Year: 1865

Mr.. F. B. Carpenter, the well-known pain
ter, has written note in reference to poem
much admired by Mr. Lincoln. He says: II
have been urged by several friends to send
you the enclosed poem. written dow by
myself from Mr. Lincoln's lips, and although
it may not be new to all of your readers, the
events of the last week give it now peculiar
interest The circumstances under which
this copy was written down are these: was
with the President alone one evening in. his
room. during the time was painting my
large pictures 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 "Thad," his son, to the library to
bring copy Of the plays. and then. read to
me several of his favorite passages. showing
genuine appreciation of the great poet Re-
lapsing into sadder strain, be laid the book
aside, and leaning back in his chair, said:
There is poem which has been great fa-
vorite with me for years which was first shown
to me when young man by friend, and
which l afterwards saw and cut from news
paper, and learned by heart. would. he
continued, give great deal to know who
wrote it, but have never been able toascer-
tain" Then half closing his eyes he repea-
ted to me the lines which enclose to you"
OH WHY sHouLD SPIRIT 'xcsrAL r. PROUD
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud
Like swift, fleeing meteor, fast-hying cloud,
A fash ofthe lightning, break of the wave,
lie passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
De scattered around and together be laid;


And the young and the old, and the low and tho
high,


Shall moulder 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 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 .he 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
| step:


The beggar, who wandered ia search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed
That wthers 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 sec the same sights our fathers have seen


edrink the same stream and the same sun,
And run the same course fathers have


The thoughts we are thinking fathers would


think;


From the death we are shrinking our fathers would
shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story We cannot unfold;


They scorned but the heart of the naughty is old
They greved, but no wall from their slumber will
come;


They oyed but the tongue Of their gladness ID 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 that they met on their pilgrimage
| road


Yea hope and dependency, pleasure and pain,
We minele together in sunshine and rain


And the smile and the tear the song and the dirgs.
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
Ts the wink Of eye, tits the draught Of breath
From the blossom Of health to the paeness Of death
From the glided saloon to the bier and the shroud,
M x-hv shor1d the srir;t of mortal he nrouA