Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1865-05-19
PRESIDENT LINcolNs EAvORIIE POEM.

Cabinet" has written a note in reference to a
poem much admired by Mr.. Lincoln. He says
I have been urged by several friends to send
YOU the enclosed poem, written down by my
self. from Mr. Lincoln's lips, and although ii
may not be new to all of your readers, the
events of last week give it now peculiar in
terest.
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 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 fayorite passages, show
ing genuine appreciation of the great poet. Re-
lapsing into sadder strain, he laid the book
aside, and leaning back in his chair, said
"There is a poem which has been great fa-
yorite to me for years, which was first shown to
me when a young man by friend, and which
I afterwards saw and cut out from a newspaper
and learned by heart. 81 would" 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 enclose to you. Greatly pleas
ed and interested told him would like if ever
an opportunity occurred, to write them down
from his lips. He said he would sometime try
to give them to me. A few days afterwards he
asked me to accompany him to the temporary
studio of Mr.. Swayne, the sculptor, who was
making bust of him at the Treasury Depart
ment. While he was sitting for the bust was
suddenly reminded of the poem and said to him
that then would be Il good time to dictate it to
me. He complied, and sitting upon some books
at his feet, as nearly as / can remember, wrote
the lines down one by one, from his lips.
With great regard, and truly yours,
F, B. CARPENTER.
on! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE
PRoUDi
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud :
Like the swim fleeting meteor, 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 will 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 and mother attended and loved;
The mother that infants affections 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 Sceptre hath borne
The byeWnfIbe .pgriest that IhRmituf hath 8QrJl;;
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot it was to sow and to reap
The herdsman who climbs with his goat up the
steeps
The beggar, who wandered in search ofhis bread
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, 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 streams and view the same
sun,
And run the same course 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 we are clnging they also would cling
But 1t speeds from us all like bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold
They scorned, but the heart of the naughty is |
cold;
They grieved, but no wall from their sumber
will come,
They joyed, but the tongues of their gladness is
dumb.
They died aye, they died 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 they have met on their pilgrim
age road.
Yea! hope and dependency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the
dirge
Still follow each other like surge upon surge
'Tis the wink of an eye, it's the draught of a
breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of
death;
Prom the gilded saloon to the bier and the
shroud-
Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud.