A Man that laboured in the wood
Had lost his honest livelihood;
That is to say,
His axe was gone astray.
He had no tools to spare;
This wholly earn'd his fare.
Without a hope beside,
He sat him down and cried,
"Alas, my axe! where can it be?
O Jove! but send it back to me,
And it shall strike good blows for thee."
His prayer in high Olympus heard,
Swift Mercury started at the word.
"Your axe must not be lost," said he:
"Now, will you know it when you see?
An axe I found upon the road."
With that an axe of gold he show'd.
"Is't this?" The Woodman answer'd, "Nay."
An axe of silver, bright and gay,
Refused the honest Woodman too.
At last the finder brought to view
An axe of iron, steel, and wood.
"That's mine," he said, in joyful mood;
"With that I'll quite contented be."
The god replied, "I give the three,
As due reward of honesty."
This luck when neighbouring choppers knew,
They lost their axes, not a few,
And sent their prayers to Jupiter
So fast, he knew not which to hear.
His winged son, however, sent
With gold and silver axes, went.
Each would have thought himself a fool
Not to have own'd the richest tool.
But Mercury promptly gave, instead
Of it, a blow upon the head.
With simple truth to be contented,
Is surest not to be repented:
But still there are who would
With evil trap the good,
Whose cunning is but stupid,
For Jove is never duped.
The Eagle and the Owl
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.
"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:
Adieu, my young, if you should meet them!"
"Describe them, then, and I'll 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."
At length God gives the Owl some 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;
Thinking your 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?"
The Earthen Pot and the Iron Pot
An Iron Pot proposed
To an Earthen Pot a journey.
The latter was opposed,
Expressing the concern he
Had felt about the danger
Of going out a ranger.
He thought the kitchen hearth
The safest place on earth
For one so very brittle.
"For thee, who art a kettle,
And hast a tougher skin,
There's nought to keep thee in."
"I'll be thy bodyguard,"
Replied the Iron Pot;
"If anything that's hard
Should threaten thee a jot,
Between you I will go,
And save thee from the blow."
This offer him persuaded.
The Iron Pot paraded
Himself as guard and guide
Close at his cousin's side.
Now, in their tripod way,
They hobble as they may;
And eke together bolt
At every little jolt—
Which gives the crockery pain;
But presently his comrade hits
So hard, he dashes him to bits,
Before he can complain.
Take care that you associate
With equals only, lest your fate
Between these pots should find its mate.
The Wolf and the Lean Dog
A Troutling, some time since,
Endeavoured vainly to convince
A hungry fisherman
Of his unfitness for the frying-pan.
The fisherman had reason good—
The troutling did the best he could—
Both argued for their lives.
Now, if my present purpose thrives,
I'll prop my former proposition
By building on a small addition.
A certain Wolf, in point of wit
The prudent fisher's opposite,
A Dog once finding far astray,
Prepared to take him as his prey.
The Dog his leanness plead;
"Your lordship, sure," he said,
"Cannot be very eager
To eat a dog so meagre.
To wait a little do not grudge:
The wedding of my master's only daughter
Will cause of fatted calves and fowls a slaughter;
And then, as you yourself can judge,
I cannot help becoming fatter."
The Wolf, believing, waived the matter,
And so, some days therefrom,
Return'd with sole design to see
If fat enough his Dog might be.
The rogue was now at home:
He saw the hunter through the fence.
"My friend," said he, "please wait;
I'll be with you a moment hence,
And fetch our porter of the gate."
This porter was a dog immense,
That left to wolves no future tense.
Suspicion gave our Wolf a jog—
It might not be so safely tamper'd.
"My service to your porter dog,"
Was his reply, as off he scampered.
His legs proved better than his head,
And saved him life to learn his trade.
The Ears of the Hare