Death And The Woodman





A poor wood-chopper, with his fagot load,

Whom weight of years, as well as load, oppress'd,

Sore groaning in his smoky hut to rest,

Trudged wearily along his homeward road.

At last his wood upon the ground he throws,

And sits him down to think o'er all his woes.

To joy a stranger, since his hapless birth,

What poorer wretch upon this rolling earth?

No bread sometimes, and ne'er a moment's rest;

Wife, children, soldiers, landlords, public tax,

All wait the swinging of his old, worn axe,

And paint the veriest picture of a man unblest.

On Death he calls. Forthwith that monarch grim

Appears, and asks what he should do for him.

"Not much, indeed; a little help I lack--

To put these fagots on my back."



_Death ready stands all ills to cure;_

_But let us not his cure invite._

_Than die, 'tis better to endure,--_

_Is both a manly maxim and a right._





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