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,
Whot 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!