Bedford inquirer. [volume] (Bedford, Pa.) 1857-1884, 1865-05-12
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A POEM RECITED BY MR.. LINCOLN.


A POEM REcITED BY MR.. LINCOLN.
Mr.. +. B. Carpenter gives the following
account of the poem we present below which
has now most melancholy interest, in view
of the sad fate of the President Mr.. Car
penter says: The circumstances under
which this copy was written are these j was
with the President alone one evening In his
room, during the time / was painting my
large picture at the White House last year.
he presently threw aside his pen and papers
and began to talk to me of Shakespeare.
He sent little Tad, his son, to the library
to bring copy of the plays, and then read
to me several of his fayorite passages, show
ing genuine appreciation of the great poet
Relapsing into sadder strain, he laid the
book aside, and leaning back in his chair,
said
There is a poem which has been a great
faTorite.with men for years, which was first
shown to me when young man by friend
and which | afterward saw and cut from a
newspaper and learned by heart. would, -
he continued give a great deal to know
who wrote it, but have never been able to
ascertain.
Then half closing his eyes he repeated to
me the lines which enclose to you. Great
ly pleased and interested, told him Iwould
like, ifeyeran opportunity occurred, to write
them down from his lips. He said he would
some time try to give them to me. A few
days.afterward he asked me to accompany
hlm to the temporary studio Of Mr.. Swayne
the culptor, who was making bust of him
at the Treasury Department. While he was
sitting Tor the bust, | was suddenly remin-
ded OF the poem, and said to him that then
would be good time to dictate it to me.
lie complied, and sitting upon some books
at his 1eet, as nearly as | can remember, /
wrote the lines down, one by one, from his
lips.
OIL WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL,
BE PROUD?
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like swift, feeting meteor, fast-Hying cloud,
fash of the lightning, break of the wave,
He passeSh 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 moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant mother attended and loved
The mother that infants affection who proved
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, away to their dwellings of Rest
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 up the
steep;
TL~ L~ss-- --h- :, ,a4sae4si svaren ori4rs Irc4a,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed
So the multitude comes, those we behold
re 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 and view the same sun
And run the same course our fathers hate 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 elinging they also would cling
But it speeds for us all, like bird on the wing.
They loved but the story We cannot unfold
They scorned, butthe heart OF Tie naughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wall from their sluInber win
come,
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladnoss is
dumb.
They aroa, aye tney die; we things that are
now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings transient abode,
Meet the things that are met their pilgrimage
read.
Yes hope and dependency, pleasure and pain,
Wa minge together in sunshine and rain
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge
sdn follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the wink Of eye, It's the draught of breath
From the bosom of health to the paleness of DEATH
From tIe gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud
Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud