Abraham Lincoln wasn't just an intelligent person or President, he was also a writer. President Lincoln first began writing poetry when he was around fifteen years-old. Like many school children, Abe day-dreamed during school hours; however, he didn't just doodle in books. He wrote poetry.
In Lincoln's arithmetic book, he wrote this short poem:
Abraham Lincoln is my nam[e] And with my pen I wrote the same I wrote in both hast and speed and left it here for fools to read
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But that wasn't all he wrote. During Lincoln's later teen-years and early twenties, he wrote what many that age often do, crude and satirical verses. He joined a poetical society and submitted many poems, but hardly any survive today. Nonetheless, Lincoln left many of his neighbors telling stories of his poems long after. One poem in particular, "on Seduction", has this little stanza as recalled by James Matheny:
Whatever Spiteful fools may Say -- Each jealous, ranting yelper -- No woman ever played the whore Unless She had a man to help her.
Another neighbor, Joseph C. Richardson, claims Lincoln wrote a poem based upon a revenge-prank he pulled on a family, the Grigsbys, who were neighbors of the Lincolns. The feud started when Abe's sister, Sarah who was married to Aaron Grigsby, died during childbirth. Later, when two of Aaron Grigby's brothers held a double-marriage, Abe wasn't invited. With Abe being Abe, he arranged for the brothers to be brought to the wrong bedrooms after the ceremony, where their brother's new wives awaited. The incident became known as the "Chronicles of Reuben", named after one of the brothers.
In subsequent years, Lincoln continued to write poetry, but none were as substantial as before. The last documented poem came in July 19, 1863 after the North's victory in the Battle of Gettysburg:
Gen. Lees invasion of the North written by himselfâ€” In eighteen sixty three, with pomp, and mighty swell, Me and Jeff's Confederacy, went forth to sack Phil-del, The Yankees they got arter us, and giv us particular hell, And we skedaddled back again, And didn't sack Phil-del.
Lincoln loved both reading and writing poetry. Sadly, most of his poems were discarded or destroyed over the years. Luckily, the few poems we still have are being read more than ever before. He may be best remembered as President of the United States, but to poets he is remembered for his mastery of words.
Lincoln's Poetry"My Childhood Home I See Again"
[I] My childhood's home I see again, And sadden with the view; And still, as memory crowds my brain, There's pleasure in it too. O Memory! thou midway world 'Twixt earth and paradise, Where things decayed and loved ones lost In dreamy shadows rise, And, freed from all that's earthly vile, Seem hallowed, pure, and bright, Like scenes in some enchanted isle All bathed in liquid light. As dusky mountains please the eye When twilight chases day; As bugle-tones that, passing by, In distance die away; As leaving some grand waterfall, We, lingering, list its roar-- So memory will hallow all We've known, but know no more. Near twenty years have passed away Since here I bid farewell To woods and fields, and scenes of play, And playmates loved so well. Where many were, but few remain Of old familiar things; But seeing them, to mind again The lost and absent brings. The friends I left that parting day, How changed, as time has sped! Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray, And half of all are dead. I hear the loved survivors tell How nought from death could save, Till every sound appears a knell, And every spot a grave. I range the fields with pensive tread, And pace the hollow rooms, And feel (companion of the dead) I'm living in the tombs. [II] But here's an object more of dread Than ought the grave contains-- A human form with reason fled, While wretched life remains. Poor Matthew! Once of genius bright, A fortune-favored child-- Now locked for aye, in mental night, A haggard mad-man wild. Poor Matthew! I have ne'er forgot, When first, with maddened will, Yourself you maimed, your father fought, And mother strove to kill; When terror spread, and neighbors ran, Your dange'rous strength to bind; And soon, a howling crazy man Your limbs were fast confined. How then you strove and shrieked aloud, Your bones and sinews bared; And fiendish on the gazing crowd, With burning eye-balls glared-- And begged, and swore, and wept and prayed With maniac laught[ter?] joined-- How fearful were those signs displayed By pangs that killed thy mind! And when at length, tho' drear and long, Time smoothed thy fiercer woes, How plaintively thy mournful song Upon the still night rose. I've heard it oft, as if I dreamed, Far distant, sweet, and lone-- The funeral dirge, it ever seemed Of reason dead and gone. To drink it's strains, I've stole away, All stealthily and still, Ere yet the rising God of day Had streaked the Eastern hill. Air held his breath; trees, with the spell, Seemed sorrowing angels round, Whose swelling tears in dew-drops fell Upon the listening ground. But this is past; and nought remains, That raised thee o'er the brute. Thy piercing shrieks, and soothing strains, Are like, forever mute. Now fare thee well--more thou the cause, Than subject now of woe. All mental pangs, by time's kind laws, Hast lost the power to know. O death! Thou awe-inspiring prince, That keepst the world in fear; Why dost thos tear more blest ones hence, And leave him ling'ring here?
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A wild-bear chace, didst never see? Then hast thou lived in vain. Thy richest bump of glorious glee, Lies desert in thy brain. When first my father settled here, 'Twas then the frontier line: The panther's scream, filled night with fear And bears preyed on the swine. But wo for Bruin's short lived fun, When rose the squealing cry; Now man and horse, with dog and gun, For vengeance, at him fly. A sound of danger strikes his ear; He gives the breeze a snuff; Away he bounds, with little fear, And seeks the tangled rough. On press his foes, and reach the ground, Where's left his half munched meal; The dogs, in circles, scent around, And find his fresh made trail. With instant cry, away they dash, And men as fast pursue; O'er logs they leap, through water splash, And shout the brisk halloo. Now to elude the eager pack, Bear shuns the open ground; Th[r]ough matted vines, he shapes his track And runs it, round and round. The tall fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice, Now speeds him, as the wind; While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice, Are yelping far behind. And fresh recruits are dropping in To join the merry corps: With yelp and yell,--a mingled din-- The woods are in a roar. And round, and round the chace now goes, The world's alive with fun; Nick Carter's horse, his rider throws, And more, Hill drops his gun. Now sorely pressed, bear glances back, And lolls his tired tongue; When as, to force him from his track, An ambush on him sprung. Across the glade he sweeps for flight, And fully is in view. The dogs, new-fired, by the sight, Their cry, and speed, renew. The foremost ones, now reach his rear, He turns, they dash away; And circling now, the wrathful bear, They have him full at bay. At top of speed, the horse-men come, All screaming in a row, "Whoop! Take him Tiger. Seize him Drum." Bang,--bang--the rifles go. And furious now, the dogs he tears, And crushes in his ire, Wheels right and left, and upward rears, With eyes of burning fire. But leaden death is at his heart, Vain all the strength he plies. And, spouting blood from every part, He reels, and sinks, and dies. And now a dinsome clamor rose, 'Bout who should have his skin; Who first draws blood, each hunter knows, This prize must always win. But who did this, and how to trace What's true from what's a lie, Like lawyers, in a murder case They stoutly argufy. Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood, Behind, and quite forgot, Just now emerging from the wood, Arrives upon the spot. With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair-- Brim full of spunk and wrath, He growls, and seizes on dead bear, And shakes for life and death. And swells as if his skin would tear, And growls and shakes again; And swears, as plain as dog can swear, That he has won the skin. Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee-- Nor mind, that now a few Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be, Conceited quite as you.Back to Abraham Lincoln biography