The Two Doves by Jean de La Fontaine — Read

Two doves once cherish'd for each other / The love that brother hath for brother. / But one, of scenes domestic tiring, / To see the foreign world aspiring, / Was fool enough to undertake / A journey long, o'er land and lake. / 'What plan is this? ' the other cried; / 'Wouldst quit so soon thy brother's side? / This absence is the worst of ills; / Thy heart may bear, but me it kills. / Pray, let the dangers, toil, and care, / Of which all travellers tell, / Your courage somewhat quell. / Still, if the season later were -- / O wait the zephyrs! -- hasten not -- / Just now the raven, on his oak, / In hoarser tones than usual spoke. / My heart forebodes the saddest lot, -- / The falcons, nets -- Alas, it rains! / My brother, are thy wants supplied -- / Provisions, shelter, pocket-guide, / And all that unto health pertains? ' / These words occasion'd some demur / In our imprudent traveller. / But restless curiosity / Prevail'd at last; and so said he, -- / 'The matter is not worth a sigh; / Three days, at most, will satisfy, / And then, returning, I shall tell / You all the wonders that befell, -- / With scenes enchanting and sublime / Shall sweeten all our coming time. / Who seeth nought, hath nought to say. / My travel's course, from day to day, / Will be the source of great delight. / A store of tales I shall relate, -- / Say there I lodged at such a date, / And saw there such and such a sight. / You'll think it all occurr'd to you. -- ' / On this, both, weeping, bade adieu. / Away the lonely wanderer flew. -- / A thunder-cloud began to lower; / He sought, as shelter from the shower, / The only tree that graced the plain, / Whose leaves ill turn'd the pelting rain. / The sky once more serene above, / On flew our drench'd and dripping dove, / And dried his plumage as he could. / Next, on the borders of a wood, / He spied some scatter'd grains of wheat, / Which one, he thought, might safely eat; / For there another dove he saw. -- / He felt the snare around him draw! / This wheat was but a treacherous bait / To lure poor pigeons to their fate. / The snare had been so long in use, / With beak and wings he struggled loose: / Some feathers perish'd while it stuck; / But, what was worst in point of luck, / A hawk, the cruellest of foes, / Perceived him clearly as he rose, / Off dragging, like a runaway, / A piece of string. The bird of prey / Had bound him, in a moment more, / Much faster than he was before, / But from the clouds an eagle came, / And made the hawk himself his game. / By war of robbers profiting, / The dove for safety plied the wing, / And, lighting on a ruin'd wall, / Believed his dangers ended all. / A roguish boy had there a sling, / (Age pitiless! / We must confess,) / And, by a most unlucky fling, / Half kill'd our hapless dove; / Who now, no more in love / With foreign travelling, / And lame in leg and wing, / Straight homeward urged his crippled flight, / Fatigued, but glad, arrived at night, / In truly sad and piteous plight. / The doves rejoin'd, I leave you all to say, / What pleasure might their pains repay. / Ah, happy lovers, would you roam? -- / Pray, let it not be far from home. / To each the other ought to be / A world of beauty ever new; / In each the other ought to see / The whole of what is good and true.

Myself have loved; nor would I then, / For all the wealth of crownèd men, / Or arch celestial, paved with gold, / The presence of those woods have sold, / And fields, and banks, and hillocks, which / Were by the joyful steps made rich, / And smiled beneath the charming eyes / Of her who made my heart a prize -- / To whom I pledged it, nothing loath, / And seal'd the pledge with virgin oath. / Ah, when will time such moments bring again? / To me are sweet and charming objects vain -- / My soul forsaking to its restless mood? / O, did my wither'd heart but dare / To kindle for the bright and good, / Should not I find the charm still there? / Is love, to me, with things that were? [1]