University of Virginia Library

PART I.

Two friends in search of Fortune once set out
Together. And, for many and many a day,
Up hill, down dale, and all the land about,
Ever in search of Fortune wander'd they,
Till both were tired. Then one sat down, and sigh'd,
“Of finding Fortune I begin to doubt,
And fear we may have taken the wrong way.
How say you, friend?” The other one replied,
“It seems, indeed, that we have gone astray,
For here of Fortune is no trace, in truth.
But there stands one, may haply tell us yet
Which side to turn. Look yonder!” 'Twas a youth
Who in the crossway stood where two roads met,
And by the bridle held in either hand
A horse. Himself was looking eagerly
To right and left, both ways across the land,
And seem'd to wait for some one. “Holla, boy!
Hast seen Dame Fortune pass this way?” “'Twas she
That bade me here remain (for my employ
Is to obey her) until I should see
Two travellers coming, who would ask for her.
And, by the question ye have asked of me,
My charge, I doubt not, doth to you refer.
To whom, as soon as seen, her orders were
That I should give these steeds, which saddled be
For you to mount. One steed to each.”—“O rare
Good Fortune!” cried the grateful twain. “Say how
May we our benefactress find? and where?”
“Nay,” said the lad, “that's more, sirs, than I know.
She bade me say her way lies here and there,
And it is yours to find her.” Now, the two
(Because they could not both together fare
By different ways, and had no indication
On which side Fortune waited) thereupon
Reluctantly resolved on separation,
Each following Fortune his own way, alone.
For at the point where they took horse, the road
Split into two, which from the self-same spot
Led right and left; and not a sign-post show'd
Which was the road to Fortune, which was not.

PART II.

The first of the twain then gallop'd amain
Till he came to the nearest town.
And there he was fain to throw up the rein
At the first inn door, and get down.
For his horse was tired; as he was, too;
And of rest and food they were both in need,
Ere they could their journey again pursue.
So there they waited to rest and feed.
But, when horse and man had their strength renew'd,
They started again, and again pursued
The chase; tho' in vain; for thus ever again,
As from city to city they journey'd fast,
With each fresh fatigue there was need, for the twain,
Of a fresh repose and a fresh repast;
Till the horse fell lame of a double sprain,
And the man had no money left at last.
To prison he must have gone, no doubt,
If his host (surmising he might do worse,
When the man had his reckoning all run out)
Had not taken in payment the founder'd horse.
“Ah, scurvy Fortune!” the traveller said,
“This is what comes at the last, I see,”
(And the poor wretch ruefully shook his head)
“Of running about in search of thee.
Here am I, ruin'd, and half-starved dead!
And what is henceforth to become of me?”
The host heard this, and “Both board and bed
You may earn, if you will. Rest here,” said he.
“Who works for his bread hath a right to be fed.
And that's better than starving, or stealing, at least.
Take service with me. And endeavour to be
Of some use now to this broken-down beast
You have used so ill.” Tho' it be but stale,
Sweeter, no doubt, than the bread of the jail
Is the bread that is earn'd. To his evil case
Our traveller had no choice but submit
With a grieving heart and a grateful face,
And, bitterly earning his daily bit
Of bread, and his nightly truss of straw
(For the moneyless man must work, if he can,
And to jail, if he can't, and that is the law)
The master-turn'd-servant now served, alas,
The brute that had brought him to this sad pass.

PART III.

Time fled. To the door of that inn one day,
Came, at nightfall, a carriage with horses four.
Wealthy and healthy, good-humour'd and gay,
Did its occupant look. Never counting the score,
For his supper he order'd the choicest and best
That mine host could procure for so noble a guest;
And, as soon as the landlord had shown him his room,
Enquired if he happen'd to know of a lad
He could recommend as a stable groom.
Said mine host, “Tho' to lose him, your worship, I'm sad,
There's a poor fellow here I can well recommend.”
Then for Fortune's unfortunate follower (glad
To get rid of him thus) the rogue hasten'd to send.
For he thought to himself “What a lucky chance,
To oblige a man of such station
By the much-desired deliverance
From that beggar's prolong'd starvation!”
But fancy the face of the rascal, when
To his wonder he witness'd those two men
(His great rich guest and his stable boy)
With a cry of recognition and joy
Rush into the arms of one another,
As the first exclaim'd, “O friend! O brother!
Have I found thee at last? I have sought thee long.
And how changed, dear friend! Hast thou suffer'd wrong?”
Mine host would have spoken. But here the door
Was shut in his face, and he heard no more.

PART IV.

What he might have heard, had his wealthy guest
Not lock'd him out that he should not hear,
Was (after the poor man's joy was express'd
At tasting once more in his life good cheer,
And feeling his hand by a good friend press'd)
The admiring question, “But tell me, pray,
Since you have discover'd it, favour'd one,
The way to Fortune.” “I know no way”
The other replied, “tho' to Fortune alone,
My wealth I owe.” “By what lucky chance?
A lottery?—or an inheritance?”
“The latter. That horse which she gave me
Is dead long since, and I am his heir.”
“The heir of a horse, friend? How can that be?
The same, to look at, our two steeds were.
Mine's now but a damaged beast, as you see.
How happens it yours was a millionaire?”
“Listen. I gallop'd at first, like you;
But, perceiving, after a day or two,
That I lost my labour, and, what was worse,
Without filling my belly had emptied my purse,
I began to consider the shortest way
Of simply getting from day to day.
Now, for this mine own two legs would do
Just as well as my horse's four; and so
‘I'll kill him,’ I thought, ‘and the skin of the beast
Will make me, to still jog on, at least
A dozen stout pairs of shoes; and they
Will cost me nothing for corn or hay?’
So said, so done. My horse I slew.
His flesh for meat to the butcher I sold,
And his tail to a Pacha who, having but two,
Had set his heart on a third. With the gold
Which I got thereby, a barrow I bought
To carry my merchandise about.
For out of the hide of my horse I had wrought
More shoes than I needed, and all were stout.
These others I sold, and increased my store.
And when my stock of leather was out,
As the folk were still eager to purchase more,
Said I again to myself, ‘No doubt
It were better for me, so long as my door
The people with purse in hand importune,
Daily to purchase my wares by the score,
If, instead of still running after Fortune,
And so wearing mine own shoes into holes,
I stay where I am, and provide stout soles
For the feet of the fools who to find her fare
By all manner of ways, a motley host.
Since founder'd horses are not so rare
But what I may get them at no great cost.’
It is thus that at last, having beaten dead,
Without riding one of them, horse upon horse,
I find myself where I am, at the head
Of a flourishing business. Leather, of course.
So, in search of Fortune not needing to spend
My days as of old, when we sought her together,
I set out, as you see, to seek after my friend.
And, not having lost anything, even leather,
Both the one and the other I now find mine.
So here's to Fortune! and pass me the wine.
For what's mine is yours: and we'll share it now,
Old friend, as to seek it of yore we toil'd
Side by side.” Then the poor man cried,
As his lean cheek flush'd with a grateful glow,
“I thank thee, Fortune! for now I see
That the best of thy gifts thou hast saved for me,
A friend whom thy favours have not spoil'd!”

EPILOGUE

(INSTEAD OF A MORAL),

The Fabulist's a pedant, whose profession
Is, with the plainest most precise expression,
To preach in all ways, unto all mankind,
“Be wise, and good!” Well for him, if we find
Those speaking contrasts in his text, which spare
The preacher's pains, and of themselves declare
The preacher's purpose! Well, if, on his way,
One with its load, the other with its lay,
Emmet and grasshopper do chance to pass,
Or royal lion and ridiculous ass,
Or crafty fox and over-credulous crow!
For contrasts, clear as these, have but to show
Their faces to us; and, as soon as seen,
All's understood. Moreover, men, I ween,
Without resentment, nay, with laughter glad,
First see their foibles when they see them clad
In fur and feathers, or in hoof and hide.
But ah! not always doth kind Chance provide
Such fortunate occurrences to him
Who pries not only into corners dim
For secret treasures, but in field and street
Questions whatever he may chance to meet;
And often for an answer waits in vain,
Or gets one he is puzzled to explain.
So aid me, Gentle Reader! Staff in hand,
And nose in air, I roam thro' Fable Land;
And sniff the passing wind, and tap the ground,
Ready to seize on all that's to be found;
Keen as a sportsman who, with bag and gun,
In search of game goes beating, one by one,
The bushes all. My prey escapes me not.
But this time there falls only to my shot
A moral tale—too moral thro' and thro'
It may be, for a moral tail thereto.
Naught do I scorn, but all that comes I greet.
And, even as swallows, when the air is sweet,
And Spring's abroad, flit swiftly to and fro,
Come and then vanish ere a man cries “lo!”
So flit these fables, a wing-woven mist,
Before the fancy of the fabulist.
This came, as came the others; on light wing
Swiftly appearing, swiftly vanishing,
'Twixt two unknowns. I caught it as it past.
“O swallow, swallow, since I hold thee fast,
Tell me thy secret ere I let thee go!”
Thus ever hath it been my wont to do
With these light-wingèd visitants from far,
And sometimes long delay'd their answers are.
But this was in a hurry to be gone,
And answer'd quickly, “Secret have I none.
What can I tell thee which thou dost not see?
Two wings hath Fortune also given to me,
Which now are fluttering to be far away.
Loose me, and let me use them while I may!”
Surprised, I loosed the bird. Away it flew.
And with it fled away the moral too:
Dropping this counsel, as I watch'd it flit
Like Fortune's self—not to run after it.