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,