Fables of La Fontaine — Fables CXXIII and CXXIV
FABLE CXXIII.
THE YOUNG WIDOW.
A Husband isn't lost without a sigh;
We give a groan, then are consoled again;
Swift on Time's wings we see our sorrow fly;
Fleet Time brings sunshine's pleasure after rain.
The widow of a year, the widow of a day, Are very different, I say: One finds it almost hard to trust one's eyes, Or the same face to recognise.
One flies the world, the other plans her wiles;
In true or untrue sighs the one pours forth her heart, [Illustration: THE YOUNG WIDOW.
] Yet the same note they sing, or tears or smiles-- "Quite inconsolable," they say; but, for my part, I don't heed that.
This fable shows the truth: Yet why say fiction?
--it is sooth.
The husband of a beauty, young and gay, Unto another world was call'd away.
"My soul, wait for me!"
was the Widow's moan.
The husband waited not, but went alone.
The Widow had a father--prudent man!
He let her tears flow; 'twas the wisest plan.
Then to console, "My child," he said, "this way Of weeping will soon wash your charms away.
There still live men: think no more of the dead;
I do not say at once I would be wed;
But after a short time you'll see, I know, A husband young and handsome that I'll show, By no means like the sorry one you mourn."
"A cloister is my husband--ah!
forlorn."
The father let these foolish groans go by;
A month pass'd--every moment tear or sigh.
Another month, and ribbons load her table;
She changed her dress, and cast away her sable.
The flock of Cupids to the dovecot back Came flying, now unscared by scarecrow black.
Smiles, sports, and dances follow in their train, She bathes in youth's bright fountain once again.
No more the father fears the dear deceased;
But, as his silence not one whit decreased, The angry widow cries impatiently, "Where's the young husband that you promised me?"
FABLE CXXIV.
DISCORD.
Discord, who had the gods entangled About an apple--how they wrangled!
-- Was driven from the skies at last, And to that animal came fast That they call Man; her brother, too, "Whether or no," who long'd to view Our ball of earth.
Her father came-- Old "Thine and Mine"--the very same.
She did much honour to our sphere By longing so much to be here;
She cared not for the other race Who watch us from aerial space-- We were gross folk, not tamed the least, Who married without law or priest-- Discord no business had at all: The proper places where to call Scandal has orders to find out;
She, a right busy, active scout, Falls quick to quarrel and debates, And always Peace anticipates: Blows up a spark into a blaze, Not to burn out for many days.
Scandal, at length, complain'd she found No refuge certain above ground, And often lost her precious time: She must have shelter in this clime-- A point from whence she could send forth Discord, west, east, or south, or north.
There were no nunneries then, you see: That made it difficult, may be.
The inn of Wedlock was assign'd At last, and suited Scandal's mind.
