Death at the End. Would I were dead and lying in my grave, At rest from fretting doubts and carking cares, Be kind, oh Heaven, and listen to my prayers ; Grant me the only favour that I crave— Six feet by three of earth to hide my dust : I ask no tombstone or memorial bust ; I ask for death ; what is beyond I’ll brave. Little of good or evil have I wrought ; No happiness or pleasure have I known But it hath been with sorrow intersown ; All hath slipt from my grasp that I most sought. My life, though short in years, is long in grief ; Night follows day, but brings me no relief, And passing years have only sorrow brought. There is one goal to which our courses tend ; The way lies over mountains, torrents, plains, Through velvet pastures and quiet country lanes : To some the pleasant scenes enjoyment lend, While others weary toil up rocky slopes Dejectedly, and almost void of hopes. But one fate waits for all—Death at the End.