A bird by well-aimed arrow shot, Dying, deplored its cruel lot; And cried, "It doubles every pain When from oneself the cause of ruin's ta'en. Oh, cruel men, from our own wings you drew The plume that winged the shaft that slew; But mock us not, you heartless race, You too will some time take our place; For half at least of Japhet's brothers Forge swords and knives to slay the others." FABLE XXXVII. THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS. The Arts are birthrights; true, and being so, The fable to the ancient Greeks we owe; But still the field can ne'er be reaped so clean As not to let the later comers glean. The world of fiction's full of deserts bare, Yet still our authors make discoveries there. Let me repeat a story, good, though old, That Malherbe to Racan, 'tis rumoured, told; Rivals of Horace, heirs in every way, Apollo's sons, our masters, I should say: They met one time in friendly solitude, Unbosoming those cares that will obtrude. Racan commences thus,--"Tell me, my friend, You, who the clue of life, from end to end, Know well, and step by step, and stage by stage, Have lost no one experience of age; How shall I settle? I must choose my station. You know my fortune, birth, and education. Shall I the provinces make my resort, Carry the colours, or push on at court? The world has bitterness, and it has charms, War has its sweets, and marriage its alarms: Easy to follow one's own natural bent, But I've both court and people to content." "Please everybody!" Malherbe says, with crafty eye, "Now hear my story ere you make reply. I've somewhere read, a Miller and his Son, One just through life, the other scarce begun (Boy of fifteen, if I remember well), Went one fair day a favourite Ass to sell; To take him fresh--according to wise rules-- They tied his feet and swung him--the two fools-- They carried him just like a chandelier. Poor simple rustics (idiots, I fear), The first who met them gave a loud guffaw, And asked what clumsy farce it was he saw. 'The greatest ass is not the one who walks,' So sneeringly the passing horseman talks. The Miller frees the beast, by this convinced. The discontented creature brayed and winced In its own <i>patois</i>; for the change was bad: Then the good Miller mounted the poor lad. As he limped after, there came by that way Three honest merchants, who reviling say, 'Dismount! why, that won't do, you lazy lad; Give up the saddle to your grey-haired dad; You go behind, and let your father ride.' 'Yes, masters,' said the Miller, 'you decide Quite right; both ways I am content.' He took his seat, and then away they went. Three girls next passed: 'Oh, what a shame!' says one, 'A father treating like a slave his son!