Aesop, in Rhyme Part 18

The sire got up, the youth got down; When pa.s.sing through a country town, At every door the mothers said, "A murrain light on thy old head!

Hast thou no bowels for thy kind?

At least take up the lad behind."

This done they next were thus address'd: "Two lubbers on a little beast?

They fitter are to carry him!"

Complying with this senseless whim, Upon a pole his feet in air, The a.s.s they on their shoulders bear.

Now laughing shouts spread far and wide.

The a.s.s's ligatures untied, "Proceed, my son," then said the man: "To please the world, do all we can, Since 'tis impossible, you see, To please ourselves content we'll be."

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THE DREAMER AND HIS SON.

Mortals bring down upon their head The very miseries most they dread.

The only son of a rich knight In hunting daily took delight.

The father living in alarm, Lest he should come to any harm, Dream'd that he saw him on the ground, Rent with the lion's fatal wound.

The youth, allow'd to hunt no more, Impatiently confinement bore.

Remarking, one unlucky day, In the fine chamber where he lay, A lion painted on the wall, "Thou art," he cried, "the cause of all."

With idle rage the wall he struck, And in his hand an iron stuck, Which piercing bones and sinews through, Fester'd and then a gangrene grew.

And thus the father's ill-tim'd care Deprived him of his son and heir.

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THE OLD MAN AND DEATH.

Though life be welcome to the wise, Death cannot take him by surprise; Aware that every day and hour He holds but at the tyrant's power, That beauty, talents, worth, are vain.

A moment's respite to obtain.

Nothing more known, and yet how rare It is with courage to prepare For this inevitable day!

All hope a little more delay.

One who had suffer'd many a year, And to a century drew near, At last complain'd, that unawares Death came, unsettled his affairs: "My will is not completely made; A little time," he trembling said, "A little longer let me live; Some warning 'tis but fair to give!

My grandson is expected home; At least pray, let the doctor come."

"Poor helpless driveller!" Death replied, "Ten years ago thou should'st have died!

Thy friends, thy foes, thyself outliv'd: Almost an age thou hast surviv'd: Some who their day had scarce begun.

Others beneath their noon-tide sun-- Time's deepest lines engrave thy brow, And dost thou hesitate to go?

Idiot, what warning would'st thou have?

One foot already in the grave: Sight, hearing, feeling, day by day, Sunk gradual in a long decay.

I blame myself for my neglect; Thou'st not a moment to expect!"

When failing nature warns, the sage Sees death a refuge from old age; And rising from life's lengthened feast, Willing retires, a sated guest.

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THE PAINTER.

When candid critics deign to blame Their index points the road to fame, But when dull fools your works admire, Throw them at once into the fire.

In Rome there dwelt, in days of yore, A painter deep in graphic lore.

His touch was firm, his outline true, And every rule full well he knew.

A Mars he painted, meant to show How far his learned skill could go.

The work complete, he call'd a friend, On whose good taste he could depend.

The friend was honest, spoke his thought, And fairly pointed out the fault, "That overwork'd in every part, It show'd too much laborious art."

The painter argued for his rules, And cited maxims from the schools; Still the judicious critic held The labor should be more conceal'd.

While they disputed on his stricture, A c.o.xcomb came to see the picture: Entering, he cries, "Good heavens, how fine!

The piece, I swear, is quite divine!

The sword, the knot, the belt, the leather, The steel, the gold, the silk, the feather, Are perfect nature, all together!"

The painter, reddening with despite, Whispers, "My friend, by Jove, you're right.

'Tis not enough our art to know, Till less of it we learn to show; My picture must be done again I see, to please discerning men."

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THE COBBLER AND THE NABOB.

A cobbler, who had fix'd his stall Against a nabob's palace wall, Work'd merrily as others play, And sung and whistled all the day.

A prey to many an anxious care, Less merry was the lord, by far; And often in the night he thought It hard, sleep was not to be bought: And if tow'rds morn he got a doze, The cobbler troubled his repose.

One day he bid the man attend-- And, "Well," says he, "my honest friend, How is it that so well you thrive?

You seem the happiest man alive.

Pray, what may be the profit clear, That you can earn within the year?"

"What in a twelvemonth I can earn, My lord, was never my concern; 'Tis quite enough," the cobbler said, "If I can gain my daily bread."

"Take then this note"--'twas twenty pound; "But sing not with so shrill a sound, Good man," the generous nabob cries, "When early to your work you rise; For then I want to close my eyes."

Delighted to his stall he went: But now he first felt discontent; All day he neither work'd nor ate, For thinking of his happy fate.

At night, when he retir'd to bed, He plac'd the note beneath his head.

But could not sleep a single wink, What he should do with it, to think; And every little noise he heard, That folks were come to rob him, fear'd.

Living in constant dread to all, Who did but look towards his stall, So lean and sallow he was grown, The man was hardly to be known.

At last he begg'd the lord to see: "Take back your present, sir," said he, "Riches, I find, are not for me.