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,
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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."