Now may the old joiner rest him—
Now his plane aside he lays;
God with one day more has bless’d him—
God his Maker must he praise.
Sitting where the lime-tree grows,
How he loves the evening fair,
While the spring-gale softly blows,
Sporting with his silver hair.
Soon two wand’ring comrades come,
Doff their caps with mien polite;
Beg that he will take them home—
They can do his work aright.
Does the first his service proffer:
“Bid me make an infant’s bed;”
Quickly comes the other’s offer:
“I’ll make coffins for the dead.”
One was like a lovely dame—
Red his lips—his eyes were blue;
Wasted was the other’s frame,—
Lip and cheek of ashy hue.
“Good,” exclaimed the master, “good!
Come, my comrades, hasten in;
Lodging I can give, and food,
And to-morrow you’ll begin.”
Silence all the house had bound,
Roof and door in night were buried;
Yet the master heard a sound:
Starting, from his bed he hurried.
From the workshop, as he slept,
Sure, the creaking plane he heard;
Tow’rds the spot he softly crept—
Keenly through the lattice peer’d.
E’en the flies in moonlight shone—
Hard at labour were the pair;
Strange! their tasks were nearly done—
Here the cot—the coffin there!
Rapidly the fair one drew
O’er the cot his glancing plane;
Sounding like a harp, it flew,
While he sang a lovely strain:
“Love for life and pleasure lays
In the cot, the tender child;
When on sultry paths he strays,
Love floats round him, ever mild.
Love for him bids roses blow;
When in sorrow, love is near him;
When he rests from earthly woe,
Love to heaven shall surely bear him.”
As he sings, the shavings yonder—
Mark—they curl to roses all;
And the master looks in wonder—
From his eye the tear-drops fall.
Now the second, wan and pale,
O’er the coffin draws his plane;
At each stroke it seems to wail,
And he sings a gloomy strain:
“Life to death—a constant tending;
Parting—for the pair that loved;
Efforts all—in nothing ending;
Human wisdom—folly proved.
For the hut that shields thee—fire!
For young cheeks—a deadly chill!
For each burning, fond desire—
One black coffin, cold and still!”
As he sings, the shavings yonder—
Mark—to bones they’re curling all;
And the master looks in wonder—
From his eye the tear-drops fall,
And his head he humbly bares,
Folds his old hands piously—
“Vain, О Lord, are earthly cares!
Grant a peaceful end to me!”
Morning glistens in the skies,
Tints the lime-tree with its red—
In his house the master lies,
Mild as ever, pale and dead.
But that night his child—the wife
Of a joiner—fair and true,
To a babe had given life,
Rosy-lipp’d, with eyes of blue.
And the workmen—where were they?
Without thanks, they both were gone;
But within the workshop lay
Cot and coffin, neatly done.
Here, the new-made coffin pressing,
Sleeps the master, good and mild;
There—may Heaven accord its blessing!
In the cradle sleeps the child.