Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1905-11-10
LINcoLws FAvoRIrE POEM.
o Why Should the Spirit Of Mortal ne
Proud7

ne cuppeu IL from a newspaper and
learned 1t by heart, and once said he
would give a great deal to know who
wrote 1t, but could not ascertain. He
afterward learned the authors name.
When In appropriate mood, the Presl-
dent often spoke OF this poem or re-
cited it to congenlal associates.
The author William Knox was an I'M
fortunate son Of genius, born in Rox-
burghe, Scotland, in 1883, his father hav-
ing been fairly prosperous farmer. The
young man received a classical education
at the University of Edinburgh, and then
undertook farming on his own account,
but with poor success, for, even when fol-
lowing the pillow, his mind was constantly
bent like that OF Burns, on poetic COM
position. In 1917 he gave up farming, de-
termined to follow a literary career, and
published, about that time, the result of
his poetic musings on the farm under the
title, THE Lonely Hearth" Sir Walter
Scott admired his genius and invited him
to Abbotsford but, as he says, found
Knox unfit for that kind OF society,""
partly owing to his dissipated habits.
Knox made a precarious living for q few
years by contributions Of prose and poetry
to magazines often begging a guinea of
Scott. He died in Edinburgh, at the age
of 36, in poverty, like Chatterton. He is
said to have had lovable temperament
and considerable humor, though the latter
trait does not appear in his poems There
was much in his character that would
have appealed to Lincoln.
o why should the spirit of mortal be
proud?
Like a swlft-heeting meteor, a fast-flylng
cloud,
A flash of the lightning, break Of the
wave,
The leaves of the oak and the willow
shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be
laid,
AS the young and the old, the low and
the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall
lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infants affection who
proved,
The father that mother and infant who
best
Each, all. are away to that dwelling Of
rest.
The maid on whose brow. on whose cheek,
in whose eye
Shone beauty and pleasure,-her tri-
umphs are by;
And the mem'ries of mortals 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
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 who enjoyed the communion
| The sinner who dared to remain unfor-
| given,
The wise and the foolish the guilty and
just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the
| dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower oil
| weed,
That withers away to let others sue
coed;
So the multitude comes even those We
behold,
To repeat every tale that has often beer
told.
For we are the same our fathers have
| been;
We see the same sights our fathers have
| seen;
We drink the same stream, we see the
same sun,
And run the same course our father.
have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our father
did think,
From the death we are shrinking oul
fathers did shrink;
To the life we are clinging our father!
did cling,
But it speeds from us all like the bird OF
the wing.
They loved,-but the story we cannot un
fold;
They scorned,-but the heart OF tn
naughty is cold;
They grieved,-but no wall from thei
sumbers will come;
They joyed,-but the tongue of theil
gladness is dumb
They died,-ay, they died;-we. thing
that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over thei
brow,
And make in their dwelling a transfer
abode,
Meet the things that they met on thei
pilgrimage road
Yea, hope and dependency pleasure an
pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine an
rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song an
the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upo
surge.
IT'S the wink of an eye; tits the drat
of breath
From the blossom of health to the pale
ness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier an
the shroud;
o why should the spirit Of mortal b
/ proud?
; HZEAUARF3N NEgA