Abraham and Thomas Lincoln

[David Lockmiller]

(02-04-2022 12:56 PM)Samuel Wheeler Wrote:  If you find the poet of this piece, please let me know!

This poem is also known as William Collins‘ Ode Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746. In 1745 and early 1746, the British army suffered defeat in one battle in Belgium and two in Scotland. How Sleep the Brave

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

~ William Collins (1721–1759)

William Collins (1721–1759) was a gifted and learned poet, but had to content with unfavorable circumstances and work amid uncongenial surroundings. Melancholy was his companion, and by the time he died, he was classified as insane.


It appears to me that Lincoln took from the poem what he needed and added what the occasion prompted.

Lincoln had a remarkable memory for poetry and prose.

And I share your opinion of Carpenter's work. On pages 50-51, Carpenter quotes Lincoln:

"There is one passage of the play of Hamlet which is very apt to be slurred over by the actor, or omitted altogether, which seems to me the choicest part of the play. It is the soliloquy of the king, after the murder. It always struck me as one of the finest touches of nature in the world."

Then, throwing himself into the very spirit of the scene, he took up the words:

"O my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't,
A brother's murder! -- Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And, both neglect.
. . . .
Try what repentance can; what can it not?
Yet what can it when one cannot repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O bruised soul that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels, make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees! And heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe;
All may be well!"

He repeated this entire passage from memory, with a feeling and appreciation unsurpassed by anything I ever witnessed upon the stage.