Lincoln's Favourite Poem.

Otago Witness, Issue 1764, 12 September 1885, Page 24

Lincoln's Favourite Poem.

The following beautifnl poem was a particular favourite with President Lincoln, who often referred to it as one of the finest productions of the English language. It is related by.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 favourite with, me for years." It was first shown to me when a young man by a friend. The beauty of it at once struck me, aim I learned it by heart. I would give a great deal to know who wrote it, bnt never have been able to ascertain." Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? tike a swift-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightening, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. 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 moulder to dust and together shall die. * The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affeptionwho proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Bach, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek on whose brow, in whoße

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 sceptre hafch borne, The brow of the priest that the 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 nerdsman who climb'dwith his goats to the

steep, The begger 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 unforgiven. The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. Bo 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 has 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 wo are thinking our fathers would think ; From the death we are shrinking from, they, too, would shrink ; •Jo the life we are clinging to, they, too, would . cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the

wing. they loved; but their story we cannot unfold ; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no Wail from their slumbers will

come ; ■ They joy'd, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. They died— ay ! they died ; and we things that are

now, WhOiwalk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode. Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in>sunshine and rain ; And the smile and the tear, the eong and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis 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 ?