. Farm legends. name on Heavens own battle-field; Thee, Robert Burns, voice of the hearts best song, Fashioned into a bagpipe sweet and strong; Thee, Thomas Moore — his soul to music set— Made to an Irish harp that echoes yet; With thee Longfellow struck a home-made lyre. And wrote America, in lines of fire! Through thy sharp, quivering point, words have been given, Out of the flaming lexicons of Heaven ! O Pen! When in the old-time school-house, we Strove, neath our teachers rod, to master thee. And, twisting down upon some sad old desk, With doleful air and attitude grotesque. And with protr
. Farm legends. name on Heavens own battle-field; Thee, Robert Burns, voice of the hearts best song, Fashioned into a bagpipe sweet and strong; Thee, Thomas Moore — his soul to music set— Made to an Irish harp that echoes yet; With thee Longfellow struck a home-made lyre. And wrote America, in lines of fire! Through thy sharp, quivering point, words have been given, Out of the flaming lexicons of Heaven ! O Pen! When in the old-time school-house, we Strove, neath our teachers rod, to master thee. And, twisting down upon some sad old desk, With doleful air and attitude grotesque. And with protruding tongue and beating heart, Took our first lessons in the graphic art, And that old copy on the paper poured. Saying, The Pen is mightier than the Sword, And then, from sudden and dynamic stroke. The pen we leaned on, into fragments broke, Some angel told our inexperienced youth. That, after all, that copy told the truth! O Pen ! What if thy paper purses hold Some coin that never came from wisdoms mould!. The Sanctum Kz7ig. 173 What if thou writest countless reams on reams Of manuscript, to trouble printers dreams! What if thy cheap and easy-wielded prongs, Indite each year a hundred thousand souffs. In ink of various copiousness and shade — On every subject Earth and Heaven have made! What if thou shovest neath the printers nose, Cords of mis-spelled, unpunctuated prose! What if, picked from the wing of senseless goose. Thourt still by that loud biped oft in use ! Thourt sometimes plucked from Wisdoms glittering wing; And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King! Is it The Pencil? Sad would be the lot Of any sanctum where this help were not! Turn, Faber, in thy half-forgotten grave, And see the branches of thy bay-tree wave! See Dickens, still by glorys wreaths untouched, Pencil twixt first and second fingers clutched. Transcribing, in his nervous, dashing way, The parliamentary rubbish of the day ! Him on his rapid homeward journey see; An omnibus for office, and his kn
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookpublishernewyo, bookyear1903
