The Carter In The Mire

: A Hundred Fables Of La Fontaine

The Phaeton who drove a load of hay

Once found his cart bemired.

Poor man! the spot was far away

From human help--retired,

In some rude country place,

In Brittany, as near as I can trace,

Near Quimper Corentan,--

A town that poet never sang,--

Which Fate, they say, puts in the traveller's path,

/> When she would rouse the man to special wrath.

May Heaven preserve us from that route!

But to our carter, hale and stout:--

Fast stuck his cart; he swore his worst,

And, fill'd with rage extreme,

The mud-holes now he cursed,

And now he cursed his team,

And now his cart and load,--

Anon, the like upon himself bestow'd.

Upon the god he call'd at length,

Most famous through the world for strength.

"O, help me, Hercules!" cried he; "for if thy back of yore

This burly planet bore, thy arm can set me free."

This prayer gone up, from out a cloud there broke

A voice which thus in godlike accents spoke:--

"The suppliant must himself bestir,

Ere Hercules will aid confer.

Look wisely in the proper quarter,

To see what hindrance can be found;

Remove the execrable mud and mortar,

Which, axle-deep, beset thy wheels around.

Thy sledge and crowbar take,

And pry me up that stone, or break;

Now fill that rut upon the other side.

Hast done it?" "Yes," the man replied.

"Well," said the voice, "I'll aid thee now;

Take up thy whip." "I have ... but, how?

My cart glides on with ease!

I thank thee, Hercules."

"Thy team," rejoin'd the voice, "has light ado;

So help thyself, and Heaven will help thee too."



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