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?