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The Song Of The Press
BY THOMAS E. WATSON
My voice is the roar of the thunder:
My force is that of the storm.
I stop not because it is winter:
I r eck not the Summer’s sun.
My feet are the tireless plodders;
My hands, they never are still,
1 run, I run with my message;
I go, I go with my creed,
I fiy on the wings of the morning:
I fly on the wings of night.
Of all the great teachers I’m chief-
est:
Of all the great sowers, the lord.
I leap to the front in the battle;
I cover the rear, in retreat;
I’m the sapper, undermining foun¬
dations;
3 right in the open field.
J’m the cloud -guide that leads in
the day-time:
The pillar of fire at night.
I’m loved by the Lovers of learn¬
ing;
I’m feared by lawless and bad:
I’m courted by men of ambition
The vain, they Hatter and feed,
Philanthropy leans on my shoul¬
ders,
Diplomats tell me their lies.
The populace sees the mere sur¬
face
Tenter behind the scenes.
I’rn the hope of a weary people,
I’m the mouthpiece of their woe.
I’m the friend of the friendless
and wretched:
Pm the foe of oppression and sin.
I gaze in the sun, line the eagle;
Like Ajax, the lightnings dare.
My home is the milliormir’s palace;
My home is the laborer’s cot.
My home is in town and in c untry;
My home, it floats over the wave;
My home is the house of the
happy:
V y home is the house of despair.
An angle, I visit affliction;
A devil, I crush the weak.
A hero, I strike for the Righteous,
Traitor! I strike for the Wrong.
Birds Thevt Do Fly
If—
This Cockerel Was a Prizewinner at the Augusta Exposition
I&u- You see the Trophy. We are proud of our success with our Fowls.
> it?*!
,r They are the result of proper mating and intelligent care. You
, - can
j m m. do the same. ar-ja e r va r:
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Our Henni y is just south of the Aviation Field. -You are welcome to call I
i*.
and see the way we care for the Thoroughbreds— it will be an education
for All prize-winners there, each Pen properly housed and !
you. our are
cared for.
ill m
We Fly-Rain, Wind Stumps Do Not Deter Us mkM- ilk.*;.■«
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The Hennery tion South Field of the Avia¬ THE VJBNHOME 7 The Hennery tion South Field of the Avia* :
THE FITZGERALD LLADER WEDNESDAY. MARCH 15. 1911
I’m honest, and care not for riches;
Venal, I serve for a price.
A patriot, I lead the State upward;
Corrupted, 1 drag the State
down.
Virtuous, the ground yields its
harvest:
Vicious, I sow dragon’s teeth.
I’m the source of innocent laugh¬
ter:
I’m the source of scalding tears.
I sing—arid the lowly are lifted:
I sing—the great are brought low.
I sing—and the temple is shaken:
I sing—the throne topples down.
I sing—and Freedom is victor,
I sing—and Liberty dies.
I’m the steed of the noet, and on
me
He rides his way into fame.
The scholar, mounting my chariot,
Ascends to the skies of renown.
The orator’s silvery trumpet,
The statesman’s golden horn:
I’m the bearer of good tidings:
I’m the messenger of grief.
I’m the voice of peace and pro¬
gress;
Or the herald of war and waste.
I rise to the heights of the Heaven,
I sink to the depths of Hell.
I feast, at times, on the living;
I sometimes prey on the dead.
To the wounds, I’m the balm of
Gilead,
Or, streams of molten lead.
Sometimes I’m as pure as a Vestal,
Am sometimes foul as the pit.
Sometimes as brave as a Bayard,
Am sometimes pallid Fear.
Of learning the winged Mercury:
Am often its tireless foe.
1 would free the brain of the fet¬
tered,
Would open the door of the mind:
But I serve Superstition as truly:
And aid enslavers of thought.
At my best I’m the Hope of the
Future:
At my worst, the people’s Dread.
the weaver who throws the
far shuttle,
As the life-loom weaves the doth;
I speed the web backward and for¬
ward.
A golden strand in the woof.
I’m the watchman upon the high
tower:
Pre-erver of archives, am I.
I’m the pearl diver bringing up
riches:
I’m the prodical, wasting gems.
I’rn i he feeder of swine and swine¬
herd;
A guest, in the houses of kings.
I warn and I teach and I frighten
The erring, the dull and vile.
I ; m the pilot that weathers the
tempest'—
The sail that is never furled.
I’m th* 4 ke^l that plows all the
waters:
I’m the flag that ever waves.
I’m the light house off the break¬
ers,
I’m the flash-light of the ship.
I’m the grey-hound of the ocean,
I’m the war-ship of the main.
I’m the dove that flies with the
olive:
I’m the war-trump, hoarse and
loud.
I’m the builder of new institutions,
I tear down those that are old.
1 sing of the heroes living, and
1 sing of those who are dead.
I’m the prophet of the future and
Historian of’the Past.
My voice is the echo of thunder;
My strength is that of the -torm.
I’m Life, in its myriad motion:
I’m of the world to the end,
My song will be hushed m the
awful'
Blast of the arch-angel’s trump.
Oh! think of the wonderful record!
Think of the changes I wrought!
More enduring than brass are the
tablets
That tell of the mighty vfcork.
world was asleep, and I woke
it;
The mind was in chains—I freed.
The world was in darkness and
terror,—
1 lit the torch that illumes.
V\ ;th me marched the legions of
learning:
With me, the fearless and true.
\\ ith me. marched the soldiers of
freedom:
With me, the lovers of men.
The world was acrouch to the
Feudal:
Mankind, in awe of the Priest:
The chain of the lord was on body.
The cowl of the monk on brain,
The peasant in fear of the castle,
Gave humble neck to the yoke:
The peasant, in fear of the Tem¬
ple,
Gave humble lips to the creed.
Ah, the red wine of battle was
drunken!
Ah, the war was hard and long.
But the tips of our lances, advanc¬
ing.
At last, caught the light of dawn.
The sword, it is great, but remem-
ber
My ally’s, the deathless pen.
The Thinker, he traces the border,
And the warrior fights, within.
No farther flashes the falchion
Than the pen has drawn the line.
No armada covers the ocean, to
conquest,
No army enters the field,
Till I and my ally have thundered
And shaken the souis of men.
We open the Temple of Janus:
We say when the doors must
close:
We hand down the story of valor,
Awarding the victor his crown.
“Le roy est mort—vive le roy!”
is never
The cry that is made for me.
My diadem passes to no other,
My sceptre is ever mine.
For aye! for aye! my dominion,
Is the fixed star of the sky.
throb and I thrill with my power,
I glory in all my strength.
Yesteryeir had snow-drifts and
roses:
Yesteryear had thrones that are
gone:
Yesteryear had the cloud and the
dewdrop:
Yesteryear, the poppy and rue.
But fate had no power tohurt me.
Like laws of Nature, I lived
Like the brooklet, I go on forever,
Though men may come and may
go.
My voice is the roaring of thunder,
My force is that of the storm.
1 shall last out the whole of Time’s
journey
I shall die at the death of the
world.
Fill the cup, fill the chalice with
nectar,
Let the red wine brimming foam.
Let us drink to tne glories of
Effort.
Quaff to the gladness of Toil.
Let us honor the man of the over-
all.
And toast the man of the pen.
Let us drink to the cause of the
lowly,
Let us drink to the good and
true.
Here’s hoping humanity prospers:
Here’s hoping the sobs will
hush,
Here’s hoping that kindness will
conquer:
Here’s hoping that justice w ins,
Here’s hoping the cruel will perish:
Here’s hoping the pun* increase.
Here’s hoping that sunshine and
shadow.
May be as we’d have them be.
All hail! all hail, thou uncertain,
Inevitable, mercilcxs fia’e.
All hail! a I bail! coming future,
We fear not the face of thee.
feet, are shod for the journey,
Our hearts feel notuinu or fear.
We shall strike, for the faith of
the Fathers;
We shall strike for God and
Right,
We shall march, like an army
with banners
We shall fight for home and
creed,
And whatever fate may betide us
We shall meet as becometh men.
Who’s afraid of Death and here¬
after
That has lived as heroes should?
My voice is reverberant thunder,
My race is that of the storm,
I’m the argosy sailing foreyer,
I’m the army that never dis¬
bands.
I m the fortress that never is taken;
I’m the tale that is never told.
I’m the tempest that never is
ended,
The cloud that never returns,
I’m the sentry that never has slum¬
bered,
The courier that always rides.
I’m the petrel that never is resting,
The steed that never is spent.
I’m the quarry that never is groin;
ed ’
• Recaff
The hunter that winds no 1 ^
I’m the ocean that rairrows the
heavens.
The sea that Intellect sails.
What the wild waves are saying
and singing,
Is the song that I sing unto you.
And my voice, it reminds you of
thunder,
My rush being that of the stornk
Mr. Jim Oxford, formerly of
this city but now of Ocilla, was
here yesterday. Mr. Oxford is
now engaged in the moving picture
business at Ocilla and his many
friends wish him much success in
this new venture.
Mr. J. H. Churchwell came
down from Cordele yesterday
afternoon, to look after his inter¬
ests here. He was accompanied
by Mrs. Churchwell.
Mr. Ike Levin has returned from
a week’s stay in Savannah.