Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?

Oh

why should the spir­it

Of mor­tal be proud?

Like a swift-fleet­ing me­te­or

A fast-fly­ing cloud

A flash of the light­ning

A break of the wave

He pass­eth from life

To rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak

And the wil­lows shall fade

Be scat­tered around

And to­ge­ther be laid;

And the young and the old

The low and the high

Shall mol­der to dust

And to­ge­ther shall lie.

The child that a mo­ther

Attended and loved

The mo­ther that infant’s

Affection that proved;

The hus­band that mo­ther

And in­fant that blest

Each—all

are away

To their dwell­ing of rest.

The maid on whose cheek

On whose brow

in whose eye

Shone beau­ty and plea­sure—

Her tri­umphs are by:

And the me­mo­ry of those

Who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds

Of the liv­ing erased.

The hand of the king

That the scep­ter hath borne

The brow of the priest

That the mi­ter hath worn

The eye of the sage

And the heart of the brave

Are hid­den and lost

In the depths of the grave.

The pea­sant whose lot

Was to sow and to reap

The herds­man

who climbed

With his goats up the steep

The beg­gar

who wan­dered

In search of his bread

Have fad­ed away

Like the grass that we tread.

The saint that en­joyed

The com­mun­ion of Heav­en

The sin­ner that dared

To re­main un­for­giv­en

The wise and the fool­ish

The guil­ty and just

Have qui­et­ly min­gled

Their bones in the dust.

So the mul­ti­tude goes—

Like the flow­er and the weed

That wi­ther away

To let others suc­ceed;

So the mul­ti­tude comes—

Even those we be­hold

To re­peat ev­ery tale

That has oft­en been told.

For we are the same things

Our fa­thers have been;

We see the same sights

That our fa­thers have seen;

We drink the same stream

And we feel the same sun

And we run the same course

Our fa­thers have run.

The thoughts we are think­ing

Our fa­thers would think;

From the death we are shrink­ing

Our fa­thers would shrink;

To the life we are cling­ing to

They too would cling—

But it speeds from the earth

Like a bird on the wing.

They loved—but the sto­ry

We can­not unfold;

They scorned—but the heart

Of the haugh­ty is cold;

They grieved—but no wail

From their slum­ber may come;

They joyed—but the voice

Of their glad­ness is dumb.

They died—ay

they died!

We

things that are now

Who walk on the turf

That lies ov­er their brow

And make in their dwell­ings

A tran­si­ent abode

Meet the chang­es they met

On their pil­grim­age road.

Yea! hope and de­spon­dence

And plea­sure and pain

Are min­gled to­ge­ther

Like sun­shine and rain;

And the smile and the tear

The song and the dirge

Still fol­low each oth­er

Like surge up­on surge.

’Tis the wink of an eye

’Tis the draught of a breath

From the blos­som of health

To the pale­ness of death

From the gild­ed sa­loon

To the bi­er and the shroud—

Oh! why should the spir­it

Of mor­tal be proud?