We men should share in double measure, Or rather have a twofold treasure; The one the soul, the same in all That bear the name of animal-- The sages, dunces, great and small, That tenant this our teeming ball;-- The other still another soul, Which should to mortals here belong In common with the angel throng; Which, made an independent whole, Could pierce the skies to worlds of light, Within a point have room to be,-- Its life a morn, sans noon or night.

Exempt from all destructive change-- A thing as real as it is strange.

In infancy this child of day Should glimmer but a feeble ray.

Its earthly organs stronger grown, The beam of reason, brightly thrown, Should pierce the darkness, thick and gross, That holds the other prison'd close.

[1] _Madame de la Sabliere_.--See the following note; also the Translator's Preface.

[2] _Perhaps you have not heard of it_?--Madame de la Sabliere was one of the most learned women of the age in which she lived, and knew more of the philosophy of Descartes, in which she was a believer, than our poet; but she dreaded the reputation of a "blue-stocking,"

and for this reason La Fontaine addresses her as if she might be ignorant of the Cartesian theory.--Translator. Moliere's _Femme Savante_, the object of which was to ridicule the French "blue-stockings," had been only recently produced upon the stage (1672), hence Madame de la Sabliere's fears, and La Fontaine's delicate forbearance.

[3] _Beasts are mere machines_.--At this time the discussion as to the mind in animals was very rife in the salons of Paris. Madame de Sevigne often alludes to it in her Letters. La Fontaine further contends against the "mere machine" theory in Fable IX., Book XI.

[4] _One of truly royal race_.--John Sobieski.--Translator. At the time this was written, Sobieski's great victory over the Turks at Choczim (1673) was resounding throughout Europe, and had made him King of Poland (1674). Sobieski had previously been a frequent visitor at the house of Madame de la Sabliere, where La Fontaine had often met him. Sobieski is again alluded to as a guest of Madame de la Sabliere, in Fable XV., Book XII.

[5] _Old Epicurus' rival_.--Descartes.--Translator.

II.--THE MAN AND THE ADDER.[6]

'You villain!' cried a man who found An adder coil'd upon the ground, 'To do a very grateful deed For all the world, I shall proceed.'

On this the animal perverse (I mean the snake; Pray don't mistake The human for the worse) Was caught and bagg'd, and, worst of all, His blood was by his captor to be spilt Without regard to innocence or guilt.

Howe'er, to show the why, these words let fall His judge and jailor, proud and tall:-- 'Thou type of all ingrat.i.tude!

All charity to hearts like thine Is folly, certain to be rued.

Die, then, Thou foe of men!

Thy temper and thy teeth malign Shall never hurt a hair of mine.'

The m.u.f.fled serpent, on his side, The best a serpent could, replied,-- 'If all this world's ingrates Must meet with such a death, Who from this worst of fates Could save his breath?

Upon thyself thy law recoils; I throw myself upon thy broils, Thy graceless revelling on spoils; If thou but homeward cast an eye, Thy deeds all mine will justify.

But strike: my life is in thy hand; Thy justice, all may understand, Is but thy interest, pleasure, or caprice:-- p.r.o.nounce my sentence on such laws as these.

But give me leave to tell thee, while I can, The type of all ingrat.i.tude is man.'

By such a lecture somewhat foil'd, The other back a step recoil'd, And finally replied,-- 'Thy reasons are abusive, And wholly inconclusive.

I might the case decide Because to me such right belongs; But let's refer the case of wrongs.'

The snake agreed; they to a cow referr'd it.

Who, being called, came graciously and heard it.

Then, summing up, 'What need,' said she, 'In such a case, to call on me?

The adder's right, plain truth to bellow; For years I've nursed this haughty fellow, Who, but for me, had long ago Been lodging with the shades below.

For him my milk has had to flow, My calves, at tender age, to die.

And for this best of wealth, And often reestablished health, What pay, or even thanks, have I?

Here, feeble, old, and worn, alas!

I'm left without a bite of gra.s.s.

Were I but left, it might be weather'd, But, shame to say it, I am tether'd.

And now my fate is surely sadder Than if my master were an adder, With brains within the lat.i.tude Of such immense ingrat.i.tude.

This, gentles, is my honest view; And so I bid you both adieu.'

The man, confounded and astonish'd To be so faithfully admonish'd, Replied, 'What fools to listen, now, To this old, silly, dotard cow!

Let's trust the ox.' 'Let's trust,' replied The crawling beast, well gratified.

So said, so done; The ox, with tardy pace, came on And, ruminating o'er the case, Declared, with very serious face, That years of his most painful toil Had clothed with Ceres' gifts our soil-- Her gifts to men--but always sold To beasts for higher cost than gold; And that for this, for his reward, More blows than thanks return'd his lord; And then, when age had chill'd his blood, And men would quell the wrath of Heaven, Out must be pour'd the vital flood, For others' sins, all thankless given.

So spake the ox; and then the man:-- 'Away with such a dull declaimer!

Instead of judge, it is his plan To play accuser and defamer.'

A tree was next the arbitrator, And made the wrong of man still greater.

It served as refuge from the heat, The showers, and storms which madly beat; It grew our gardens' greatest pride, Its shadow spreading far and wide, And bow'd itself with fruit beside: But yet a mercenary clown With cruel iron chopp'd it down.

Behold the recompense for which, Year after year, it did enrich, With spring's sweet flowers, and autumn's fruits, And summer's shade, both men and brutes, And warm'd the hearth with many a limb Which winter from its top did trim!

Why could not man have pruned and spared, And with itself for ages shared?-- Much scorning thus to be convinced, The man resolved his cause to gain.

Quoth he, 'My goodness is evinced By hearing this, 'tis very plain;'

Then flung the serpent bag and all, With fatal force, against a wall.

So ever is it with the great, With whom the whim doth always run, That Heaven all creatures doth create For their behoof beneath the sun-- Count they four feet, or two, or none.

If one should dare the fact dispute, He's straight set down a stupid brute.

Now, grant it so,--such lords among, What should be done, or said, or sung?

At distance speak, or hold your tongue.

[6] Bidpaii.

III.--THE TORTOISE AND THE TWO DUCKS.[7]

A light-brain'd tortoise, anciently, Tired of her hole, the world would see.

p.r.o.ne are all such, self-banish'd, to roam-- p.r.o.ne are all cripples to abhor their home.

Two ducks, to whom the gossip told The secret of her purpose bold, Profess'd to have the means whereby They could her wishes gratify.

'Our boundless road,' said they, 'behold!

It is the open air; And through it we will bear You safe o'er land and ocean.

Republics, kingdoms, you will view, And famous cities, old and new; And get of customs, laws, a notion,-- Of various wisdom various pieces, As did, indeed, the sage Ulysses.'

The eager tortoise waited not To question what Ulysses got, But closed the bargain on the spot.

A nice machine the birds devise To bear their pilgrim through the skies.-- Athwart her mouth a stick they throw: 'Now bite it hard, and don't let go,'

They say, and seize each duck an end, And, swiftly flying, upward tend.

It made the people gape and stare Beyond the expressive power of words, To see a tortoise cut the air, Exactly poised between two birds.

'A miracle,' they cried, 'is seen!

There goes the flying tortoise queen!'

'The queen!' ('twas thus the tortoise spoke;) 'I'm truly that, without a joke.'

Much better had she held her tongue For, opening that whereby she clung, Before the gazing crowd she fell, And dash'd to bits her brittle sh.e.l.l.

Imprudence, vanity, and babble, And idle curiosity, An ever-undivided rabble, Have all the same paternity.

[7] Bidpaii.

IV.--THE FISHES AND THE CORMORANT.[8]

No pond nor pool within his haunt But paid a certain cormorant Its contribution from its fishes, And stock'd his kitchen with good dishes.

Yet, when old age the bird had chill'd, His kitchen was less amply fill'd.

All cormorants, however grey, Must die, or for themselves purvey.

But ours had now become so blind, His finny prey he could not find; And, having neither hook nor net, His appet.i.te was poorly met.

What hope, with famine thus infested?

Necessity, whom history mentions, A famous mother of inventions, The following stratagem suggested: He found upon the water's brink A crab, to which said he, 'My friend, A weighty errand let me send: Go quicker than a wink-- Down to the fishes sink, And tell them they are doom'd to die; For, ere eight days have hasten'd by, Its lord will fish this water dry.'

The crab, as fast as she could scrabble, Went down, and told the scaly rabble.

What bustling, gathering, agitation!

Straight up they send a deputation To wait upon the ancient bird.

'Sir Cormorant, whence hast thou heard This dreadful news? And what a.s.surance of it hast thou got?

How such a danger can we shun?

Pray tell us, what is to be done?

'Why, change your dwelling-place,' said he, 'What, change our dwelling! How can we?'

'O, by your leave, I'll take that care, And, one by one, in safety bear You all to my retreat: The path's unknown To any feet, Except my own.