I found this little jewel in a book on my shelf. It's from "Bible Characters" printed in 1902. It includes contributions from Dwight L. Moody, Henry Ward Beecher, Charles H. Spurgeon and others. It also includes six of the "grandest poems in print." Enjoy!
(This pride-humbling survey of man and his destiny was written by William Knox, a Scotchman.)
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,
Man passes 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 molder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blessed—
Each and all are away to their dwellings 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
Is alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the scepter has borne,
The brow of the priest that the miter has 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 who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
he sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingles their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes—like the flower or the weed
Thatwithers 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 our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
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 can not 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 the gladness is dumb.
They died—aye, they died—and we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies o’er 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?
Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passes 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 molder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blessed—
Each and all are away to their dwellings 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
Is alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the scepter has borne,
The brow of the priest that the miter has 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 who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
he sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingles their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes—like the flower or the weed
Thatwithers 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 our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
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 can not 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 the gladness is dumb.
They died—aye, they died—and we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies o’er 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?
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