 | Rhymes with reason and without |  |
THE SONG OF THE PRESS.
Crazy and old, crazy and old,
I'm left to a drear decay;
My destiny 's done, my story is told;
Yet, though oblivion's clouds enfold,
By one reflection I'm still consoled,
I have worn myself away;
And though with rubbish I'm now enrolled,
I have lived to bless my day.
I'm left to a drear decay;
My destiny 's done, my story is told;
Yet, though oblivion's clouds enfold,
By one reflection I'm still consoled,
I have worn myself away;
And though with rubbish I'm now enrolled,
I have lived to bless my day.
Dark times were they when to birth I sprang,
Ready armed for the fight;
When trumpet-like my loud voice rang,
Awaking the nations with its clang,
Or my joyful notes of triumph sang,
As Error took its flight,—
Wounded, fled, with many a pang,
In Truth's enkindled light.
Ready armed for the fight;
When trumpet-like my loud voice rang,
Awaking the nations with its clang,
13
As Error took its flight,—
Wounded, fled, with many a pang,
In Truth's enkindled light.
For the people, the people, I've ever spoke,
To their call I've ever sprang;
Never in vain did they aid invoke;
My voice the sleeping Samsons woke,
And urged the speedy avenging stroke;
In thunder tones it rang,
When Cromwell rived the tyrant's yoke,
And heavenly Milton sang.
To their call I've ever sprang;
Never in vain did they aid invoke;
My voice the sleeping Samsons woke,
And urged the speedy avenging stroke;
In thunder tones it rang,
When Cromwell rived the tyrant's yoke,
And heavenly Milton sang.
In later days its tones were heard
On our own beloved shore,
And quick in the minds of men it stirred,
As greedy ears drank in its word,
Prompting deeds which no fears deterred,
Or gloomy doubts cast o'er;
Waking hopes not to be deferred,
To be put to rest no more.
On our own beloved shore,
And quick in the minds of men it stirred,
As greedy ears drank in its word,
Prompting deeds which no fears deterred,
Or gloomy doubts cast o'er;
Waking hopes not to be deferred,
To be put to rest no more.
Alas! and thus I am thrust away
To an ignominious lot;
Mouldering, mouldering day by day,
No sunbeam visits my bed with its ray,
No laurel wreaths round my head now play,
And, chained to this dismal spot,
The friend of Franklin and Faust now may,
E'en like them, die and rot.
To an ignominious lot;
Mouldering, mouldering day by day,
No sunbeam visits my bed with its ray,
No laurel wreaths round my head now play,
And, chained to this dismal spot,
The friend of Franklin and Faust now may,
E'en like them, die and rot.
14
The old press thus its dismal ditty ended,
And with emotion creaked in every joint;
No strain of hope was with its sorrow blended,—
Backward, all backward, did it look and point.
And with emotion creaked in every joint;
No strain of hope was with its sorrow blended,—
Backward, all backward, did it look and point.
“My dear old friend,” thus then did speak the mortal,
“Still from the past your consolation borrow;
Don't look a moment through the future's portal,
But find in what you 've done ‘surcease from sorrow.’
“Still from the past your consolation borrow;
Don't look a moment through the future's portal,
But find in what you 've done ‘surcease from sorrow.’
“You cannot be surprised to be unheeded,
When you contrast your feebleness of power
With younger presses, now that, lightning speeded,
Ten tokens give us for your one an hour.
When you contrast your feebleness of power
With younger presses, now that, lightning speeded,
Ten tokens give us for your one an hour.
“So lie right down and talk yourself to sleep,
Like some old crones we have out 'neath the sun,
Who, with an everlasting dulness, keep
Vexing our ears with tales of what they 've done.”
Like some old crones we have out 'neath the sun,
Who, with an everlasting dulness, keep
Vexing our ears with tales of what they 've done.”
| Rhymes with reason and without | |