Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/331
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THE PRINTERS' SONG.
313
Give me now my lyre!
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine,
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine!
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine,
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine!
The Press.
Thoughts flit and flutter through the mind,
As o'er the waves the shifting wind;
Trackless and traceless is their flight
As falling stars of yesternight,
Or the old tidemarks on the shore
Which other tides have rippled o'er,
Yet art, by Genius trained and taught,
Arrests—records the fleeting thought,
Stamps on the minute or the hour
A lasting, an eternal power,
And to minds passing shadows gives
An influence that for ever lives.
But mightiest of the mighty means
On which the arm of Progress leans,
Man's noblest mission to advance,
His woes assuage, his weal enhance,
His rights enforce, his wrongs redress,
Mightiest of mighty is the Press.
As o'er the waves the shifting wind;
Trackless and traceless is their flight
As falling stars of yesternight,
Or the old tidemarks on the shore
Which other tides have rippled o'er,
Yet art, by Genius trained and taught,
Arrests—records the fleeting thought,
Stamps on the minute or the hour
A lasting, an eternal power,
And to minds passing shadows gives
An influence that for ever lives.
But mightiest of the mighty means
On which the arm of Progress leans,
Man's noblest mission to advance,
His woes assuage, his weal enhance,
His rights enforce, his wrongs redress,
Mightiest of mighty is the Press.
The Printers' Song.
Print, comrades, print; a noble task
Is the one we daily ply;
'Tis ours to tell to all who ask
The wonders of earth and sky.
We catch the thought, all glowing warm,
As it leaves the student's brain,
And place the stamp of enduring form
On the poet's airy strain.
Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
The slender letters round—
A glorious thing is our labouring,
Oh, where may its like be found?
Is the one we daily ply;
'Tis ours to tell to all who ask
The wonders of earth and sky.
We catch the thought, all glowing warm,
As it leaves the student's brain,
And place the stamp of enduring form
On the poet's airy strain.
Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
The slender letters round—
A glorious thing is our labouring,
Oh, where may its like be found?