A perpetual memory and other poems: By Henry Newbolt: With brief memoirs by Walter de la Mare and Ralph Furse and a portrait by Sir William Rothenstein |
 | I. |
Du Côté de Chez Renard
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 | II. |
 | A perpetual memory |  |
26
Du Côté de Chez Renard
A FABLE
Once on a night when magic of the moon
Lay broad on Exmoor like a fairy noon,
Up from his earth in Horner's secret glades—
Silent in silence, shadow among shades—
To the lone farm on the lone hill-side sleeping,
Reynard the Fox came creeping, creeping, creeping.
Lay broad on Exmoor like a fairy noon,
Up from his earth in Horner's secret glades—
Silent in silence, shadow among shades—
To the lone farm on the lone hill-side sleeping,
Reynard the Fox came creeping, creeping, creeping.
At edge of wood he stopped and sniffed the air,
Covey and hen-roost both he knew were there,
But lingering a moment in two minds
He heard the steady crunch of browsing hinds,
And saw the great stag taking snatch by snatch
His half-scorned tribute from the turnip patch.
Covey and hen-roost both he knew were there,
But lingering a moment in two minds
He heard the steady crunch of browsing hinds,
And saw the great stag taking snatch by snatch
His half-scorned tribute from the turnip patch.
“Fox,” said His Grace, “though somewhat under size,
You have been long reputed not unwise.
Counsel me, then—To-day I heard report
That men are minded to forgo their sport.
'Tis said in that new-fangled world of theirs
Where the hinds now conduct the stags' affairs,
War is forbidden, hunting is to cease,
And all live things may multiply in peace.
You have been long reputed not unwise.
Counsel me, then—To-day I heard report
That men are minded to forgo their sport.
'Tis said in that new-fangled world of theirs
Where the hinds now conduct the stags' affairs,
War is forbidden, hunting is to cease,
And all live things may multiply in peace.
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What shall I say, then—shall I disapprove,
Or take the lead myself and head the move?
Hunting does little harm that I can find,
But it wastes time, and sometimes kills a hind.
As for myself, I never look to see
A pack of hounds within two miles of me,
But if it suits you little beasts of fur
To have them banned, why should I not concur?”
Or take the lead myself and head the move?
Hunting does little harm that I can find,
But it wastes time, and sometimes kills a hind.
As for myself, I never look to see
A pack of hounds within two miles of me,
But if it suits you little beasts of fur
To have them banned, why should I not concur?”
Reynard replied, “Your Grace is much too kind
To take account of rabbit or of hind.
The question of importance, I will show,
Is whether wild life shall survive or no.
Consider, then—if your exalted rank
Does not disable me from being frank—
What can the red deer or the fox be worth
To the strange tribe with whom we share the earth?
Wood, moorland, combe,—our heritage we hold
Upon a tenure oldest of the old,
Rendering and paying each his annual scot—
Speed in the chase or savour in the pot,
Receiving too, for our mere livelihood,
Whatever we can find in field or wood.
Men grudge us this provision, call it theft,
Say that we pick, and they have what is left.
But here another sacred law comes in—
To shoot a red deer or a fox is sin.
We are forgiven then, and keep our place,
Pleading our privilege as beasts of chase.
But can we hope, when all these laws are gone,
That our immunity will still go on?
Duck, chicken, partridge, turnip, hay and corn—
All these are paid for now by note of horn,
Paid for time out of mind:—but when they're not—
When we are no more chased—we shall be shot.”
To take account of rabbit or of hind.
The question of importance, I will show,
Is whether wild life shall survive or no.
Consider, then—if your exalted rank
Does not disable me from being frank—
What can the red deer or the fox be worth
To the strange tribe with whom we share the earth?
Wood, moorland, combe,—our heritage we hold
Upon a tenure oldest of the old,
Rendering and paying each his annual scot—
Speed in the chase or savour in the pot,
Receiving too, for our mere livelihood,
Whatever we can find in field or wood.
Men grudge us this provision, call it theft,
Say that we pick, and they have what is left.
But here another sacred law comes in—
To shoot a red deer or a fox is sin.
We are forgiven then, and keep our place,
Pleading our privilege as beasts of chase.
But can we hope, when all these laws are gone,
That our immunity will still go on?
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All these are paid for now by note of horn,
Paid for time out of mind:—but when they're not—
When we are no more chased—we shall be shot.”
Up went the ten tines of His Grace's head:
“I did not catch the sense of what you said.”
“I did not catch the sense of what you said.”
“Pardon, my lord, not mine was the offence,
In men's affairs there is but seldom sense.
These countrymen of ours, being so humane,
From such extremes may possibly refrain.
They will not kill, but offer in the Zoo
A cage for me, a model moor for you,
Where we may multiply, secure from guns,
And nourish freedom on a dole of buns.”
In men's affairs there is but seldom sense.
These countrymen of ours, being so humane,
From such extremes may possibly refrain.
They will not kill, but offer in the Zoo
A cage for me, a model moor for you,
Where we may multiply, secure from guns,
And nourish freedom on a dole of buns.”
At that the deer their haughty heads all tossed,
And at a bound the moonlight field recrossed,
Flitting along the open moor as swift
As a light cloud before the wind may drift—
Till they were gone—whither I cannot say,
But still, I trust, to follow Nature's way.
Our old friend, Reynard, when the dawn was near,
Went home in the old style with Chanticleer.
And at a bound the moonlight field recrossed,
Flitting along the open moor as swift
As a light cloud before the wind may drift—
Till they were gone—whither I cannot say,
But still, I trust, to follow Nature's way.
Our old friend, Reynard, when the dawn was near,
Went home in the old style with Chanticleer.
| A perpetual memory | |