Newspaper History

Month: August 2022

  • A Prayer

    From The Sun, August 11, 1914. By Edward S. Van Zile.

    God of my Fathers, grant me aid
        That I may rout my countless foes!
    By Thee were guns and cannons made.
        From Thee the joy of battle flows.

    O God, who gave me might and power,
        Thou knowest that my heart is pure.
    Be with me in this awful hour
        That I and mine may still endure.

    Thou are the God who loveth war,
        And famine, rapine, blood and death;
    I pray Thee stand beside me, for
        Thou knowest what my spirit saith.

    The soul of me is linked with Thine
        To bid the blood of heroes flow.
    The death we grant them is divine,
        And in Thy name I bid them go.

    God of my Fathers, still be kind
        To them who raise Thy banner high,
    While Thou and I together find
        The surest way for them to die.

    They do my bidding. God, look down
        And bless the sword that I have drawn.
    My blight shall fall on field and town,
        And thousands shall not see the dawn.

    To Thee, O God, I give all praise
        That Thou hast made my hand so strong;
    That now, as in my father’s days,
        The King and Thee can do no wrong.

  • An Attainment

    From the Evening Star, August 10, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    My Uncle Jim looked kind o’ proud.
        I asked him for the reason—
    You know how he kin hold a crowd
        In any sort o’ season.
    Said he, “I DO feel proud today.
        My words, I’ve learned to weigh ‘em.
    I thought of several things to say
        An’ then I didn’t say ‘em.

    “It’s easy to blaze forth an’ give
        A wild illumination
    An’ smite the folks who seem to live
        In undeserved elation.
    But words like those go oft astray.
        It’s better to delay ‘em,
    An’ think about the things you say
        Before you really say ‘em.

    It’s hard to judge your fellow-men
        An’ allus pick the winners.
    We praise the guilty now an’ then
        An’ picture saints as sinners.
    I’ll brag a little if I may.
        My foes, no more I flay ‘em.
    I’ve thought of several things to say
        An’ then I didn’t say ‘em.

  • War

    From The Times Dispatch, August 9, 1914. By H. W.

    “What,” one asks, “of the trumpet blast
        And banners in the dawn?
    And what of the grain in the fallow field
        When the husbandman has gone?”

    This: If ye know not how to wield
        The sword with a steady hand
    The grain that stood in your broad, green field
        Shall be reaped by an alien band.

    This: If ye be not strong to fight
        And ready to shield and save,
    The woman and child shall starve and die,
        Or live as the foeman’s slave.

    Shelter and food and wife and child—
        Since ever the world began—
    The strong shall win and the strong shall keep
        So long as man is man.

    The weapons ye use are greater far
        Than those the cave-man bore;
    The battle line is farther flung
        Than it was in the time before.

    But the things ye strive for have not changed,
        Nor shall they change at all,
    And the strong shall win and the strong shall keep,
        And the weak shall surely fall.

    Justice and pity, and mercy? Yes.
        But they die without the sword.
    For wrong is weak and fails in the end,
        But it does not yield to a — word!

    And life and love, and the right to live—
        Since ever the world began,
    They have gone to the clean and true and strong,
        And shall—while man is man!

  • The Long-Hour Men

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 8, 1914.

    When close upon the sunset hour
        The welcome whistle blows,
    The workman takes his dinner pail
        And homeward gaily goes.
    He finds the table neatly spread,
        And supper smoking hot,
    And softly hums a little tune,
        Contented with his lot.

    He trots the baby on his knee,
        And when the paper’s read,
    Knocks out the ashes from his pipe,
        And early goes to bed.
    His health is good, his heart is light,
        His slumber sweet and sound—
    How different is it with the men
        Who make the wheels go round!

    The banker sits before his desk
        Till far into the night,
    A thousand things demand his care
        And thread his locks with white.
    The manufacturer is late
        When notes are falling due,
    And threatened strikes and damage suits
        The merchant’s path pursue.

    Eight hours, and then the toiler drops
        His yoke beside his tools,
    Eight hours, and all the spindles rest,
        The flaming furnace cools.
    But still the business man, although
        His eyes for sleep are dim,
    Must grind away, there is as yet
        No eight-hour law for him.

  • The Other Alliance

    From The Sun, August 7, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    Germans and Austrians turn on the world,
        Sounding their battle alarms;
    English, French, Russians and Serbs are all hurled
        Crushing the others in arms.
    Still is a greater alliance that sweeps
        Leading forever the van;
    One that includes every woman who weeps,
        One that includes every man.

    Soldiers shall rot in the land of the foe;
        Widows shall sorrow forlorn;
    Babes shall come into a world full of woe
        Orphaned before they are born.
    This is the triple alliance that bears
        Brunt of the carnage so wild;
    Greatest, most ancient of all earth’s affairs,
        Father and mother and child.

  • Hymn Before Action

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 6, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    The earth is full of anger,
        The seas are dark with wrath,
    The Nations in their harness
        Go up against our path;
    Ere yet we loose the legions—
        Ere yet we draw the blade,
    Jehovah of the Thunders,
        Lord God of Battles, aid!

    High lust and forward bearing,
        Proud heart, rebellious brow—
    Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
        We seek Thy mercy now!
    The sinner that forswore Thee,
        The fool that passed Thee by,
    Our times are known before Thee—
        Lord, grant us strength to die!

    From panic, pride and terror
        Revenge that knows no reign,
    Light haste and lawless error,
        Protect us yet again.
    Cloak Thou, our underserving,
        Make firm the shuddering breath;
    In silence and unswerving
        To taste Thy lesser death!

    E’en now the vanguard gathers,
        E’en now we face the fray—
    As Thou didst help our fathers,
        Help Thou our host today!
    Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
        In life, in death made clear—
    Jehovah of the Thunders,
        Lord God of Battles, hear!

  • The Bitter and the Sweet

    From the Rock Island Argus, August 5, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    The skies cannot always be clear, my dear;
    The merriest eye may still have its tear;
    The sorrow that lurks in your bosom today,
    Like the clouds, when you’ve wept, will go floating away,
    And the skies will be blue that are sullen and gray,
            My dear.

    If it’s going to rain, my dear, it will rain;
    The day will not brighten because you complain;
    There are sorrows that every good woman must bear,
    There are griefs of which every good man has a share;
    It is only the fool who has never a care,
            My dear.

    The skies cannot always be clear, my dear;
    Sweets wouldn’t be sweet were no bitterness here;
    There could never be joy if there never was sorrow,
    The sob of today may be laughter tomorrow;
    There is gladness as well as black trouble to borrow,
            My dear.

  • Contentment

    From the Rock Island Argus, August 4, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    If I possessed an income, say,
        Of thirty thousand dollars yearly
    And had it fixed in such a way
        That I could see it coming clearly;
    If, whether I should work or not,
        The money kept on rolling to me,
    I do not think a dismal thought
        Would ever stubbornly pursue me.

    If such an income could be mine
        And I were young as well as wealthy,
    If ladies thought my gifts divine,
        And I were handsome, too, and healthy,
    If men should always speak of me
        In terms that were most eulogistic,
    I don’t think I should ever be
        A fretful man or pessimistic.

    If I had all the blessings which
        Lie out beyond my reach at present;
    If I were handsome, young and rich
        And my surroundings were all pleasant,
    I might have freedom from regret;
        The chances are, though, that I shouldn’t,
    For still, no doubt, I’d long to get
        Some other something that I couldn’t.

  • The Summer Resort

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 3, 1914.

        Same old beach,
        Same old peach,
    With the same old winsome smile.
        Same old stare,
        Same hot air,
    And the same flirtatious style.
        Same old view,
        Nothing new,
    Same old skeeters there to sting.
        Same old sand,
        Same old band,
    Same old cash register to ring.
        Same old drones,
        Chaperones,
    Sitting in the rocking chairs.
        Same old walks,
        Same old talks,
    Same old spooning on the stairs.
        Same canned food,
        Boiled and stewed,
    Same transparent slice of meat.
        Same old girls,
        Same old curls,
    Same old slot machine to beat.
        Same old junk,
        Same old bunk,
    Same old stunt and nothing more.
        Same price list,
        Same bridge whist,
    Same old never-ending bore.

  • The Drum

    From The Sun, August 2, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    This earth is as a mighty drum
        Upon which beat the strokes of Fate,
    While countermarching go and come
        The forces which decide our state.

    Advance! and Science, Letters, Art
        Press forward, gaining every field;
    Their banners conquer every heart
        And unknown foes before them yield.

    Retreat! and dark barbaric hordes
        Enwrap all learning in a pall,
    And Progress sinks beneath their swords
        As Greece and Rome were fain to fall.

    Thus victory with each is cast,
        The endless battle never won,
    Until upon the Drum at last
        Shall beat the Dirge and all be done.