July 20, 2022
Man of the eager eyes and teeming brain,–
Small is the honor that men dole to thee;
They snatch the fruitage of thy years of pain,–
Devour, yet scorn, the tree
What though the treasure of thy nervous force,
Thy rich vitality of mind and heart,
Goes swiftly down before thy Moloch’s course,–
Men cry, “It is not Art!”
The Poet,–dallying with his fitful Muse,
On lagging Pegasus, whose halting stride
Sometimes gives out,–he scorns “the man of news” –
Cries, “See! We’re parted wide!”
The Novelist—elate from lofty crest
Of Fiction’s lovely palace of the air—
Looks down and signs: “Only a Journalist!”
My height is his despair.”
The jays minute of feebler Literature—
Who lightly chatter, on its outmost rim,
Of naught but of their small position sure –
Point scornfully at him!
The Statesman—smirched, with pallid malice grim,
Or red with wrath—doth in the morning read
Of fair faith bartered, of fine honor dim,
In his recorded deed.
Lo, look for thunder then! His fierce reply
In House or Senate, as he leads the van;
Time-server and place-seller – loud his cry:
“Down, cursed Newspaper Man!”
Who takes the daily journal, cool and damp,
And weighs its ceaseless toll on nerve and brain?
Nor morning sun, nor genial evening lamp,
Reveals its birth of pain.
“Only a newspaper!” Quick read, quick lost,
Who sums the treasure that it carries hence?
Torn, trampeled under feet, whose counts thy cost,
And ye, the Nameless, best-beloved host!
My heart recalls more than one vanished face,
Struck from the rank of toilers, –early lost,
And leaving not a trace.
Martyrs of News, young martyrs of the Press,–
Princes of giving from largess of brain!
One leaf of laurel, steeped in tenderness,
Take ye, O early-slain.
Though in the Author’s Pantheon no niche obscure
Your waning names can hold forever fast,
The seeds of Truth ye blew afar are sure
To spring and live at last.
On lonely wastes, within the swarming marts,
In silent dream, in speaking deeds of men,–
Quick with momentum from your deathless hearts,
Your thoughts will live again.
O living Journalist,–when faith hath fled,
When men crush men amid the thick of strife,–
Bethink thee of one Man, divine, who said,
“I am the Truth, the Life!”
Leave Science, leave Philosophy its crown;
Yet sweeter ever must be that man’s sleep
Who, still his mother’s boy, prays, lyind down,
His Lord, his soul to keep.
Whate’er our prizes, or how fair our crown
Or deep our losses, only this is best,–
The soul’s great peace. Nor sneer, nor smile, nor frown
Can shake it from the rest.
Exalt thy calling! On its spotless shield
Write truth, write honor, valor, first and last.
Cravens may clutch thy stars, and thou not yield;
Love them, and hold them fast!
Thus Greeley wrought in fresh, heroic youth;
Thus Margaret Fuller wrote her way to power;
Thus Bowles—unvanquished in a rain of ruth—
Went down in manhood’s flower.
Thus Curtis writes, –rare Sidney of the pen,–
O’Reilly sings, and Godkin draws his steel;
Thus Schurz his highest honor takes again,
To write the truth we feel.
Defender of the People, of the State,
Kindler and quickener of majestic thought,–
Sure of the finest triumph, thou canst wait
The crown they patience wrought.
To serve thy generation, this thy fate:
“Written in water,” swiftly fades thy name;
But he who loves his kind does, first and late,
A work too great for fame.