The Vale To You, To Me The Heights

 A FABLE. 
 
 {Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.} 


 A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird 
 Of Jove to drink: 
 When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd, 
 The moistened brink, 
 Beneath the palm—they always tempt pugnacious hands— 
 Both travel-sore; 
 But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands 
 Straight to each core; 
 As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call 
 Of Eagle shrill: 
 "Yon crownèd couple, who supposed the world too small, 
 Now one grave fill! 
 Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleachèd sapless bone 
 Becomes a pipe 
 Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone 
 By quail and snipe. 
 Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid, 
 And mortal feud? 
 I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo—none afraid— 
 In solitude: 
 At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood. 
 Kings, he and I; 
 For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood, 
 And he to me the sky." 
 
 H.L.W. 


 

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