The Valley Virginian. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1865-1895, 1876-01-06
III, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF NOR
tai BE PROUDa


The following poem was so great favorite with
President Lincoln that he had committed it to mem
ory and often repeated it, dwelling upon the solemn
thoughts with great seriousness and employing
Them with effect, as monitor in the midst of fat
teries and temptations. The lines written by
Scotch clergyman, named William Knox. who was
born in 1885, and died in 1asE The charm OF its num-
bers, the beauty and variet of its imagery and It's
faithfulness portraiture OF human life, render
the poem worthy of study and OF commentator.
In the present rendering two stanzas said to be
wanting, and some in construction have been
corrested.
Oh why should the spirit OF mortal be proud?
Like a swift-darting meteor, a fast-fying cloud,
As fash of the lightning, break OF hewave,
1t passeth from life to its rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Shall be scattered abroad and together be laid;
And the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall moulder in dust. and together shall lie.
The child whom mother attended and loved,
The mother that infants affection who proved,
Thehusband that mother and infant who pressed,
Each and all are away to their dwelling and rest.
The maid on whose check, on whose brow, in whose
eye,
shone beauty and pleasure, her smiles are gone by,
And the mem'ry Of those who both loved her and
praised
Are, alike, from the minds of the living erased
The hand OF the King who the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the Priest who the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
The Peasant, delighted 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 who enjoyed his communion with 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 flower and the weed,
Each withers away to let qshexa. succeed;
So the multitude comes, even this we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we're the same things that our fathers have
been,
We see the same sights that fathers have seen,
We drink the stream, and we feel the same sun.
And we run the same course which our fathers have
run.
The thoughts thinking our fathers did think,
From the death we are shrinking they also did
shrink,
To the life clinging they also did cling,
But it sped, and now speeds, Ike . clsad on the
wing.
They loved, but their story cannot unfold,
They scorned, but the lip OF the naughty is cold,
They grieved, but no wall from their slumber may
come.
They ioyed but the noise Of their gadness is done.
They died; ah they died, and we things that are
now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
But we make in their dwellings transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on the pilgrims high
road.
We weep and despond, midst it's pleasure and pain
And we mingle together in sunshine and rain,
And the smile and the tear the song and the dirge
Still follow each other, like surge upon SURGE
IT'S the wink of the eye. it's the draught OF the
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?