Fables in Song By Robert Lord Lytton |
 | I. |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| II. |
 | Fables in Song |  |
206
LX. SANS SOUCI.
PROLOGUE
Work! But when can I work, pray, when?
At morn? I have not yet done my doze.
At noon? But too heavy the heat is then.
At eve? But eve is the time for repose.
At night? But at night I'm asleep again.
Work? What is it? As I suppose,
'Tis the vain invention of idle men;
Whom the Devil could help to no happier plan
For getting thro' time, than this idiot trick
Of adding fatigue to fatigue; like a man
Who carries his boots at the end of a stick
Slung behind him, to add to the heat
And the weight on his back; as, with limping feet,
Thro' the flints that tear, and the thorns that prick,
He fares barefooted, and boasts he can
With such bootless trouble get on so quick.
If you chanced, as you wander'd, to meet with a brook
Flowing among the mountains, say
Would you hasten back to the house, and look
For a bucket to fetch the water away
Into the valley? Down from the hills
Let the water flow as the water wills.
When it gets to the valley at last, some day,
There will it stay, unashamed? or say
“To work! to work!” and begin with pain
To run up the hills and back again?
Enough is doing around it. Why
Should itself be doing aught? The sun
Reveals to it all that, up in the sky,
The weather is going to do, or hath done.
The moon will bathe in it by and by;
And the stars, that follow her one by one,
Seek and discover it,
Peeping thro'
Clouds that flow over it,
Changed in hue
By winds that o'erhover it,
Hid in the blue.
Barks, too, along it
From shore to shore
Will wander, and throng it
With sail and oar.
Each bending double,
With sweat o' the brow
From toil and trouble,
The rowers row,
But, how fast soever their oars may fall
The water, which takes no trouble at all,
Will still be the first to leap to shore.
And, what is more, when the voyage is o'er,
Will still be as fresh as it was before.
At morn? I have not yet done my doze.
At noon? But too heavy the heat is then.
At eve? But eve is the time for repose.
At night? But at night I'm asleep again.
Work? What is it? As I suppose,
'Tis the vain invention of idle men;
Whom the Devil could help to no happier plan
For getting thro' time, than this idiot trick
Of adding fatigue to fatigue; like a man
Who carries his boots at the end of a stick
Slung behind him, to add to the heat
And the weight on his back; as, with limping feet,
Thro' the flints that tear, and the thorns that prick,
He fares barefooted, and boasts he can
With such bootless trouble get on so quick.
207
Flowing among the mountains, say
Would you hasten back to the house, and look
For a bucket to fetch the water away
Into the valley? Down from the hills
Let the water flow as the water wills.
When it gets to the valley at last, some day,
There will it stay, unashamed? or say
“To work! to work!” and begin with pain
To run up the hills and back again?
Enough is doing around it. Why
Should itself be doing aught? The sun
Reveals to it all that, up in the sky,
The weather is going to do, or hath done.
The moon will bathe in it by and by;
And the stars, that follow her one by one,
Seek and discover it,
Peeping thro'
Clouds that flow over it,
Changed in hue
By winds that o'erhover it,
Hid in the blue.
Barks, too, along it
From shore to shore
Will wander, and throng it
With sail and oar.
Each bending double,
With sweat o' the brow
From toil and trouble,
The rowers row,
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The water, which takes no trouble at all,
Will still be the first to leap to shore.
And, what is more, when the voyage is o'er,
Will still be as fresh as it was before.
Lie on the bank, then! idly lie
Beside me, watching the wave flow by.
And, if Fancy follow it, heed not why.
Heed not why, and heed not where.
Fancy will find in the summer air
Whatever she seeks, for her home is there.
Let us open our hearts to the summer sky.
From mine I have let this fable fly.
Who knows where it may 'light? Not I.
Beside me, watching the wave flow by.
And, if Fancy follow it, heed not why.
Heed not why, and heed not where.
Fancy will find in the summer air
Whatever she seeks, for her home is there.
Let us open our hearts to the summer sky.
From mine I have let this fable fly.
Who knows where it may 'light? Not I.
I. PART I.
There were two brothers. And each of the two
Said to the father of both “Let us go
Forth and away, O Father, from thee.
For the world is fair: and eager are we
To be living there, with a life set free.”
And the Father said to his sons “Do so.”
But, first (for a mighty magician was he)
“My sons,” he said, “the world is wide;
What in it attracts you most, decide.
And then ask (ye shall get it) the gift of me
Which best for the choice of you each may be.”
Said to the father of both “Let us go
Forth and away, O Father, from thee.
For the world is fair: and eager are we
To be living there, with a life set free.”
And the Father said to his sons “Do so.”
But, first (for a mighty magician was he)
“My sons,” he said, “the world is wide;
What in it attracts you most, decide.
And then ask (ye shall get it) the gift of me
Which best for the choice of you each may be.”
209
And “O Lord our Father,” the sons replied,
“Even so! and to each, as the choice, be the dower.”
Then he carried them up where, in all its pride,
From the summit serene of a specular tower
Might be descried upon every side
The whole round world. And, opening at once
The magazines of his manifold power,
He said to them “Chuse, and use, my sons.”
“Even so! and to each, as the choice, be the dower.”
Then he carried them up where, in all its pride,
From the summit serene of a specular tower
Might be descried upon every side
The whole round world. And, opening at once
The magazines of his manifold power,
He said to them “Chuse, and use, my sons.”
The First made choice of a pair of legs.
Stout flesh and blood, no wooden pegs;
But legs of muscle and sinew strong,
That could do whatever a man's legs can.
“And with these,” quoth he, “will I get along,”
As he put them on and became a Man.
The Second laid hold on a sturdy root,
Pleased with its power of fixing fast;
Hid himself with it; and, shoot by shoot,
Became, tho' slowly, a Tree at last.
Stout flesh and blood, no wooden pegs;
But legs of muscle and sinew strong,
That could do whatever a man's legs can.
“And with these,” quoth he, “will I get along,”
As he put them on and became a Man.
The Second laid hold on a sturdy root,
Pleased with its power of fixing fast;
Hid himself with it; and, shoot by shoot,
Became, tho' slowly, a Tree at last.
The man in possession of that stout pair
Of human legs, by the help of these
Trod many a road, scaled many a stair,
Climb'd the mountains, traversed the seas,
Braved strange weathers, and breathed strange air,
Learn'd new manners, new languages,
Saw crowded cities, and deserts bare,
Felt the dogstar burn, and the polestar freeze,
Ransack'd earth for the far, the fair,
And yet nowhere on earth could the man find ease.
Of human legs, by the help of these
Trod many a road, scaled many a stair,
Climb'd the mountains, traversed the seas,
Braved strange weathers, and breathed strange air,
Learn'd new manners, new languages,
Saw crowded cities, and deserts bare,
Felt the dogstar burn, and the polestar freeze,
Ransack'd earth for the far, the fair,
And yet nowhere on earth could the man find ease.
210
For, wherever he thought to have settled, there
Something he noticed which fail'd to please,
Or something he miss'd which had pleased elsewhere.
And the worse he fared the further he went,
For comparison everywhere ruin'd content.
Those legs ran away with him: day by day
Wearing his life out; and wearing away
His boots; which to mend, he was forced to spend,
And, in order to spend, was forced to get,
And, in order to get, to earn by the sweat
Of his brow, the gold which in getting and spending
The man wax'd old; still wearily wending
That way thro' the world whereunto is no ending.
Something he noticed which fail'd to please,
Or something he miss'd which had pleased elsewhere.
And the worse he fared the further he went,
For comparison everywhere ruin'd content.
Those legs ran away with him: day by day
Wearing his life out; and wearing away
His boots; which to mend, he was forced to spend,
And, in order to spend, was forced to get,
And, in order to get, to earn by the sweat
Of his brow, the gold which in getting and spending
The man wax'd old; still wearily wending
That way thro' the world whereunto is no ending.
II. PART II.
Long tired of that long way, he sank at last
Worn out upon the wayside sod, beneath
A mighty tree; whose branches o'er him cast
Shade that was shelter, haunted by the breath
Of hidden flowers. A rivulet flow'd past
From out-of-sight to out-of-sight; and, flowing,
Call'd out calm sadness from the silence vast
Wherein hot noon was glowing.
Then did that old man feel thro' all his frame
A creeping rest. His legs, whose strength was spent,
Left him at last in peace; and he became
Careless and conscious of a vague content.
But, while he follow'd with incurious gazes
The streamlet flowing where aught pleased it best,
That melancholy, which in man's soul raises
Emotion born of rest,
Drew from the old man's eyes another stream
(Whose source was in his spirit) of sad tears.
And, as some spot which only in a dream
A man remembers, who forgets the years
That made it long forgotten, so to him
Return'd a memory of that mystic minute
When life's choice lay before him, with a dim
Desire of action in it.
Worn out upon the wayside sod, beneath
A mighty tree; whose branches o'er him cast
Shade that was shelter, haunted by the breath
Of hidden flowers. A rivulet flow'd past
From out-of-sight to out-of-sight; and, flowing,
Call'd out calm sadness from the silence vast
Wherein hot noon was glowing.
Then did that old man feel thro' all his frame
A creeping rest. His legs, whose strength was spent,
Left him at last in peace; and he became
Careless and conscious of a vague content.
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The streamlet flowing where aught pleased it best,
That melancholy, which in man's soul raises
Emotion born of rest,
Drew from the old man's eyes another stream
(Whose source was in his spirit) of sad tears.
And, as some spot which only in a dream
A man remembers, who forgets the years
That made it long forgotten, so to him
Return'd a memory of that mystic minute
When life's choice lay before him, with a dim
Desire of action in it.
“Alas!” he wept, “what wasted tears
Are these which weep my wasteful years!
And all this while, what have I done
But still from disappointment run
To disappointment? With what pain
What mountains have I climb'd in vain!
What flesh and blood these feet have left
On flinty peak, in thorny cleft!
How many a time these knees and shins
Have suffer'd for their owner's sins!
How often, falling bruised and sore,
With rage have I arisen once more,
To stumble on, I know not where
And know not how—such vagrants were
These worn-out legs! What have I gain'd,
Who, leaving all, have naught attain'd,
And naught have kept? I wonder how
It fares with my lost brother now.”
Are these which weep my wasteful years!
And all this while, what have I done
But still from disappointment run
To disappointment? With what pain
What mountains have I climb'd in vain!
What flesh and blood these feet have left
On flinty peak, in thorny cleft!
How many a time these knees and shins
Have suffer'd for their owner's sins!
How often, falling bruised and sore,
With rage have I arisen once more,
To stumble on, I know not where
And know not how—such vagrants were
These worn-out legs! What have I gain'd,
Who, leaving all, have naught attain'd,
And naught have kept? I wonder how
It fares with my lost brother now.”
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III. PART III.
Then sound that, flowing, follow'd sound
Rippled the leaves above him.
And the branches, bending down to the ground,
A canopied cradle wove him.
Rippled the leaves above him.
And the branches, bending down to the ground,
A canopied cradle wove him.
As still as a tired child that is taking
Sweet rest on its mother's knee,
The grey old man, neither sleeping nor waking,
Lay under the green old tree.
Sweet rest on its mother's knee,
The grey old man, neither sleeping nor waking,
Lay under the green old tree.
And was it brother speaking to brother?
For he heard the tender tone
Of a voice that seem'd not the voice of another,
Though he knew that it was not his own.
For he heard the tender tone
Of a voice that seem'd not the voice of another,
Though he knew that it was not his own.
It was sweeter than all other voices are.
It was not like the voice of a man.
It seem'd so near, and yet seem'd so far,
And it spake as no other voice can.
It was not like the voice of a man.
It seem'd so near, and yet seem'd so far,
And it spake as no other voice can.
IV. PART IV.
Softly it murmur'd “Dost thou know me not,
My brother? I, the Forest, I am he,
The one friend left thee in earth's one safe spot,
Whose love, where'er thou wanderest, waits for thee;
My brother? I, the Forest, I am he,
The one friend left thee in earth's one safe spot,
Whose love, where'er thou wanderest, waits for thee;
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“Outlasting all things for the loss of which
That love is consolation: gold misspent,
Youth wasted, hope impoverisht, to make rich
The thankless avarice of discontent.
That love is consolation: gold misspent,
Youth wasted, hope impoverisht, to make rich
The thankless avarice of discontent.
“Love faithful, love unchangeable, and fast
As is the root whereby 'tis fixt and fed!
Vainly the world, wherein no root thou hast,
Thou wanderest seeking what, when found, is fled.
As is the root whereby 'tis fixt and fed!
Vainly the world, wherein no root thou hast,
Thou wanderest seeking what, when found, is fled.
“And think'st thou I am solitary? Thou
It is who art a wandering solitude.
For from thy life away thy life doth flow,
And, self-pursuing, thou art self-pursued.
It is who art a wandering solitude.
For from thy life away thy life doth flow,
And, self-pursuing, thou art self-pursued.
“‘Not here,’ thou sigh'st, ‘I live, for life is there.’
Yet, hadst thou waited, life had come to thee,
Who, seeking life, hast miss'd it everywhere;
Whilst here, where rest is mine, life sends to me
Yet, hadst thou waited, life had come to thee,
Who, seeking life, hast miss'd it everywhere;
Whilst here, where rest is mine, life sends to me
“Momently messengers, that know the way
To find me, from the world's four corners come.
The winds, and clouds, and stars of heaven, are they,
And the sweet birds that to my heart fly home.
To find me, from the world's four corners come.
The winds, and clouds, and stars of heaven, are they,
And the sweet birds that to my heart fly home.
“Count me the emmets that go up and down
My creviced bark. Know'st thou what myriads move
In any blade of grass o'er which is thrown
The shadow of my power and of my love?
My creviced bark. Know'st thou what myriads move
In any blade of grass o'er which is thrown
The shadow of my power and of my love?
214
“What lurks and crouches under any stone
That nestles at my feet? What builds and breeds
In my least berry? Or what deeds are done
Even by my least distinguishable seeds?
That nestles at my feet? What builds and breeds
In my least berry? Or what deeds are done
Even by my least distinguishable seeds?
“The Tree stands steadfast, contemplating all.
Tree-trunk from tree-trunk earth holds safe and single:
But, weaving one etherial coronal,
Tree-top, in heaven, doth with tree-top mingle.
Tree-trunk from tree-trunk earth holds safe and single:
But, weaving one etherial coronal,
Tree-top, in heaven, doth with tree-top mingle.
“What buoyant bridges, which the squirrel knows,
How airy light, how delicately wrought,
The elm-tree to his beechen brethren throws,
Where branch with branch is mixt, as thought with thought!
How airy light, how delicately wrought,
The elm-tree to his beechen brethren throws,
Where branch with branch is mixt, as thought with thought!
“All this the Tree hath of the root he hath.
For whoso hath no root, no life hath he.
No path leads to him. And by every path
He from himself must needs a wanderer be.”
For whoso hath no root, no life hath he.
No path leads to him. And by every path
He from himself must needs a wanderer be.”
V. PART V.
Whilst thus the mystic voice yet spoke,
Harsher sounds thro' the forest broke.
And men came thro' it, and men came near,
With shoulder'd axe. “What do ye here
Intruders?”—“Ho! we hew down wood.
Idler, make way for Work!” They stood
Under the tree; and the axe was laid
To the root thereof; and the tall tree sway'd
To and fro, and then crash'd to the ground.
Harsher sounds thro' the forest broke.
And men came thro' it, and men came near,
With shoulder'd axe. “What do ye here
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Idler, make way for Work!” They stood
Under the tree; and the axe was laid
To the root thereof; and the tall tree sway'd
To and fro, and then crash'd to the ground.
The old man, stunn'd (but not by the sound)
About him gazed with bewilder'd eye
Over the alter'd earth and sky,
And “What is it,” he moan'd, “that is broken in me?”
As he follow'd his brother, the fallen tree.
About him gazed with bewilder'd eye
Over the alter'd earth and sky,
And “What is it,” he moan'd, “that is broken in me?”
As he follow'd his brother, the fallen tree.
Follow'd the tree to the timber-yard:
Learn'd the craft of the carpenter:
Plied hammer and saw, and labour'd hard,
Laid plank upon plank, join'd oak to fir,
Till the stately vessel slid from the slips,
Slid from the land, and slid into the sea.
There, with those new-gotten wings of hers,
To wander the waters—a ship among ships,
Who no longer a tree among trees might be,
And (a mariner, there, among mariners)
With the rest of the good ship's crew went he,
The man, not able to leave the tree.
Learn'd the craft of the carpenter:
Plied hammer and saw, and labour'd hard,
Laid plank upon plank, join'd oak to fir,
Till the stately vessel slid from the slips,
Slid from the land, and slid into the sea.
There, with those new-gotten wings of hers,
To wander the waters—a ship among ships,
Who no longer a tree among trees might be,
And (a mariner, there, among mariners)
With the rest of the good ship's crew went he,
The man, not able to leave the tree.
216
VI. PART VI.
On the sideless seas, in the middle hour
Of the savage and measureless night; when stars
By curdling clouds were quench'd, and a shower
Of stormy sleet thro' shrouds and spars
Shriek'd; and the grieved ship seem'd to cower
Under night's weight, as wild she ran
Across the cruel grey waves; the man
Lean'd his ear to the tree (which fast
Stood over him still, a mighty mast)
For the wood, with an inward moan, began
To writhe and heave: till there came at last
A thunderous buffet of wave and wind
That shatter'd the ship. And, swept by the blast
Into the murtherous midnight, blind
With madden'd weather, clinging together,
O'er the headlong sea the man and the tree
Drifted to shore on a desert isle.
Of the savage and measureless night; when stars
By curdling clouds were quench'd, and a shower
Of stormy sleet thro' shrouds and spars
Shriek'd; and the grieved ship seem'd to cower
Under night's weight, as wild she ran
Across the cruel grey waves; the man
Lean'd his ear to the tree (which fast
Stood over him still, a mighty mast)
For the wood, with an inward moan, began
To writhe and heave: till there came at last
A thunderous buffet of wave and wind
That shatter'd the ship. And, swept by the blast
Into the murtherous midnight, blind
With madden'd weather, clinging together,
O'er the headlong sea the man and the tree
Drifted to shore on a desert isle.
The ship and the crew had perisht meanwhile.
But the man was alive: and the tree (twice dead)
Which had saved him, still protected him.
For of part thereof, to shelter his head,
A roof he wrought; and each dripping limb
He dried and warm'd at the fire he made
Of the rest of the wood. And when morning rose
Over the reefs, with ravage spread,
As tho' on a world all newly made,
And smiling, safe from its last birth-throes,
In freshness, sweetness, light, and repose,
The man, left lone in the desert, said
“Oh what a release! to be left in peace
By all that trouble of tiller and tackle,
The captain's cries, and the shipmen's cackle!
Each rope and sail, and yard and shroud,
That, in calm or gale, no quiet allow'd,
But must ever be shifted that way and this
For fear of shipwreck; which, all the same,
In spite of our trouble and caution came.
And oh how delicious the freedom is
From all care henceforth of the cargo that's gone,
Or the ship, that is sunk, or the voyage, that's done!”
But the man was alive: and the tree (twice dead)
Which had saved him, still protected him.
For of part thereof, to shelter his head,
A roof he wrought; and each dripping limb
He dried and warm'd at the fire he made
Of the rest of the wood. And when morning rose
Over the reefs, with ravage spread,
217
And smiling, safe from its last birth-throes,
In freshness, sweetness, light, and repose,
The man, left lone in the desert, said
“Oh what a release! to be left in peace
By all that trouble of tiller and tackle,
The captain's cries, and the shipmen's cackle!
Each rope and sail, and yard and shroud,
That, in calm or gale, no quiet allow'd,
But must ever be shifted that way and this
For fear of shipwreck; which, all the same,
In spite of our trouble and caution came.
And oh how delicious the freedom is
From all care henceforth of the cargo that's gone,
Or the ship, that is sunk, or the voyage, that's done!”
VII. PART VII.
Years, long afterwards, mariners, driven
By stress of weather, touch'd on that isle,
Where their ship had found a natural haven
Hidden from howling storms. And while
The desert, in search of springs, they roved,
In the desert they found a fallen pile
Of spars and planks; whose structure proved
That a human hand had fashion'd and hewn
That pile, long since by the sea-winds strewn.
And, under the ruins which once were a hut
(Safe from the ruining sea-winds shut)
A dead man lay. And the dead man's face
Yet wore, in its features worn, that trace
Which a life in the waste cannot all efface
Of a life once lived in busier lands.
By stress of weather, touch'd on that isle,
Where their ship had found a natural haven
Hidden from howling storms. And while
The desert, in search of springs, they roved,
In the desert they found a fallen pile
Of spars and planks; whose structure proved
That a human hand had fashion'd and hewn
That pile, long since by the sea-winds strewn.
218
(Safe from the ruining sea-winds shut)
A dead man lay. And the dead man's face
Yet wore, in its features worn, that trace
Which a life in the waste cannot all efface
Of a life once lived in busier lands.
The mariners buried with pious hands
That dead man's dust in the desert sands.
And, since they found two spars of a tree
Which none of the island trees could be
(Parts they seem'd of a broken mast,
Haply to shore with the dead man cast)
They set them, crosswise, above the grave
Of their fellow-creature; in sign of the faith
Which, finding but death in life, men have
That man's spirit is made for a life in death.
That dead man's dust in the desert sands.
And, since they found two spars of a tree
Which none of the island trees could be
(Parts they seem'd of a broken mast,
Haply to shore with the dead man cast)
They set them, crosswise, above the grave
Of their fellow-creature; in sign of the faith
Which, finding but death in life, men have
That man's spirit is made for a life in death.
It was the last protection that the tree
Could give the man, his brother.
And ah, if helpless that protection be,
What help in any other?
Could give the man, his brother.
And ah, if helpless that protection be,
What help in any other?
| Fables in Song | |