Sacramento daily record-union. [volume] (Sacramento [Calif.]) 1875-1891, 1886-01-01
MIR. LINCoLN's FAvORITE POEM.

As is well-known to many persons, the ex-
quisitely beautiful poem entitled " Mortality"
was an especial favorite with Mr.. Lincoln. but
II is not so generally understood that the poem
was written by young Scotchman, who died
at 37-that age so fatal to Burns, Byron, Mother
well, and so many other children of song. one
evening in December, 1863 Mr.. Lincoln
repeated this poem to Colonel J. G. Wilson, then
in Washington, when the latter said, Mr..
President. you have omitted a portion of it,
What is there more of itg' responded Mr..
Lincoln, with as much eagerness as did the
ragged backwoodsman in the story of the Ar
kansas Traveller. YES sir, two other stanzaS:''
and he thereupon repeated them to the great
delight of the President. Z" Can you tell me
who wrote itT' asked Mr.. Lincoln, " for can't
find out. Some OF the papers attribute it to
me- q 1t was written" replied the Colonel,
able talent who died in Edinburgh in 1928. He
published several volumes of poems, and was
well-known 70 Sir Waller Scott, Christopher
North, of glorious memory. and to many other
of the literary magnates of that day. As the
poem has appeared incomplete in various jour
mails, we append 1t III full:
MORTALITY
oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud !?
Like n swift, fleetng meteor, fast-fying 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
the high.
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie
The infant and mother attended and loved
The mother that infants affection who proved ::
The husband that mother and infant who
blcst
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The maid on whose check, ON whose brow, in
whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her trinmphs are
And the memory of those that beloved her and
praised.
Are alike from the minds of the living erased
The hand OF the king that the scepter hath
borne;
The eye ofthe 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;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of
The sinner that 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 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 rum
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would
think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers
would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would
cling:
Bot it speeds for 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 nc wall from that slumber
will come:
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is
dumb.
They died, ay 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 that they met on their pilgrim
age road
Yes 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
IT'S the wink of an eye, it's 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 I?