must fall;
Or rather on the law of nature,
Which wills that every earthly creature
Shall think its like the loveliest of all.
You told the eagle of your young ones' graces;
You gave the picture of their faces:--
Had it of likeness any traces?'