Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/331

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
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!
The Press.
Thoughts flit and flutter through the mind,As o'er the waves the shifting wind;Trackless and traceless is their flightAs falling stars of yesternight,Or the old tidemarks on the shoreWhich other tides have rippled o'er,Yet art, by Genius trained and taught,Arrests—records the fleeting thought,Stamps on the minute or the hourA lasting, an eternal power,And to minds passing shadows givesAn influence that for ever lives.But mightiest of the mighty meansOn 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?
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.