The Howard union. (Glasgow, Mo.) 1865-1866, 1865-06-15
A Poem Recitsd by Mr. Lincoln.
From the N. 7. Evening Post.


have been urged by several friends to
send yon the enclosed poem, written down
by myself from Mr.. Lincoln's lips, and al.
though it may not be new to Gall Of your
readers, his dastardly assassination gives it
now peculiar interest
The circumstances under which this copy
was written are these 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 mis- 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 favorite 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 poem that has been a great
favorite with me for years, which was first
shown to me when young man by friend;
and which afterwards saw and cut from a
newspaper, and learned by heart. Iwould,"
he continued, "give 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 inclose to
you. " y
With great regard, very truly yours,
F. b. CARPENTER.
OH WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL
BE PROUD ?
| Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud
Like swiftfeeting meteor, a fast flying cloud
A flash Of the lightning, break of the wave,
He passeth 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 tn,
high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infants affection who proved
The husband that mother and infant who blessed
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The hand Of the king that the sceptre hath borne
The brow OF the priest that the mltre 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 tn
| steep;
The beggar who wandered IN search OF his bread
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
So the multitude goes, like the flower or 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 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 have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers woulc
| thinks
From the death we are shrinking our fathers wolf
shrink;
To the life we are cnging they also would cling
But 1t speeds from US all like bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold
They scorhed but the heart of the naughty is cold
They grieved, but no wall from their sumber will
come
They joyed, but the tongue of. their gladness i.
dumb.
Yea hope and dependency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the drge
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
IT'S the wink Of an eve, 'tis The draught Of {
breath,
From the blossom Of health to the paleness Of
death,
From the gided saloon TO the bier and the shroud
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proudp