Of Time the sadness borrows wings;
And Time returning pleasure brings.
Between the widow of a year
And of a day, the difference
Is so immense,
That very few who see her
Would think the laughing dame
And weeping one the same.
The one puts on repulsive action,
The other shows a strong attraction.
The one gives up to sighs, or true or false;
The same sad note is heard, whoever calls.
Her grief is inconsolable,
They say. Not so our fable,
Or, rather, not so says the truth.
To other worlds a husband went
And left his wife in prime of youth.
Above his dying couch she bent,
And cried, 'My love, O wait for me!
My soul would gladly go with thee!'
(But yet it did not go.)
The fair one's sire, a prudent man,
Check'd not the current of her woe.
At last he kindly thus began:
'My child, your grief should have its bound.
What boots it him beneath the ground
That you should drown your charms?
Live for the living, not the dead.
I don't propose that you be led
At once to Hymen's arms;
But give me leave, in proper time,
To rearrange the broken chime
With one who is as good, at least,
In all respects, as the deceased.'
'Alas!' she sigh'd, 'the cloister vows
Befit me better than a spouse.'
The father left the matter there.
About one month thus mourn'd the fair;
Another month, her weeds arranged;
Each day some robe or lace she changed,
Till mourning dresses served to grace,
And took of ornament the place.
The frolic band of loves
Came flocking back like doves.
Jokes, laughter, and the dance,
The native growth of France,
Had finally their turn;
And thus, by night and morn,
She plunged, to tell the truth,
Deep in the fount of youth.
Her sire no longer fear'd
The dead so much endear'd;
But, as he never spoke,
Herself the silence broke :
'Where is that youthful spouse,' said she,
'Whom, sir, you lately promised me?'
HERE check we our career:
Long books I greatly fear.
I would not quite exhaust my stuff;
The flower of subjects is enough.
To me, the time is come, it seems,
To draw my breath for other themes.
Love, tyrant of my life, commands
That other work be on my hands.
I dare not disobey.
Once more shall Psyche be my lay.
I'm call'd by Damon to portray
Her sorrows and her joys.
I yield: perhaps, while she employs,
My muse will catch a richer glow;
And well if this my labour'd strain
Shall be the last and only pain
Her spouse1 shall cause me here below.
1 Her spouse.—Cupid, the spouse of Psyche. The "other work on my hands" mentioned in this Epilogue (the end of the poet's first collection of Fables) was no doubt the writing of his "Psyche," which was addressed to his patron the Duchess de Bouillon, and published in 1659, the year following the publication of the first six Books of the Fables. See also Translator's Preface.
THE apologue is from the immortal gods;
Or, if the gift of man it is,
Its author merits apotheosis.
Whoever magic genius lauds
Will do what in him lies
To raise this art's inventor to the skies.
It hath the potence of a charm,
On dulness lays a conquering arm,
Subjects the mind to its control,
And works its will upon the soul.
O lady, arm'd with equal power,
If e'er within celestial bower,
With messmate gods reclined,
My muse ambrosially hath dined,
Lend me the favour of a smile
On this her playful toil.
If you support, the tooth of time will shun,
And let my work the envious years outrun.
If authors would themselves survive,
To gain your suffrage they should strive.
Here commences the second collection of La Fontaine's Fables, com prising Books VII. to XI. This collection was published in 1678-9, ten years after the publication of the foregoing six Books. See Translator's Preface.
2 Madame de Montespan.-Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart de Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan, born 1641, died 1707. She became one of the mistresses of the "Grand Monarque," Louis XIV., in
3 The apologue.-Here, as in the opening fable of Books V. and VI., and elsewhere, La Fontaine defines Fable and defends the art of the Fabulist.
you my verses wait to get their worth;
To you my beauties all will owe their birth,-
For beauties you will recognize
Invisible to other eyes.
Ah! who can boast a taste so true,
Of beauty or of grace,
In either thought or face?
For words and looks are equal charms in you.
Upon a theme so sweet, the truth to tell,
My muse would gladly dwell:
But this employ to others I must yield;—
A greater master claims the field.
For me, fair lady, 'twere enough
Your name should be my wall and roof.
Protect henceforth the favour'd book
Through which for second life I look.
In your auspicious light,
These lines, in envy's spite,
Will gain the glorious meed,
That all the world shall read.
"Tis not that I deserve such fame ;
I only ask in Fable's name,
(You know what credit that should claim ;)
And, if successfully I sue,
A fane will be to Fable due,
A thing I would not build-except for you.
I. THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE.'
THE sorest ill that Heaven hath
Sent on this lower world in wrath,-
The plague (to call it by its name,)
One single day of which
Would Pluto's ferryman enrich,
Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame.
1 One of the most original as well as one of the most beautiful of the poet's fables, yet much of the groundwork of its story may be traced in the Fables of Bidpaii and other collections. See also note to Fable XXII., Book I.
They died not all, but all were sick:
No hunting now, by force or trick,
To save what might so soon expire.
No food excited their desire;
Nor wolf nor fox now watch'd to slay
The innocent and tender prey.
So love and therefore joy were dead.
The lion council held, and said:
'My friends, I do believe
This awful scourge, for which we grieve,
Is for our sins a punishment
Most righteously by Heaven sent.
Let us our guiltiest beast resign,
A sacrifice to wrath divine.
Perhaps this offering, truly small,
May gain the life and health of all.
By history we find it noted
That lives have been just so devoted.
Then let us all turn eyes within,
And ferret out the hidden sin.
Himself let no one spare nor flatter,
But make clean conscience in the matter.
For me, my appetite has play'd the glutton
Too much and often upon mutton.
What harm had e'er my victims done?
I answer, truly, None.
Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger press'd,
I've eat the shepherd with the rest.
I yield myself, if need there be;
And yet I think, in equity,
Each should confess his sins with me;
For laws of right and justice cry,
The guiltiest alone should die.'
'Sire,' said the fox, 'your majesty
Is humbler than a king should be,
And over-squeamish in the case.
What! eating stupid sheep a crime?
No, never, sire, at any time.
It rather was an act of grace,
A mark of honour to their race.
|