FABLE LXVIII.
THE WAGGONER AND THE BUTTERFLY.
The rain so soft had made the road,
That, in a rut, a waggon-load,
The poor man's harvest, (bitter luck!)
Sank down a foot, and there it stuck.
He whipped his horses, but in vain;
They pulled and splashed, and pulled again,
But vainly still; the slippery soil
Defied their strength, and mocked their toil.
Panting they stood, with legs outspread;
The driver stood, and scratched his head:
(A common custom, by-the-bye,
When people know not what to try,
Though not, it seems, a remedy).
A Butterfly, in flower concealed,
Had travelled with them from the field;
Who in the waggon was thrown up,
While feasting on a buttercup.
The panting of each labouring beast
Disturbed her at her fragrant feast;
The sudden stop, the driver's sigh,
Awoke her generous sympathy.
And, seeing the distressing case
She cried, while springing from her place,
(Imagining her tiny freight
A vast addition to the weight,)
"I must have pity—and be gone,
Now, master Waggoner, drive on."
MORAL.
Do not admire this Butterfly,
Young reader; I will tell you why.
At first, goodnature seems a cause,
Why she should merit your applause;
But 'twas conceit that filled her breast:
Her self-importance made a jest
Of what might otherwise have claimed
Your praise,—but now she must be blamed.
Should any case occur, when you
May have some friendly act to do;
Give all your feeble aid—as such,
But estimate it not too much.