Fables of La Fontaine — Fables CCXXXV and CCXXXVI

FABLE CCXXXV.

A SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER.

A Philosopher once, who, in Scythia born, Had somewhat, with study, his brain-pan outworn, Made his mind up, for pleasure and profit, to seek Repose for a time in the land of the Greek;

And there he made friends with a man of the kind Whom Virgil so well in the Georgics defined: A man who's a king, for himself he controls, And a god, for he blends his own will with men's souls.

He found him with pruning-knife grasped in his hand, Pruning here, snipping there, in all parts of his land, As tranquil as Jove; here he cut off a twig, There lopped off a branch to make others more big;

For Nature, experience had taught him, is prone To waste in rash gifts all the wealth of her throne.

The Scythian, brought up in town, was downcast, And looked at the ruinous waste quite aghast, And exclaimed, "My dear friend, lay your pruning hook down, And let Nature, judicious, take care of her own;

For, at best, you are taking much pains to deflower The fruits which Time's tooth will but too soon devour."

The old man replied, with a rustical grace, "I cut useless ones off to give useful ones space."

Struck by wisdom like this, with no moments delay, The Scythian homewards at once took his way;

And no sooner had got there but took up a bill, And at cutting and hewing showed wonderful skill: Hewed branches, snipped twigs, and persuaded his neighbours To share in his rude horticultural labours.

The result is soon told: hacking trees without reason, In summer or spring--taking no thought of season-- Must lead to results which no words can belie;

For the trees thus instructed instinctively die.

Now, the Scythian stands for a symbol of those Who wish all the pathways of pleasure to close;

Who'd hoot at ambition, forbid a new dress, And from lexicons banish the sweet word, <i>caress.

</i> For myself, though by custom not given to swearing, I'll say that, by Jove, such old dolts there's no bearing;

They wish us to choke whilst we've plenty of breath, And whilst full of life's vigour to simulate death.

FABLE CCXXXVI.

DAPHNIS AND ALCIMADURA.

(<i>An Imitation of Theocritus.

</i>) TO MADAME DE LA MESANGERE.

Amiable daughter of a mother fair, For whom a thousand hearts are torn with care;

Yours are the hearts whom friendship holds in fee, And those that Love keeps firm in fealty.

This preface I divide 'tween her and you, The brightest essence of Parnassus dew.

I have the secret to perfume for you More exquisitely sweet.

I'll tell thee, then;

But I must choose, or I shall fail again: [Illustration: DAPHNIS AND ALCIMADURA.

] My lyre and voice will need more power and skill;

Let me, then, praise alone a heart that's still Full of all noble sentiments,--the grace, the mind, Which need no master but the one we find Blooming above you.

Guard those roses well, And do not let the thorns o'ergrow, <i>ma belle</i>.

Love will the same thing say, and better, too;

Those who neglect him, Cupid makes to rue: As you shall see.

Alcimadure the fair Despised the god who rules the earth and air.

Fierce and defiant, she roam'd through the wood, Ran o'er the meadows, danced as none else could, Obeyed caprice alone,--of beauty queen, Most cruel of the cruel; she had been For long beloved by Daphnis: of good race Was the poor lad, who doated on her face,-- Loved for her very scorn--nay, more, I vow, Than had she loved him with an equal glow;

Yet not a look she gave, nor word to cheer, Nor his complaints would ever even hear.

Weary of the pursuit, prepared to die, Down at her door despair had made him lie.

Alack!

he wooed the winds;--she, blithe and gay, Still kept her door shut,--'twas her natal day;

And to her beauty's throne she spread fair flowers, The treasures of the garden, and spring hours.

"I hoped before your very eyes," he cried, "Had I not been so hateful, to have died.

How can I wonder that you do deny This last sad pleasure of fidelity?

My father I have charged my heritage To offer at your feet: the pasturage, And all my flocks,--my dog, of dogs the best;

And my companions will, then, with the rest, Found a small temple, where continually Your image, crowned with flowers, shall ever be.

My simple monument shall be near it, And this inscription on the stone I've writ-- 'Of love poor Daphnis died.

Stop, passer by!

Weep, and say he was slain by cruelty Of fair Alcimadura.'

" The Fates at last Cut the thin thread, and his vexed spirit passed.

The cruel maiden came forth, proud and gay: In vain her friends beseech her but to stay A moment, on the course to shed one tear;

She still insulted Cupid, without fear: Bringing that very evening o'er the plain, To dance around the statue, all her train.

The image fell, and crushed her with its weight.

Then from the cloud thus spoke the voice of Fate: "Love, and delay not: the hard heart is dead."

The shade of Daphnis raised its pallid head, And on the banks of Styx stood shuddering;

While all vast Erebus, with wondering, Heard to the shepherd the fair homicide Excuse her cruelty and foolish pride.

But as to phantom Ajax Ulysses sued, And Dido's death the guilty lover rued, So from the maiden's shadow turned the swain, And did not words of mercy to her deign.

FABLE CCXXXVII.