[BOOK] IX.
[I].--THE FAITHLESS DEPOSITARY.[[1]]
Thanks to Memory's daughters nine,
Animals have graced my line:
Higher heroes in my story
Might have won me less of glory.
Wolves, in language of the sky,
Talk with dogs throughout my verse;
Beasts with others shrewdly vie,
Representing characters;
Fools in furs not second-hand,
Sages, hoof'd or feather'd, stand:
Fewer truly are the latter,
More the former--ay, and fatter.
Flourish also in my scene
Tyrants, villains, mountebanks,
Beasts incapable of thanks,
Beasts of rash and reckless pranks,
Beasts of sly and flattering mien;
Troops of liars, too, I ween.
As to men, of every age,
All are liars, saith the sage.
Had he writ but of the low,
One could hardly think it so;
But that human mortals, all,
Lie like serpents, great and small,
Had another certified it,
I, for one, should have denied it.
He who lies in Aesop's way,
Or like Homer, minstrel gray,
Is no liar, sooth to say.
Charms that bind us like a dream,
Offspring of their happy art,
Cloak'd in fiction, more than seem
Truth to offer to the heart.
Both have left us works which I
Think unworthy e'er to die.
Liar call not him who squares
All his ends and aims with theirs;
But from sacred truth to vary,
Like the false depositary,
Is to be, by every rule
Both a liar and a fool.
The story goes:
A man of trade,
In Persia, with his neighbour made
Deposit, as he left the state,
Of iron, say a hundredweight.
Return'd, said he, 'My iron, neighbour.'
'Your iron! you have lost your labour;
I grieve to say it,--'pon my soul,
A rat has eaten up the whole.
My men were sharply scolded at,
But yet a hole, in spite of that,
Was left, as one is wont to be
In every barn or granary,
By which crept in that cursed rat.'
Admiring much the novel thief,
The man affected full belief.
Ere long, his faithless neighbour's child
He stole away,--a heavy lad,--
And then to supper bade the dad,
Who thus plead off in accents sad:--
'It was but yesterday I had
A boy as fine as ever smiled,
An only son, as dear as life,
The darling of myself and wife.
Alas! we have him now no more,
And every joy with us is o'er.'
Replied the merchant, 'Yesternight,
By evening's faint and dusky ray,
I saw a monstrous owl alight,
And bear your darling son away
To yonder tott'ring ruin gray.'
'Can I believe you, when you say
An owl bore off: so large a prey?
How could it be?' the father cried;
'The thing is surely quite absurd;
My son with ease had kill'd the bird.'
'The how of it,' the man replied,
'Is not my province to decide;
I know I saw your son arise,
Borne through, the air before my eyes.
Why should it seem a strange affair,
Moreover, in a country where
A single rat contrives to eat
A hundred pounds of iron meat,
That owls should be of strength to lift ye
A booby boy that weighs but fifty?'
The other plainly saw the trick,
Restored the iron very quick.
And got, with shame as well as joy,
Possession of his kidnapp'd boy.
The like occurr'd two travellers between.
One was of those
Who wear a microscope, I ween,
Each side the nose.
Would you believe their tales romantic,
Our Europe, in its monsters, beats
The lands that feel the tropic heats,
Surcharged with all that is gigantic.
This person, feeling free
To use the trope hyperbole,
Had seen a cabbage with his eyes
Exceeding any house in size.
'And I have seen,' the other cries,
Resolved to leave his fellow in the lurch,
'A pot that would have held a church.
Why, friend, don't give that doubting look,--
The pot was made your cabbages to cook.'
This pot-discov'rer was a wit;
The iron-monger, too, was wise.
To such absurd and ultra lies
Their answers were exactly fit.
'Twere doing honour overmuch,
To reason or dispute with such.
To overbid them is the shortest path,
And less provocative of wrath.
[[1]] Bidpaii.
[II].--THE TWO DOVES.[[2]]
Two doves once cherish'd for each other
The love that brother hath for brother.
But one, of scenes domestic tiring,
To see the foreign world aspiring,
Was fool enough to undertake
A journey long, o'er land and lake.
'What plan is this?' the other cried;
'Wouldst quit so soon thy brother's side?
This absence is the worst of ills;
Thy heart may bear, but me it kills.
Pray, let the dangers, toil, and care,
Of which all travellers tell,
Your courage somewhat quell.
Still, if the season later were--
O wait the zephyrs!--hasten not--
Just now the raven, on his oak,
In hoarser tones than usual spoke.
My heart forebodes the saddest lot,--
The falcons, nets--Alas, it rains!
My brother, are thy wants supplied--
Provisions, shelter, pocket-guide,
And all that unto health pertains?'
These words occasion'd some demur
In our imprudent traveller.
But restless curiosity
Prevail'd at last; and so said he,--
'The matter is not worth a sigh;
Three days, at most, will satisfy,
And then, returning, I shall tell
You all the wonders that befell,--
With scenes enchanting and sublime
Shall sweeten all our coming time.
Who seeth nought, hath nought to say.
My travel's course, from day to day,
Will be the source of great delight.
A store of tales I shall relate,--
Say there I lodged at such a date,
And saw there such and such a sight.
You'll think it all occurr'd to you.--'
On this, both, weeping, bade adieu.
Away the lonely wanderer flew.--
A thunder-cloud began to lower;
He sought, as shelter from the shower,
The only tree that graced the plain,
Whose leaves ill turn'd the pelting rain.
The sky once more serene above,
On flew our drench'd and dripping dove,
And dried his plumage as he could.
Next, on the borders of a wood,
He spied some scatter'd grains of wheat,
Which one, he thought, might safely eat;
For there another dove he saw.--
He felt the snare around him draw!
This wheat was but a treacherous bait
To lure poor pigeons to their fate.
The snare had been so long in use,
With beak and wings he struggled loose:
Some feathers perish'd while it stuck;
But, what was worst in point of luck,
A hawk, the cruellest of foes,
Perceived him clearly as he rose,
Off dragging, like a runaway,
A piece of string. The bird of prey
Had bound him, in a moment more,
Much faster than he was before,
But from the clouds an eagle came,
And made the hawk himself his game.
By war of robbers profiting,
The dove for safety plied the wing,
And, lighting on a ruin'd wall,
Believed his dangers ended all.
A roguish boy had there a sling,
(Age pitiless!
We must confess,)
And, by a most unlucky fling,
Half kill'd our hapless dove;
Who now, no more in love
With foreign travelling,
And lame in leg and wing,
Straight homeward urged his crippled flight,
Fatigued, but glad, arrived at night,
In truly sad and piteous plight.
The doves rejoin'd, I leave you all to say,
What pleasure might their pains repay.
Ah, happy lovers, would you roam?--
Pray, let it not be far from home.
To each the other ought to be
A world of beauty ever new;
In each the other ought to see
The whole of what is good and true.
Myself have loved; nor would I then,
For all the wealth of crownèd men,
Or arch celestial, paved with gold,
The presence of those woods have sold,
And fields, and banks, and hillocks, which
Were by the joyful steps made rich,
And smiled beneath the charming eyes
Of her who made my heart a prize--
To whom I pledged it, nothing loath,
And seal'd the pledge with virgin oath.
Ah, when will time such moments bring again?
To me are sweet and charming objects vain--
My soul forsaking to its restless mood?
O, did my wither'd heart but dare
To kindle for the bright and good,
Should not I find the charm still there?
Is love, to me, with things that were?
[[2]] Bidpaii. By common consent this fable is ranked among La Fontaine's very best. See Translator's Preface.