Select Poetry.

Thames Star, Volume XII, Issue 3820, 26 March 1881, Page 1

Select Poetry.

THE OLD EDITOB.

He sits.amid a paper cloud M Of fresh " exchanges j" now aloud , He laughs as some rare joke he reads— A flower amid a host of weeds ; Now studies, in a serious way, Some mighty topic of the day j Or softens, as there drifts along Some dainty Ismaelite of song ; Now takes hia shears and freely snips A cartload of the "choicest chips." These papers are his harvest fieldHe gleans the fairest ears they yield, And if he reapß what others sow, Shall we be too severe ? Ah, no; His brains ara picked in turn, you know. He takes his pen and from its tip The rounded phrases lightly slip; He writes bo readily I'll vow He's saying something pleasant now Anon his eyes with vengeance fill, He fiercely grasps bis strongest quill $ I'll warrant now, as sure as fate, He will his foe annihilate, He finds it just a little tough To think of names half bad enough ; Once found he fairly licks hia chops, •. ■ : And marks the epithet " SMAM. cats ;" With mighty strokes the pen bounds on— That foe may counts himself as " gone." What a life this old man leads— What a nerve and brain he needs! Thrice ten thousand watchful men Mark the drippiags of his pen ; What he thinks and writes alone Soon throughout the world is known ,* Scores of interests he must serve, Yet from honesty not swerve ; Scheming Croesuses by stealth, Strive to bribe him with their wealth ; Statesmen listen when he speaks, Authors dread his sharp critiques; Lash and laurel he must use, Nor his right divine abuse. Though he needs no wizard's blade, Mystic agents lend him aid: Swifter far than fabled sprite— Hour by hour, day and night— Wire veins that circle earth, Throb to him in joy or mirth j Through their subtle currents flow All the news there is to know.