The Carter Stuck in the Mud

								
A Phaeton, who drove a load of hay,
Found himself in the mud stuck hard and fast:
Poor man! from all assistance far away.
(In Lower Brittany he had been cast,
Near Quimper-Corentin, and all may know
'Tis there that Destiny sends folks she hates.
God keep us from such journey here below!)
But to return. The Carter, in the mire,
Rages and swears, and foams and execrates--
His eyes wild rolling, and his face on fire;
Curses the holes, the horses, every stone,

The cart, and then himself. The god he prays,
Whose mighty labours through the world are known:
"O Hercules! send present aid," he says;
"If thy broad back once bore this mighty sphere,
Thy arm can drag me out." His prayer he ends.
Then came a voice from out a cloud quite near:
"To those who strive themselves he succour lends.
Work, and find out where the obstruction lies;
Remove this bird-lime mud you curse so hot;
Clear axle-tree and wheel--be quick and wise;
Take up the pick, and break that flint--why not?
Fill up that yawning rut. Now, is it done?"
"Yes," said the man; and then the voice replied,
"Now I can help you; take your whip, my son."
"I've got it. Hallo! here; what's this?" he cried;
"My cart goes nicely--praise to Hercules."
And then the voices--"You see how readily
Your horses got clear out of jeopardy."
To those who help themselves the gods send help and ease.
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