- Death and the Dying
- The Cobbler and the Financier
- The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
- The Power Of Fables
- The Man and the Flea
- The Women and the Secret
- The Dog That Carried His Master’s Dinner
- The Joker and the Fishes
- The Rat and the Oyster
- The Bear and the Amateur Gardener
- The Two Friends
- The Hog, the Goat, and the Sheep
- Thyrsis And Amaranth
- The Funeral of the Lioness
- The Rat and the Elephant
- The Horoscope
- The Ass and the Dog
- The Pashaw and the Merchant
- The Use Of Knowledge
- Jupiter and the Thunderbolts
- The Falcon and the Capon
- The Cat and the Rat
- The Torrent and the River
- The Two Dogs and the Dead Ass
- Democritus and the People Of Abdera
- The Wolf and the Hunter
Can diplomatic dignity
To simple fables condescend?
Can I your famed benignity
Invoke, my muse an ear to lend?
If once she dares a high intent,
Will you esteem her impudent?
Your cares are weightier, indeed,
Than listening to the sage debates
Of rabbit or of weasel states:
So, as it pleases, burn or read;
But save us from the woful harms
Of Europe roused in hostile arms.
That from a thousand other places
Our enemies should show their faces,
May well be granted with a smile,
But not that England’s Isle
Our friendly kings should set
Their fatal blades to whet.
Comes not the time for Louis to repose?
What Hercules, against these hydra foes,
Would not grow weary? Must new heads oppose
His ever-waxing energy of blows?
Now, if your gentle, soul-persuasive powers,
As sweet as mighty in this world of ours,
Can soften hearts, and lull this war to sleep,
I’ll pile your altars with a hundred sheep;
And this is not a small affair
For a Parnassian mountaineer.
Meantime, (if you have time to spare,)
Accept a little incense-cheer.
A homely, but an ardent prayer,
And tale in verse, I give you here.
I’ll only say, the theme is fit for you.
With praise, which envy must confess
To worth like yours is justly due,
No man on earth needs propping less.
In Athens, once, that city fickle,
An orator, awake to feel
His country in a dangerous pickle,
Would sway the proud republic’s heart,
Discoursing of the common weal,
As taught by his tyrannic art.
The people listened—not a word.
Meanwhile the orator recurred
To bolder tropes—enough to rouse
The dullest blocks that ever did drowse;
He clothed in life the very dead,
And thundered all that could be said.
The wind received his breath,
As to the ear of death.
That beast of many heads and light,
The crowd, accustomed to the sound
Was all intent on a sight—
A brace of lads in mimic fight.
A new resource the speaker found.
“Ceres,” in lower tone said he,
“Went forth her harvest fields to see:
An eel, as such a fish might he,
And swallow, were her company.
A river checked the travellers three.
Two crossed it soon without ado;
The smooth eel swam, the swallow flew.—”
Outcried the crowd
With voices loud—
“And Ceres—what did she?”
“Why, what she pleased; but first
Yourselves she justly cursed—
A people puzzling aye your brains
With children’s tales and children’s play,
While Greece puts on her steel array,
To save her limbs from, tyrant chains!
Why ask you not what Philip does?”
At this reproach the idle buzz
Fell to the silence of the grave,
Or moonstruck sea without a wave,
And every eye and ear awoke
To drink the words the patriot spoke.
This feather stick in Fable’s cap.
We’re all Athenians, mayhap;
And I, for one, confess the sin;
For, while I write this moral here,
If one should tell that tale so queer
Ycleped, I think, “The Ass’s Skin,”
I should not mind my work a pin.
The world is old, they say; I don’t deny it;—
But, infant still
In taste and will,
Whoever would teach, must gratify it.
The Power Of Fables by Jean de La Fontaine’s Fables in Book 8
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