That would for friends his life lay down-- Than which I know no friendlier act. Four animals, in league compact, Are now to give our noble race A useful lesson in the case. Rat, raven, tortoise, and gazelle, Once into firmest friendship fell. 'Twas in a home unknown to man That they their happiness began. But safe from man there's no retreat: Pierce you the loneliest wood, Or dive beneath the deepest flood, Or mount you where the eagles brood,-- His secret ambuscade you meet. The light gazelle, in harmless play, Amused herself abroad one day, When, by mischance, her track was found And follow'd by the baying hound-- That barbarous tool of barbarous man-- From which far, far away she ran. At meal-time to the others The rat observed,--'My brothers, How happens it that we Are met to-day but three? Is Miss Gazelle so little steady? Hath she forgotten us already?' Out cried the tortoise at the word,-- 'Were I, as Raven is, a bird, I'd fly this instant from my seat, And learn what accident, and where, Hath kept away our sister fair,-- Our sister of the flying feet; For of her heart, dear rat, It were a shame to doubt of that.' The raven flew; He spied afar,--the face he knew,-- The poor gazelle entangled in a snare, In anguish vainly floundering there. Straight back he turn'd, and gave the alarm; For to have ask'd the sufferer now, The why and wherefore, when and how, She had incurr'd so great a harm,-- And lose in vain debate The turning-point of fate, As would the master of a school,-- He was by no means such a fool.[30] On tidings of so sad a pith, The three their council held forthwith. By two it was the vote To hasten to the spot Where lay the poor gazelle. 'Our friend here in his shell, I think, will do as well To guard the house,' the raven said; 'For, with his creeping pace, When would he reach the place? Not till the deer were dead.' Eschewing more debate, They flew to aid their mate, That luckless mountain roe. The tortoise, too, resolved to go. Behold him plodding on behind, And plainly cursing in his mind, The fate that left his legs to lack, And glued his dwelling to his back. The snare was cut by Rongemail, (For so the rat they rightly hail). Conceive their joy yourself you may. Just then the hunter came that way, And, 'Who hath filch'd my prey?' Cried he, upon the spot Where now his prey was not.-- A hole hid Rongemail; A tree the bird as well; The woods, the free gazelle. The hunter, well nigh mad, To find no inkling could be had,