قراءة كتاب Fables
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
t’other
The winged monster buzz’d with bother;
The twitching tender nostrils tried,
The corners of the lips beside;
From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss,
Like old dame in an omnibus;
Delighted vastly to have met
So great a store of unctuous sweat.
At last to desperation driven
The Man accursed the Fly to Heaven,
And with his bludgeon great assay’d
To stay the small annoying raid.
Wielding to right and left he smote;
But still the nimble Fly, remote,
Laughed at his anger and enjoy’d
Fresh perspiration.
Thus annoy’d,
His bludgeon broken on the tree,
A helpless, weary wight was he.
The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee;
‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man,
To end the work the Fly began.’
And this (the Chronicler explains)
Is why the Lion still remains.
Orpheus and the Busy Ones
Dedicated to the Public
Orpheus, the Stygian current cross’d,
When Hell stood still to hear him sing,
Torn from Eurydice twice lost
(Almost by music saved e’er lost)
Over the world went wandering.
One day, sate on a mountain slope,
Weary and sick for want of hope,
(Or rather, shall we term it, dead,
Since life is gone when hope is sped),
He twang’d his lyre; till song sublime
Out of the ashes of his prime
And fire of grief like Phoenix sprang;
And all the startled hillside rang.
Aroused, the dew-engrossed Flowers
Turn’d to him all their maiden eyes;
And from the sweet forgotten bowers
Flew forth a thousand Butterflies.
The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath,
The noisy Crickets of the heath
Rub’d each his forehead with amaze
To hear one sing such heavenly lays.
Under her stone the lumpy Toad
Peer’d forth; even the solid sod
Grew peopled with emerging Worms—
Such power hath Music on all forms.
Above, the pinched Pard amort
(She had three cublings in a den)
Forgot her hunger, and in short
Reposed herself to listen then,
Upon her furry paws her chin;
And from her vantage watch’d the Poet,
Delighted, but enraged to know it,
While all her spotted sleek of skin
Heaved with the pleasure she took in.
Not only this, but shall I say ’t,
The very Hills began debate
Whether, to hear the singing clearer,
They should not move a little nearer.
When Hell stood still to hear him sing,
Torn from Eurydice twice lost
(Almost by music saved e’er lost)
Over the world went wandering.
One day, sate on a mountain slope,
Weary and sick for want of hope,
(Or rather, shall we term it, dead,
Since life is gone when hope is sped),
He twang’d his lyre; till song sublime
Out of the ashes of his prime
And fire of grief like Phoenix sprang;
And all the startled hillside rang.
Aroused, the dew-engrossed Flowers
Turn’d to him all their maiden eyes;
And from the sweet forgotten bowers
Flew forth a thousand Butterflies.
The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath,
The noisy Crickets of the heath
Rub’d each his forehead with amaze
To hear one sing such heavenly lays.
Under her stone the lumpy Toad
Peer’d forth; even the solid sod
Grew peopled with emerging Worms—
Such power hath Music on all forms.
Above, the pinched Pard amort
(She had three cublings in a den)
Forgot her hunger, and in short
Reposed herself to listen then,
Upon her furry paws her chin;
And from her vantage watch’d the Poet,
Delighted, but enraged to know it,
While all her spotted sleek of skin
Heaved with the pleasure she took in.
Not only this, but shall I say ’t,
The very Hills began debate
Whether, to hear the singing clearer,
They should not move a little nearer.
Only, the Bard, to these strange ways
Accustom’d, noted with amaze
A herd of Hogs that near him fed,
Which might for all he sang be dead.
He ceased his song and tried the scale
To find out where his voice might fail;
His lyre divine descanted soon
To see the strings were all in tune;
Till satisfied that these were right,
And at those Hogs astonish’d quite
That they not to his conquering lyre,
Which all things else did so admire,
Gave heed, but routed in the rye
As tho’ he had not been close by,
He ask’d of them the reason why.
‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied,
‘We have too much to do beside;
The roots are many, the field is wide.
Should we neglect this plenteousness
We should be wrong, you must confess—
The gods some day might give us less.
Our girth is great; the fodder free;
This field of food must finished be.
That time is short you’ll not deny.
We eat but little ere we die.’
Accustom’d, noted with amaze
A herd of Hogs that near him fed,
Which might for all he sang be dead.
He ceased his song and tried the scale
To find out where his voice might fail;
His lyre divine descanted soon
To see the strings were all in tune;
Till satisfied that these were right,
And at those Hogs astonish’d quite
That they not to his conquering lyre,
Which all things else did so admire,
Gave heed, but routed in the rye
As tho’ he had not been close by,
He ask’d of them the reason why.
‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied,
‘We have too much to do beside;
The roots are many, the field is wide.
Should we neglect this plenteousness
We should be wrong, you must confess—
The gods some day might give us less.
Our girth is great; the fodder free;
This field of food must finished be.
That time is short you’ll not deny.
We eat but little ere we die.’
The Poet and the Penman
All night had browsed the Pinion’d Steed
Upon that lush and level mead
That swathes Parnassos’ feet;
Till, when the pranksome Morning Star
To van of Day’s slow-driven car
Came piping past the eastern bar,
A Poet him did greet.
Upon that lush and level mead
That swathes Parnassos’ feet;
Till, when the pranksome Morning Star
To van of Day’s slow-driven car
Came piping past the eastern bar,
A Poet him did greet.
‘Your back, my Pegasos,’ he cried,
‘Shall win me to the tiers espied
Of yonder shelfed hill,
Where all the Great are, I opine,
And on the last proud peak divine
Apollo and the Earnest Nine
At songs symphonic still.’
‘Shall win me to the tiers espied
Of yonder shelfed hill,
Where all the Great are, I opine,
And on the last proud peak divine
Apollo and the Earnest Nine
At songs symphonic still.’
Tomes had the Poet, rolls and wraps,
Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps,
And so essay’d the mounting—
‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb,
Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme,
If you will only give me time,
Who’d been on stirrups counting.’
Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps,
And so essay’d the mounting—
‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb,
Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme,
If you will only give me time,
Who’d been on stirrups counting.’
The Steed stood still; the thing was done;
He slided, slip’d and shuffled on,
And stay’d to pen his deeds:
When now the Monster’s patience wears;
He lowers his head, his haunches rears;
And flying past the Stallion’s ears
The Poet measures weeds.
He slided, slip’d and shuffled on,
And stay’d to pen his deeds:
When now the Monster’s patience wears;
He lowers his head, his haunches rears;
And flying past the Stallion’s ears
The Poet measures weeds.
Three times attempting, three times foil’d,
The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d;
And on his knees the mashed green
Gave an arch proof of what had been;
And winds like gamboling babes unseen
Made all his errant sheets revolve.
For now the Morning ’gan to solve
The long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud;
And that fair Mountain noble brow’d,
In snowy silv’ry laces dight
Shone like a bride, against the night
Unveil’d, with many-pointed light.
And lo half seen thro’ level mist
A Critic rode with saucy wrist,
Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’d
In corduroys and velvet vest;
Who clip’d at ease an ambling cob
With dappled nose and ears alob;
While all around a barking brood
Of puppies nuzzled in the rood.
‘He who to climb has climbing blood
Must fear no fall in marish mud;
And he who phantoms fain would ride
May sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried.
The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d;
And on his knees the mashed green
Gave an arch proof of what had been;
And winds like gamboling babes unseen
Made all his errant sheets revolve.
For now the Morning ’gan to solve
The long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud;
And that fair Mountain noble brow’d,
In snowy silv’ry laces dight
Shone like a bride, against the night
Unveil’d, with many-pointed light.
And lo half seen thro’ level mist
A Critic rode with saucy wrist,
Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’d
In corduroys and velvet vest;
Who clip’d at ease an ambling cob
With dappled nose and ears alob;
While all around a barking brood
Of puppies nuzzled in the rood.
‘He who to climb has climbing blood
Must fear no fall in marish mud;
And he who phantoms fain would ride
May sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried.
At this his thighs the Poet slam’d
And papers in his pocket ram’d;
‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’
‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man,
Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran;
‘You waste your time about that Brute
Whom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot,
So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he.
But take example now from me,
Who riding in this airy plight
For breakfast get an appetite;
And sitting here (I am so sly)
With this my pocket-sextant I
Take altitude of those on high.’
‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries,
And mounting shoots towards the skies
An angry palm—‘Come not anear!
I, as toward the marineer
The welcome star from beacon’d brows
Of headland, when the Northern blows
His scurrilous spitting spray in air
And lobbing billows blotch the Bear,
Appears, so shall appear and shine
Thro’ streaming rain and hissing brine
To cheer the coming better blood;
And shall be fire when thou art mud!’
And papers in his pocket ram’d;
‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’
‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man,
Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran;
‘You waste your time about that Brute
Whom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot,
So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he.
But take example now from me,
Who riding in this airy plight
For breakfast get an appetite;
And sitting here (I am so sly)
With this my pocket-sextant I
Take altitude of those on high.’
‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries,
And mounting shoots towards the skies
An angry palm—‘Come not anear!
I, as toward the marineer
The welcome star from beacon’d brows
Of headland, when the Northern blows
His scurrilous spitting spray in air
And lobbing billows blotch the Bear,
Appears, so shall appear and shine
Thro’ streaming rain and hissing brine
To cheer the coming better blood;
And shall be fire when thou art mud!’
‘Blind is the goose that play’d the geier
And tried to see the white sun nigher!—
He flapping lies; so shall you lie
And grovel as you think to fly!’
The other cries; whose Nag amazed,
Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed,
Shook out her tail and with a snort,
Approaching in plebeian sort,
Paw’d archly at him. He with scorn
And having too long mildly borne,
Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d.
She with the monstrous tone affray’d
Shot forth her rider like a ball;
Who in the mid-air, ere his fall,
The like-projected Poet met.
And tried to see the white sun nigher!—
He flapping lies; so shall you lie
And grovel as you think to fly!’
The other cries; whose Nag amazed,
Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed,
Shook out her tail and with a snort,
Approaching in plebeian sort,
Paw’d archly at him. He with scorn
And having too long mildly borne,
Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d.
She with the monstrous tone affray’d
Shot forth her rider like a ball;
Who in the mid-air, ere his fall,
The like-projected Poet met.
As when two Suns in furious set
Together dash with whirl and wind,
Their shrieking planets drawn behind;
Or two great Blacks with blinding rage,
Each dragging his black wife, engage,
And clash their pates upon the green
(The fleas being heard to crack between),
The Critic so and Bard pell mell
Fighting concuss’d and fighting fell;
And puppies tug’d their tatters.
Bruises for breakfast got the one;
Black eyes the other, and of Fame none.
They fought it out, and when they’d done
Went home as rough as ratters.
Together dash with whirl and wind,
Their shrieking planets drawn behind;
Or two great Blacks with blinding rage,
Each dragging his black wife, engage,
And clash their pates upon the green
(The fleas being heard to crack between),
The Critic so and Bard pell mell
Fighting concuss’d and fighting fell;
And puppies tug’d their tatters.
Bruises for breakfast got the one;
Black eyes the other, and of Fame none.
They fought it out, and when they’d done
Went home as rough as ratters.
The Piteous Ewe
Dedicated to Kings
King Lion yawning at his gates
On deep-empiled mosses, when
The sunset gilt the underwood,
Awaking claw’d in idle mood
The frighten’d dead leaves of his den,
Content; when lo (the Rune relates)
A tiny piercing note was heard.
It was the Mouse (the Rune aver’d)
Who saved the Sov’reign’s honour when
The hunters mesh’d him in the glen.
For that admitted now to cheep
Before the Audience half asleep,
She introduced a weeping Sheep.
On deep-empiled mosses, when
The sunset gilt the underwood,
Awaking claw’d in idle mood
The frighten’d dead leaves of his den,
Content; when lo (the Rune relates)
A tiny piercing note was heard.
It was the Mouse (the Rune aver’d)
Who saved the Sov’reign’s honour when
The hunters mesh’d him in the glen.
For that admitted now to cheep
Before the Audience half asleep,
She introduced a weeping Sheep.
‘Sire,’ said the Mouse, ‘with much ado
Thro’ wicked guards I bring to you
This much wrong’d creature to implore
Justice against the evil doer.’
At this, no rhetorician,
The shiv’ring Mutton then began
Of how three lovely Lambkins lost
The Wolf had taken to his den,
Deep-delved in a dreadful glen—
And ah! to her the bitter cost!
One from her side when day was dead
The monster stole. Another took
At gambol in the glassing brook.
The third, the Mother’s last delight,
When now the many-lamped Night
No more, with mystic moon aloft,
Gave shudd’ring shadows to the flowers
And stars of wan irradiance soft
To every dewdrop; but the hours
Of Dawn and Daybreak, Sister Hours,
Twin Lovelinesses, lit the world,
And the confident buds unfurl’d,
He seized with mangling tushes, till
The innocent flower-eyes of the wood,
That wont with early dew to fill,
Grew piteous-wet with tears of
Thro’ wicked guards I bring to you
This much wrong’d creature to implore
Justice against the evil doer.’
At this, no rhetorician,
The shiv’ring Mutton then began
Of how three lovely Lambkins lost
The Wolf had taken to his den,
Deep-delved in a dreadful glen—
And ah! to her the bitter cost!
One from her side when day was dead
The monster stole. Another took
At gambol in the glassing brook.
The third, the Mother’s last delight,
When now the many-lamped Night
No more, with mystic moon aloft,
Gave shudd’ring shadows to the flowers
And stars of wan irradiance soft
To every dewdrop; but the hours
Of Dawn and Daybreak, Sister Hours,
Twin Lovelinesses, lit the world,
And the confident buds unfurl’d,
He seized with mangling tushes, till
The innocent flower-eyes of the wood,
That wont with early dew to fill,
Grew piteous-wet with tears of