O why should the spirit of mortal be proud! Like a fast flitting meteor, a fast flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave -- He passes from life to his 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, and the low and the high, Shall moulder 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, Shown beauty and pleasure -- her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved 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. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that 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 we oft have been told. For we are the same things that 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 that our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from they too 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 their story we cannot unfold; They scorned -- but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved -- but no wail from their slumbers may come; They joyed -- but the voice of their gladness is dumb. They died -- ay, they died! and we, things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who 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, and the song and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge upon surge. 'Tis the twink 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 -- O why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
First published in Songs of Israel, published 1824. Confirmed with The Lonely Hearth, The Songs of Israel, Harp of Zion, and Other Poems, London: John Johnstone, 1847, pages 95 - 97. Appears in Songs of Israel.
Note provided by Melanie Trumbull: The 20th century corrected the misapprehension, eventually, of the late 1800's, that Lincoln himself wrote the poem; more recent scholarship rectifies this by recording that Lincoln recited this poem from memory and it was one of his favorites.
Authorship:
- sometimes misattributed to Abraham Lincoln (1809 - 1865)
- by William Knox (1789 - 1825), "Mortality", subtitle: "(Job, iii. Ecclesiastes, i.)", appears in Songs of Israel, first published 1824 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- [ None yet in the database ]
Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:
- Also set in German (Deutsch), a translation by Ernst Anton Joseph Zündt, Freiherr von Kenzingen (1819 - 1897) , "Vanitas", appears in Ebbe und Fluth: gesammelte lyrische Dichtungen ; composed by Gustav Jansen [not F. G. Jansen].
Researcher for this page: Melanie Trumbull
This text was added to the website: 2021-01-15
Line count: 56
Word count: 529
Was soll unser Geist doch voll Hochmuth sein! Wie Wolkengebilde, wie Blitzesschein, Wie ein sinkender Stern, wie die Woge sich bricht, Schnell trennt ihn das Grab von dem rosigen Licht. Wie von Eichen und Weiden der Herbstwind streift Die Blätter, und welk durcheinander sie häuft, So wird Jugend und Alter des Todes Raub, Der Fürst und der Bettler zerfallen in Staub. Das Kindchen, der Mutter theuerstes Gut, Die Mutter, der's eben am Herzen geruht, Der Vater, der segnend sie beide umfaßt, Sie alle erstarrten im Tode erblaßt. Deine rosige Wange, dein leuchtender Blick, O Mädchen, der Liebe, der Jugend Glück, Sie liegen im stummen, im finstern Grab, Mit ihm, der so glühende Küsse dir gab. Die Königshand, welche das Scepter trug, Der Priester, der Geister in Fesseln schlug, Der Weise, der Held, den der Dichter uns preist: -- Verloren, versunken, von Würmen verspeist. Der Bauer, der schwer sich durch's Leben geplagt, Der Hirte, der flink über Felsen gejagt, Der Bettler, der ängstlich die Gabe erspäht, Sie schwanden, wie Gras von der Wiese gemäht. Sie alle vergingen, wie Blumen verblüh'n, Sie wichen, daß And're nach ihnen sich müh'n; Nach Tausenden Tausend -- in Wonne, in Leid; -- Im ewigen Wechsel das Alte erneut. Was unsere Ahnen -- das sind wir auch heut': Dieselbe Natur unsre Blicke erfreut; Wir trinken vom Quell, an dem sie auch geruht, Es wärmt uns der nämlichen Sonne Gluth. Wir denken nichts Neues, was sie nicht gedacht, Wie sie, schreckt uns auch des Todes Nacht, Wir klammern wie sie an dies Leben uns fest, Das doch Alle im Fluge erlahmen läßt. Sie liebten -- die glühende Herzen sind kalt; Sie zürnten -- die Flüche sind längst verhallt; Sie weinten -- die Augenhöhlen sind leer; Sie jubelten -- Todte jubeln nicht mehr. Sie starben, ja starben -- wir wandeln dahin, Auf Blumen, die ihrem Moder entblüh'n, Sind Gäste des Hauses, das sie sich erbaut, Und schau'n, was die faulenden Wand'rer geschaut. O Hoffnung, Verzagen, o Lust und Pein, Ihr wechselt wie Regen und Sonnenschein, Mit Lächeln und Thränen, in Nacht und Licht, Wie Brandung auf Brandung am Strande sich bricht, Wie ein Athemzug nur, wie des Auges Blick, So kurz ist der Weg in das Nichts zurück, So kurz vom Palaste zum Todtenschrein: Was soll unser Geist da voll Hochmuth sein!
About the headline (FAQ)
Confirmed with Ernst Anton Zündt, Ebbe und Fluth: gesammelte lyrische Dichtungen, Milwaukee, Wis.: Freidenker publishing Co., 1894, pages 496 - 498. Legend under title: "Nach einem englischen Gedichte, welches dem ermordeten Abraham Lincoln zugeschrieben wird, 1865"; however the original poem is not in fact by Abraham Lincoln.
Authorship:
- by Ernst Anton Joseph Zündt, Freiherr von Kenzingen (1819 - 1897), as Ernst Anton Zündt, "Vanitas", appears in Ebbe und Fluth: gesammelte lyrische Dichtungen [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Based on:
- a text in English misattributed to Abraham Lincoln (1809 - 1865) and by William Knox (1789 - 1825), "Mortality", subtitle: "(Job, iii. Ecclesiastes, i.)", appears in Songs of Israel, first published 1824
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Gustav Jansen [not F. G. Jansen] , "Was soll unser Geist doch voll Hochmuth sein!", published 1865 [ low voice and piano? ], Berlin, Mendel [sung text not yet checked]
Researcher for this page: Melanie Trumbull
This text was added to the website: 2021-01-15
Line count: 52
Word count: 374