| Back to the list of fables |

The Mogul's Dream

(Recueil 2, Livre 11, Fable 4)



Long since, a Mogul saw, in dream,

A vizier in Elysian bliss;

No higher joy could be or seem,

Or purer, than was ever his.

Elsewhere was dreamed of by the same

A wretched hermit wrapped in flame,

Whose lot even touched, so pained was he,

The partners of his misery.

Was Minos mocked? or had these ghosts,

By some mistake, exchanged their posts?

Surprise at this the vision broke;

The dreamer suddenly awoke.

Some mystery suspecting in it,

He got a wise one to explain it.

Replied the sage interpreter,

"Let not the thing a marvel seem:

There is a meaning in your dream:

If I have anything of knowledge, sir,

It covers counsel from the gods.

While tenanting these clay abodes,

This vizier sometimes gladly sought

The solitude that favours thought;

Whereas, the hermit, in his cot,

Had longings for a vizier's lot."

To this interpretation dared I add,

The love of solitude I would inspire.

It satisfies the heart's desire

With unencumbered gifts and glad

Heaven-planted joys, of stingless sweet,

Aye springing up beneath our feet.

O Solitude! whose secret charms I know

Retreats that I have loved when shall I go

To taste, far from a world of din and noise,

Your shades so fresh, where silence has a voice?

When shall their soothing gloom my refuge be?

When shall the sacred Nine, from courts afar,

And cities with all solitude at war,

Engross entire, and teach their votary

The stealthy movements of the spangled nights,

The names and virtues of those errant lights

Which rule over human character and fate?

Or, if not born to purposes so great,

The streams, at least, shall win my heartfelt thanks,

While, in my verse, I paint their flowery banks.

Fate shall not weave my life with golden thread,

Nor, "neath rich fret work, on a purple bed,

Shall I repose, full late, my care worn head.

But will my sleep be less a treasure?

Less deep, thereby, and full of pleasure?

I vow it, sweet and gentle as the dew,

Within those deserts sacrifices new;

And when the time shall come to yield my breath,

Without remorse I'll join the ranks of Death.

Jean de La Fontaine

Book 11, Fable 4



© avril 2007 - Mentions légales - Maître d'œuvre Formalog.info - Réalisation webservice02 - D. Forest -