Pygmalion1 doth a passion feel
For Venus chisel'd by his art.

All men, as far as in them lies,
Create realities of dreams.
To truth our nature proves but ice;
To falsehood, fire it seems.

VII. THE MOUSE METAMORPHOSED INTO A

MAID.2

A MOUSE Once from an owl's beak fell;
I'd not have pick'd it up, I wis;
A Brahmin did it: very well;

Each country has its prejudice.
The mouse, indeed, was sadly bruised.
Although, as neighbours, we are used
To be more kind to many others,

The Brahmins treat the mice as brothers.
The notion haunts their heads, that when
The soul goes forth from dying men,
It enters worm, or bird, or beast,
As Providence or Fate is pleased;
And on this mystery rests their law,
Which from Pythagoras they're said to draw.
And hence the Brahmin kindly pray'd
To one who knew the wizard's trade,
To give the creature, wounded sore,
The form in which it lodged before.
Forthwith the mouse became a maid,
Of years about fifteen;

A lovelier was never seen.

She would have waked, I ween,

In Priam's son, a fiercer flame

Than did the beauteous Grecian dame.

1 Pygmalion.—The poet here takes an erroneous view of the story of Pygmalion. That sculptor fell in love with his statue of the nymph Galatea, to which Venus gave life at his request. See Ovid, Metam. Book X.

2 Bidpaii.

Surprised at such a novelty,

The Brahmin to the damsel cried,
'Your choice is free;

For every he

Will seek you for his bride.'

Said she, 'Am I to have a voice ?

The strongest, then, shall be my choice.' 'O sun!' the Brahmin cried, 'this maid is thine, And thou shalt be a son-in-law of mine.'

'No,' said the sun, this murky cloud, it seems, In strength exceeds me, since he hides my beams; And him I counsel you to take.'

Again the reverend Brahmin spake—
'O cloud, on-flying with thy stores of water,
Pray wast thou born to wed my daughter?'
'Ah, no, alas! for, you may see,

The wind is far too strong for me.
My claims with Boreas' to compare,
I must confess, I do not dare.'

'O wind,' then cried the Brahmin, vex'd,
And wondering what would hinder next,—
'Approach, and, with thy sweetest air,
Embrace-possess the fairest fair.'
The wind, enraptured, thither blew ;-
A mountain stopp'd him as he flew,
To him now pass'd the tennis-ball,
And from him to a creature small.
Said he, 'I'd wed the maid, but that
I've had a quarrel with the rat.
A fool were I to take the bride
From one so sure to pierce my side.'
The rat! It thrill'd the damsel's ear;
The name at once seem'd sweet and dear.
The rat! 'Twas one of Cupid's blows;
The like full many a maiden knows;
But all of this beneath the rose.

One smacketh ever of the place

Where first he show'd the world his face.

Thus far the fable 's clear as light;

But, if we take a nearer sight,

There lurks within its drapery
Somewhat of graceless sophistry;

For who, that worships e'en the glorious sun,
Would not prefer to wed some cooler one?
And doth a flea's exceed a giant's might,
Because the former can the latter bite?
And, by the rule of strength, the rat
Had sent his bride to wed the cat;
From cat to dog, and onward still
To wolf or tiger, if you will:
Indeed, the fabulist might run
A circle backward to the sun.-
But to the change the tale supposes,-
In learned phrase, metempsychosis.
The very thing the wizard did

Its falsity exposes—

If that indeed were ever hid.
According to the Brahmin's plan,
The proud aspiring soul of man,

And souls that dwell in humbler forms
Of rats and mice, and even worms,

All issue from a common source,

And, hence, they are the same of course.—
Unequal but by accident

Of organ and of tenement,

They use one pair of legs, or two,
Or e'en with none contrive to do,
As tyrant matter binds them to.
Why, then, could not so fine a frame
Constrain its heavenly guest
To wed the solar flame ?
A rat her love possess'd.

In all respects, compared and weigh'd,
The souls of men and souls of mice
Quite different are made,—
Unlike in sort as well as size.
Each fits and fills its destined part
As Heaven doth well provide;
Nor witch, nor fiend, nor magic art,
Can set their laws aside.

VIII. THE FOOL WHO SOLD WISDOM.'

OF fools come never in the reach:
No rule can I more wisely teach.
Nor can there be a better one

Than this, distemper'd heads to shun.
We often see them, high and low.
They tickle e'en the royal ear,
As, privileged and free from fear,
They hurl about them joke and jeer,
At pompous lord or silly beau.

A fool, in town, did wisdom cry;
The people, eager, flock'd to buy.
Each for his money got,

Paid promptly on the spot,
Besides a box upon the head,
Two fathoms' length of thread.
The most were vex'd—but quite in vain
The public only mock'd their pain.
The wiser they who nothing said,
But pocketed the box and thread.
To search the meaning of the thing
Would only laughs and hisses bring.
Hath reason ever guaranteed
The wit of fools in speech or deed?
'Tis said of brainless heads in France,
The cause of what they do is chance.
One dupe, however, needs must know
What meant the thread, and what the blow;
So ask'd a sage, to make it sure.
'They're both hieroglyphics pure,'
The sage replied without delay;
'All people well advised will stay
From fools this fibre's length away,
Or get I hold it sure as fate—
The other symbol on the pate.
So far from cheating you of gold,
The fool this wisdom fairly sold.'

Abstemius.

IX. THE OYSTER AND THE LITIGANTS.

Two pilgrims on the sand espied
An oyster thrown up by the tide.
In hope, both swallow'd ocean's fruit;
But ere the fact there came dispute.
While one stoop'd down to take the prey,
The other push'd him quite away.

Said he, "Twere rather meet

To settle which shall eat.

Why, he who first the oyster saw
Should be its eater, by the law;
The other should but see him do it.'
Replied his mate, 'If thus you view it,
Thank God the lucky eye is mine.'
'But I've an eye not worse than thine,'
The other cried, and will be cursed,
If, too, I didn't see it first.'

'You saw it, did you? Grant it true,
I saw it then, and felt it too.'
Amidst this sweet affair,
Arrived a person very big,

Ycleped Sir Nincom Periwig.1

They made him judge,—to set the matter square.
Sir Nincom, with a solemn face,
Took up the oyster and the case:
In opening both, the first he swallow'd,
And, in due time, his judgment follow'd.
'Attend: the court awards you each a shell
Cost free; depart in peace, and use them well.'
Foot up the cost of suits at law,

The leavings reckon and awards,

Sir Nincom Periwig.-The name in La Fontaine is Perrin Dandin, which is also that of the peasant judge in Rabelais (Book III., ch. 41), and the judge in Racine's" Plaideurs" (produced in 1668). Molière's "George Dandin " (produced 1664), may also have helped La Fontaine to the name. The last-mentioned character is a farmer, but, like the others, he is a species of incapable; and the word dandin in the old French dictionaries is given as signifying inaptness or incapacity.