The following poem was written by William Knox (1789-1825).  It was said to be Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem and he would often recite it by heart. 

I thought it was a powerful poem, but I wanted to hear "the rest of the story".  What follows is my feeble attempt at a sequel to Mr. Knox's poem. 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

(Wm. Knox 1789-1825)

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeing 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, 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 memories of those who have loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

                                  

The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,

The brow of the priest that the miter 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, 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,

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 or the weed,

That withers 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 that our fathers have been;

We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and we view the same sun,

And run the same course that 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 that we cling to, they also would cling;

But it speeds for 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 slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

                                  

They died––ah ! they died––and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage-road.

                                  

Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, 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?

No Reason Mere Mortals Should Ever Be Proud

(Mark Hennessey)

No reason mere mortals should ever be proud

Except that our Lord shed the burial shroud

To show that the blossoms that wither and fade

In truth for the heavens were lovingly made.

No boast of the mortal, but of the Divine

A boast He allows us to cling to the Vine.

Far more than allowing, He begs us to see

How much that He offers to those who are free.

Free to accept or reject what He has

Free to be prideful in spirit whereas

Ungodly will claim that the truth which you see

May be true for you, but is not true for me.

How true the futility here on this globe

But oh, what a difference if deeper you probe.

Immortal the soul and how true this must be

For nothing on earth ever satisfies thee.

All vanity of vanities, Qoheleth says is true

Far more than what the earth will hold is what is meant for you

But here we have the right, for good or ill to choose

A life within the blinding Light, or Light itself to lose.

No feat that mere mortal ever has done

No prizes for physics or chemistry won

Is ever much more than a lazy old yawn

For the One who creates every morning the dawn.

All mortal possesses is only a gift

And his life on the earth always passes so swift

There’s no reason for pride in a thing he has done

For all was but given to him by the One.

But here is the one thing that’s worthy of pride

No matter how far we astray from His side.

His mercy and love for the mortals He’s shown

And prideful they be if He calls them His own.