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THE VALE TO YOU, TO ME THE HEIGHTS by Victor Hugo
     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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