The Man, the Lion, and the Fly

There was a Man to wisdom dead Who took a mad thought in his head— ‘A second Hercles I,’ he said. ‘Behold,’ he cried, ‘I will go forth From east to west, from south to north, And with this knotted bludgeon bash The Things that Sting, and those that Gnash Blood-dripping teeth, and Giants glum So mighty that with finger and thumb They pick and eat chance passengers. And I will slay each thing that stirs To grief of man and dole of beast, Until the world from wrong released Pronounce me Emperor at least.’ But as he spoke, upon the way A casual Lion chanced to stray, Just as on any other day; And he, to measure of his thought In ready deed inferior nought, Sprang at him furious, and they fought. Three hours they fought, until the sun Ymounted in the vault begun To make them wish that they had done. ‘Friend,’ quoth the Lion, ‘or why foe Upon my word I do not know— If we fight more we melt, I trow.’ ‘A little grace,’ the Man replied, Wiping his brow, ‘is not denied; You’ll have but little when you’ve died.’ So each beneath a tree disposed Took ease. The languid Lion dozed. The Man, who should have done likewise (So says the Saga that is wise), Was waked each time he sued repose By a great Fly upon his nose. First in the one ear then in t’other The winged monster buzz’d with bother; The twitching tender nostrils tried, The corners of the lips beside; From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss, Like old dame in an omnibus; Delighted vastly to have met So great a store of unctuous sweat. At last to desperation driven The Man accursed the Fly to Heaven, And with his bludgeon great assay’d To stay the small annoying raid. Wielding to right and left he smote; But still the nimble Fly, remote, Laughed at his anger and enjoy’d Fresh perspiration. Thus annoy’d, His bludgeon broken on the tree, A helpless, weary wight was he. The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee; ‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man, To end the work the Fly began.’ And this (the Chronicler explains) Is why the Lion still remains.