"Oh! Why Should The Spirit Of Mortal Be Proud?" [1865; 2 Feb 1866]
President Lincoln's Favorite Poem,
[Poetry by William Knox]
Copied By F.B. Carpenter, Esq.,
While Our Lamented Chief Was Reciting It.
Adapted To Music Expressly Composed by
C[ornelius]. Everest, [1820-1885+]

Philadelphia: Lee & Walker, 722 Chestnut St.
[Source: 005/062@levy;
http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/education/knox.htm;
see also 1865-@20001057@LoC/IHAS-CWM (includes CHORUS)]

1. 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 his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and willow shall fade,
Be scatter’d 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.

[CHORUS (omitted in the SONG version) sung twice after each VERSE]
Morning, noon and evening,
As I pine in vain.
Ever is my spirit breathing,
Shall we meet again?

2. The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blest,--
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

[==================>]
[Omitted in the song:]
The maid on whose cheed, 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 sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

3. 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.

[===================>]
[Omitted in the song:]
The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner, who 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 flow’r of the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed,
So the multitude comes-- even those we behold,
To repeat ev’ry tale that has often been told.

[====================>]
[Omitted in the song:]
For we are the same our fathers have been;
We drink the same stream, we view the same sun,
And 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, they also would cling,--
But it speeds from us all 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 will come;
They joyed -- but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died -- ay, they died; -- we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode;
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in 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?
[<==================]