On an Emerald-garbed little Isle,
Beyond the broad-built Beaufort Harbor,
And wide, surrounding Sound:
Who is it, that strides, alone, by the stony Sea-Side,
So pompous, with his gleaming Southern Tux,
So powerful, with his great Ironclad Ships,
So stoutly-gunned, and Clan-ish, in influence?
His form is the form of a Spectral Giant,
But his Face wears a look of old, Familiar regret;
Can this be the Editor-in-Chief?
Can this be Josephus Daniels?
Ah, no! It is only his pale Ghost,
The Forgotten, who lives,
In that Ever-Padlocked Nether-Court,
And who says, were still he Secretary of the Navy,
As he was, when he caved to Woodrow,
For hefty Pay, and costly War,
He would build high a Great Wall, insurmountable,
Around his Brazen Likeness,
And higher yet, around his Mortal, bodily fort.