Fables of La Fontaine — Fables CXLV and CXLVI
FABLE CXLV.
THE DOG WHICH CARRIED ROUND HIS NECK HIS MASTER'S DINNER.
Few eyes are against beauty proof;
Few hands from gold can keep aloof;
Few people guard a treasure well, Or of strict faithfulness can tell.
A certain Dog, true, brave, and stout, Carried his master's dinner out.
This self-denial pressed him hard, When he had dainty food to guard: Yet long he kept it safe and sound.
Well, we are tempted oft, 'tis found, By good things near us!
Strange, we learn From dogs, and yet we hopeless turn From men when temperance is in view!
One day this Dog, so staunch and true, A mastiff met, who wished to seize The dinner.
Not so, if you please.
The Dog put down the food, to fight A mighty combat.
Left and right Came other dogs,--mere thieves and foes, Who cared not for the hardest blows.
Our Dog, who dreaded every stranger, And saw the food was much in danger, Wanted his share.
"Come, gentlemen, This rabbit does for me; now, then, You take the rest!"
so he leaped on it, And then the others fell upon it.
He snapped the best, and then they flew And shared the plunder,--the whole crew.
So, sometimes, when they yield a town, And soldiers burghers trample down, Sheriffs and provosts are the worst To rob and pillage, being first: [Illustration: THE DOG AND HIS MASTER'S DINNER.
] Pleasant to see them pistoles seize, Filling their purses at their ease!
And if, by chance, to one more cool Some scruples come, they call him fool: Then he repents him of the blunder, And is the first to lead the plunder.
FABLE CXLVI.
DEATH AND THE DYING MAN.
Death never yet surprised the sage, Who's always ready for the stage;
Knowing each hour that comes may be His passage to eternity.
Death's rule embraces every day: Each moment is beneath his sway.
We all pay tribute to that lord;
We all bow down beneath his sword.
The instant the king's child has birth-- And looks forth on this desert earth--- That instant Death may it surprise, And close its scarcely-opened eyes.
Beauty, youth, virtue, every day, Death steals so ruthlessly away.
One day the world will be his prey: This knowledge is most largely shared;
For no event we're less prepared.
A dying man, a century old, Complained to Death, that he was told Too suddenly, before his will Was made; he'd duties to fulfil;
"Now, is it just," this was his cry, "To call me, unprepared, to die?
No; wait a moment, pray, sir, do;
My wife would wish to join me, too.
For still one nephew I'd provide: And I have causes to decide.
I must enlarge my house, you know.
Don't be so pressing, pray, sir, go."
"Old man," said Death, "for once be wise;
My visit can be no surprise.
What!
I impatient?
In the throng Of Paris who has lived so long?
Find me in all France even ten;
I should have warned you, you say then?
And so your will you would have made, Your grandson settled; basement laid.
What!
not a warning, when your feet Can scarcely move, and fast retreat Your memory makes, when half your mind And wit is left a league behind?
When nearly all fails?
--no more hearing-- No taste--all fading, as I'm fearing.
The star of day shines now in vain For you: why sigh to view again The pleasures out of reach?
Just see Your comrades drop continually, Dead, dying: is no warning there?
I put it to you, is this fair?
Come, come, old man; what!
wrangling still?
No matter, you must leave your will;
The great republic cares not, sir, For one or no executor."
And Death was right: old men, at least, Should die as people leave a feast, Thanking the host--their luggage trim: Death will not stay to please their whim.
You murmur, dotard!
look and sigh, To see the young, that daily die;
Walk to the grave or run, a name To win of everlasting fame: Death glorious may be, yet how sure, And sometimes cruel to endure.
In vain I preach; with foolish zeal, Those most akin to death but feel The more regret in quitting life, And creep reluctant from the strife.
FABLE CXLVII.
THE POWER OF FABLES.
