A ghastly fowler plied his trade

Of horror in a forest; made

All living creatures hold their breath:

He seemed to them the god of death.

He had no comrade on the earth,

No friend, no relative by birth.

They all renounced him; he had made

Them do so by his horrid trade.

For you know

The dreadful wretches bringing death On those who love their living breath,

With natural repulsion (like

Fierce serpents) fill before they strike.

To snare, to imprison, and to drub

He took a net, a cage, a club,

And wandering daily in the wood,

He brought all creatures harm, not good.

While he was in the wood one day,

The sky grew black with clouds straightway;

So wild the wind, sb fierce the rain,

It seemed the world dissolved in pain.

Then, as the heart within him quivered,

And every limb grew numb and shivered,

He sought where might a refuge be,

And chanced to come upon a tree.

Now as he rested, near and far

In sudden-clearing skies, each star

Shone bright; and he had wit to pray:

“O Lord, be kind to me today.”

There was a dove upon the tree

Whose nest was in a cavity;

And since his wife was absent long

He grieved for her in mournful song:

“The wind and rain were very great.

And my beloved wife is late

In coming home. When she is not

At home, home is an empty spot.

“The house is not the home; but where

The wife is found, the home is there.

The home without the wife is less

To me than some wild wilderness.

“Some wives their life’s devotion give,

And in and for the husband live;

Whatever man has such a wife

Is heaped with blessings all his life.”

From fowling-cage the female dove

Had caught the speech of grief and love;

And she was deeply gratified,

And to her husband thus replied:

“No woman earns the name of bride

Whose husband is not satisfied.

If he is happy, she may know

The gods she venerates are so.

“That woman should be burned entire

(Like vines that fade in forest-fire

While blossoms drop from clustered side)

Whose husband is not satisfied.”

And she continued:

“Oh, harken heedfully, my dear;

My words are good for you to hear;

Though it should cost your life, defend

The guest who seeks in you a friend.

“Here lies a fowler; as a guest

He asks for comfort at your nest.

Since cold and hunger press him sore.

Begrudge him not from honor’s store.

And the Scripture says:

“Whoever does not give his best

To cheer the late-arriving guest

Will see his merit borne away,

And for the other’s sins will pay.

“Oh, let no hate against him rise

Who caged the wife you idolize;

It is my sins of former lives

That, fateful, hold me in the gyves.

For well you know:

“Disease, and poverty, and pain,

with woe that prison brings amain.

Are all the fruit of one sole tree,

Our own, our past iniquity.

“Abandon, therefore, thoughts of hate

Deriving from my captive state;

On virtue set your heart; and pay

This man such honor as you may.”

On listening to his darling, who

Seemed virtue-woven through and through,

An unknown courage fired the dove;

He gave the fowler words of love.

“A hearty welcome, sir, to you;

What for your service may I do?

No more let anxious fancies roam,

For here with me you are at home.”

In answer to his kindly words

Replied the murderer of birds:

“Well, dove, the cold is in me still;

Give me a remedy for chill.”

The dove then brought a bonfire’s sole

Surviving ember — one live coal,

And where a pile of dry leaves lay,

He kindled it to fire straightway.

“Now, sir, take heart; forgetting fear,

Resuscitate your members here;

Alas! I cannot put to flight

The cravings of your appetite.

“One patron feeds a thousand men;

One feeds a hundred; one feeds ten.

But I, whose virtue does not thrive,

Scarce keep my puny self alive.

“Ah, if you have not in your nest

Provision for a single guest,

Why occupy today, tomorrow

A nest that harbors naught but sorrow?

“I shall destroy my body, fain

To end its living with its pain,

That nevermore I stand confessed

Powerless to aid a needy guest.”

And thus he blamed himself, you see,

The greedy fowler went scot-free:

Then — “I may yet your craving sate,

If one mere moment you will wait.”

Whereat that creature free from sin,

Joy-quivering his soul within,

Walked round the fire, as it had been

His cherished home, and entered in.

When this the greedy fowler saw,

Compassion filled his soul, and awe.

He, while the dove was cooking spoke

What from his heart a passage broke:

None loves his soul, ‘tis very plain,

Who smears it with a sinful stain.

The soul commits the sin; and late

Or soon, the soul must expiate.

“My thoughts are evil; my desire

Is ever set on what is dire:

It needs but little wit to tell

I steer my course for ghastly hell.

“A moral lesson let me draw

From what my savage spirit saw,

The high-souled dove, that I may eat,

Has sacrificed himself for meat.

“Henceforth let all enjoyment be

An unfamiliar thing to me;

I’ll share the shallow water’s fate

In August; will evaporate.

“Cold, wind, and heat I will embrace,

Grow thin and dirty, form and face,

Will fast by every method known,

Seek virtue, perfect and alone.”

The fowler then apieces tore

Club, peg, net, cage — and what is more,

Set free the wretched female dove

Who sorrowed for her perished love.

But she, released from clutches dire,

Beheld her husband in the fire;

Whereat she gave expression so

To thoughts of horror and of woe:

“My lord! My love! What shall I do

With life that drags, apart from you?