Why Should The Spirit Of Mortal Be Proud?
(This is said to be Lincoln’s favorite poem.)
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whoee cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed,
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, like, those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the things our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,
And run the same course that our fathers have run.
They died,—ay! they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.
‘Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,
From the bosom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
—William Knox.
Alternate Reading: John 14:15-31.