Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1885-05-28
LincOln's FavOrite Poem.

The following Beautiful poem was a
particular favorite with President Lin
coin, who often referred to it as enc OF
the finest productions of the English
language. 1t is related by Mr.. F. B.
Carpenter, the artist, that while engaged
in painting Mr.. Lincoln's portrait at the
White House, the President said to him
one evening: "The poem has been a
great favorite with me for years. 1t was
first shown to me when young man by
friend. The beauty of it at once struck
me, and learned it by heart. l weuld
give great deal to know who wrote it,
but have never been able to ascertain. :"
OH why should the spirit of mortal be
proud?
Like swift-hitting meteor, fast-fying
cloud,
A fash of the lightning, break of the
wave,
Man passes from life to his rest in the
The leaves of the oak and the willow
shall fade,
Be scatter'd around and together be laid;
And the young and the old and the low
and the high,
Shall molder to dust and together shall
die.
The child that mother attended and
loved.
The mother that infants affection who
proved.
The husband that mother and infant
who bless'd,-
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 memory 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 inter
hath worn,
The eye of the sage. and the heart of
the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the deaths of the
grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and
to reap,
The herdsman who climb'd with his
goats to the steep.
The beggar who wander'd in search of |
his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we
tread.
The saint who enjoy'd the communion
of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain uRfort |
given,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and
Have quietly mingled their bones in the
dust.
So the multitude goes. like the flower
and the weed,
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we
behold.
To repeat every tale that hath often
been told.
For we are the same our fathers have
been;
We see the same sights that our fathers
have seen,
We drink the same stream, and we feel
the same sun,
And run the same course that our fathers
have run.
The thoughts weare thinking our fathers
would think;
From the death we are shrinking, they
too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging to, they too
would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like bird
on the wing.
They loved. but their story we can not
unfold;
They scorn'd, but the heart of the haugh-
ty is cold;
They grieved, but no wall from their
slumbers will come;
They joy'd, but the voice of their gladt
ness is dumb.
They died-ay they died; and we things
that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over
their brow,
Who make in their dwellings transient
abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pill
grimage road.
Yea, hope and despondence, and pleas
ure and pain, Ii
Are mingled together in sunshine and
rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song
and the dirge,
Still follow each ether, like surge upon
surge.
'Tis the wink Of an eye, It's the draught
of breath,
From the blossom of health to the pale
ness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and
the shroud-
OH why should the spirit of mortal be