|
|
The Wolf And The Hunter.
By Jean de La Fontaine
[1]
Thou lust of gain, - foul fiend, whose evil eyes
Regard as nought the blessings of the skies,
Must I for ever battle thee in vain?
How long demandest thou to gain
The meaning of my lessons plain?
Will constant getting never cloy?
Will man ne'er slacken to enjoy?
Haste, friend; thou hast not long to live:
Let me the precious word repeat,
And listen to it, I entreat;
A richer lesson none can give -
The sovereign antidote for sorrow -
ENJOY! - 'I will.' - But when? - 'To-morrow. - '
Ah! death may take you on the way,
Why not enjoy, I ask, to-day?
Lest envious fate your hopes ingulf,
As once it served the hunter and the wolf.
The former, with his fatal bow,
A noble deer had laid full low:
A fawn approach'd, and quickly lay
Companion of the dead,
For side by side they bled.
Could one have wished a richer prey?
Such luck had been enough to sate
A hunter wise and moderate.
Meantime a boar, as big as e'er was taken,
Our archer tempted, proud, and fond of bacon.
Another candidate for Styx,
Struck by his arrow, foams and kicks.
But strangely do the shears of Fate
To cut his cable hesitate.
Alive, yet dying, there he lies,
A glorious and a dangerous prize.
And was not this enough? Not quite,
To fill a conqueror's appetite;
For, ere the boar was dead, he spied
A partridge by a furrow's side -
A trifle to his other game.
Once more his bow he drew;
The desperate boar upon him came,
And in his dying vengeance slew:
The partridge thank'd him as she flew.
Thus much is to the covetous address'd;
The miserly shall have the rest.
A wolf, in passing, saw that woeful sight.
'O Fortune,' cried the savage, with delight,
'A fane to thee I'll build outright!
'Four carcasses! how rich! But spare -
'I'll make them last - such luck is rare,'
(The miser's everlasting plea.)
'They'll last a month for - let me see -
One, two, three, four - the weeks are four
If I can count - and some days more.
Well, two days hence
And I'll commence.
Meantime, the string upon this bow
I'll stint myself to eat;
For by its mutton-smell I know
'Tis made of entrails sweet.'
His entrails rued the fatal weapon,
Which, while he heedlessly did step on,
The arrow pierced his bowels deep,
And laid him lifeless on the heap.
Hark, stingy souls! insatiate leeches!
Our text this solemn duty teaches, -
Enjoy the present; do not wait
To share the wolf's or hunter's fate.
Extra Info:
[1] Bidpaii; and the Hitopadesa.
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 390 times.
|
|
