Death
Eddie died one month short of his fourth birthday. Although census records list "chronic consumption" (tuberculosis) as the cause of death, it has been suggested that Eddie died of medullary thyroid cancer as his father and two of his brothers may have shared part of the genetic cancer syndrome multiple endocrine neoplasia, type 2B.
Eddie's remains are buried at Lincoln Tomb at Oak Ridge Cemetery in Springfield, Illinois, USA. Both parents were devastated. Some historians believe Eddie's death began Mary Todd's journey to instability. A week after Eddie's death, Mary and Abraham wrote a poem (though authorship is sometimes questioned) entitled "Little Eddie." It was printed in the Illinois State Journal newspaper.
Those midnight stars are sadly dimmed,
That late so brilliantly shone,
And the crimson tinge from cheek and lip,
With the heart's warm life has flown -
The angel of Death was hovering nigh,
And the lovely boy was called to die.
The silken waves of his glossy hair
Lie still over his marble brow,
And the pallid lip and pearly cheek
The presence of Death avow.
Pure little bud in kindness given,
In mercy taken to bloom in heaven.
Happier far is the angel child
With the harp and the crown of gold,
Who warbles now at the Savior's feet
The glories to us untold.
Eddie, meet blossom of heavenly love,
Dwells in the spirit-world above.
Angel Boy - fare thee well, farewell
Sweet Eddie, We bid thee adieu!
Affection's wail cannot reach thee now
Deep though it be, and true.
Bright is the home to him now given
For "of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
The final line is on the boy's tombstone. The next child of Abraham and Mary (Willie Lincoln) was born ten months after Eddie's death.
Read more about this topic: Edward Baker Lincoln
Famous quotes containing the word death:
“I would not that death should take me asleep. I would not have him meerly seise me, and onely declare me to be dead, but win me, and overcome me. When I must shipwrack, I would do it in a sea, where mine impotencie might have some excuse; not in a sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise for my swimming.”
—John Donne (c. 1572–1631)
“and so this tree—
Oh, that such our death may be!—
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath Heaven’s fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved guitar;”
—Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)
“Young lover to old lover: I do not feel death in your embrace, but the adoration of the patriarchs.”
—Mason Cooley (b. 1927)