Death and the Woodcutter

A POOR Woodcutter, covered with his load,
Bent down with boughs and with a weary age,
Groaning and stooping, made his sorrowing stage
To reach his smoky cabin ; on the road,
Worn out with toil and pain, he seeks relief
By resting for a while, to brood on grief—
What pleasure has he had since he was born ?
In this round world is there one more forlorn ?
Sometimes no bread, and never, never rest.
Creditors, soldiers, taxes, children, wife,
The corvée. Such a life !
The picture of a miserable man—look cast or west.
He calls on Death—for Death calls everywhere—
Well,—Death is there.
He comes without delay,
And asks the groaner if he needs his aid.
" Yes, " said the Woodman, " help me in my trade.
Put up these faggots—then you need not stay. "
Death is a cure for all, say I,
But do not budge from where you are ;
Better to suffer than to die,
Is man's old motto, near and far.