ON THE DESTRUCTION OF BOOKS.
SCIENCE now dreads on books no holy war;
Thus multiply'd, and thus dispers'd so far,
She smiles exulting, doom'd no more to dwell,
'Midst moths and cobwebs, in a friar's cell:
To see her Livy, and most favour'd sons,
The prey of worms and popes, of Goths and Huns;
To mourn, half-eaten Tacitus, thy fate,
The dread of lawless sway, and craft of state,
Her bold machine redeems the patriot's fame
From royal malice, and the bigot's flame;
To bounded thrones displays the legal plan,
And vindicates the dignity of man.
Tyrants and time, in her, lose half their pow'r,—
And Reason shall subsist, tho' both devour.
Her sov'reign empire, Britons, O! maintain
While demons yell, and monks blaspheme in vain.
ERRORS OF THE PRESS.
'Tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes
The vile country press in one's prosody makes.
For you know, dear-I may, without vanity hint
Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print;
And you can't think what havoc these demons sometimes
Choose to make of one's sense, and, what 's worse, of one's
But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring, [rhymes.
Which I meant to have made a most beautiful thing,
Where I talked of the "dewdrops from freshly blown roses,"
The nasty things made it-from "fleshy brown noses !"
And once when, to please my cross aunt, I had tried
To commem'rate some saint of her clique who 'd just died,
Having said he had taken up in heaven his position,
They made it--he'd taken up to heaven his physician.
Fudges in England.
THOMAS MOORE.
WHEN liberty first sought a home on the earth,
No altar the goddess could find,
Till art's greatest triumph to printing gave birth,
And her temple she reared in the mind.
The phantoms of ignorance shrunk from her sight,
And tyranny's visage grew wan;
As wildly he traced, in the Volume of Light,
The pledge of redemption to man!
All hail the return of the glorious day,
When freedom her banner unfurled-
And sprung from the Press the Promethean ray
That dawned on a slumbering world;
When Science, exulting in freedom and might,
Unveiled to the nations her eye,
And waved from her tresses, refulgent in light,
A glory that never can die.
The mighty Enchanter, whose magical key
Unlocked all the fountains of mind,
The thoughts of the mighty in triumph set free,
In cloistered confusion confined;
The lay of the Poet, the lore of the Sage,
Burst forth from obscurity's gloom,
And started to life, in the wonderful page,
The glories of Greece and of Rome.
Great ark of our freedom! the Press we adore
Our glory and power are in thee;
A voice thou hast wafted to earth's farthest shore
The shout of the great and the free.
The printers of Edinburgh celebrated the fourth centenary of the nvention of the art of printing by a social entertainment in the theatre royal, July 12, 1837, the late Thomas Campbell, Esq., in the chair. This song was written for the occasion by Alexander Smart, printer, author of Rambling Rhymes, &c., and was sung by Mr. Heatley, printer.
The slave's galling fetters are burst by thy might,
The empire of reason is thine;
And nations rejoice in the glorious light,
Which flows from a fountain divine.
YOUNG Genius walked out by the mountains and streams,
Entranced by the power of his own pleasant dreams,
Till the silent and wayward and wandering thing
Found a plume that had fall'n from a passing bird's wing:
Exulting and proud, like a boy at his play,
He bore the new prize to his dwelling away;
He gazed for awhile on its beauties, and then
He cut it, and shaped it, and call'd it a Pen.
But its magical use he discover'd not yet,
Till he dipped its bright lips in a fountain of jet;
And, oh, what a glorious thing it became,
For it spoke to the world in a language of flame;
While its master wrote on like a being inspired,
Till the hearts of the millions were melted or fired :
It came as a boon and a blessing to men,
The peaceful, the pure, the victorious Pen!
Young Genius went forth on his rambles once more,
The vast, sunless caverns of earth to explore;
He searched the rude rock, and with rapture he found
A substance unknown, which he brought from the ground; He fused it with fire, and rejoiced in the change,
As he moulded the ore into characters strange,
Till his thoughts and his efforts were crown'd with success, For an engine uprose, and he call'd it a Press.
The Pen and the Press, blest alliance! combined
To soften the heart and enlighten the mind:
For that to the treasures of Knowledge gave birth,
And this sent them forth to the ends of the earth;
Their battles for truth were triumphant indeed,
And the rod of the tyrant was snapped like a reed;
They were made to exalt us, to teach us to bless
Those invincible brothers-the Pen and the Press.
J. C. PRINCE.*
Air." Wanted a Governess."
WANTED AN EDITOR-burly and big,
Clever, aud willing, and hearty.
Neither a Radical, Tory, nor Whig,
But able to please every party.
He must not be squeamish, nor over vice
In tracing out jobs, root and fibre,
He must loathe every sinner-and lash every vice—
But never offend a subscriber.
MEM. (This last is a process requiring great care,
Since vices are plenty-subscribers more rare.)
Learned, yet practical-he must unite
Natural talent with science,-
These, with that which can alone keep him right,
Judgment well worthy reliance.
He must always be able to crack a good joke,
And ready to tell a new story—
Know all the authorities, Camden and Coke,
The Stud Book-and Sir Peter Laurie.
MEM. (He may have what he likes IN his head! but beware! The latter authority don't like long hair!)
John Critchley Prince, author of "Hours with the Muses," and other Poems, who may justly rank as a prince amongst poets, was born at Wigan, June 21, 1808. In the exercise of his poetical talents, Mr. Prince has found much to sweeten a hard but common lot He resides at Ashton-under-Lyne, where he is empleyed in the humble capacity of a journeyman reed-maker.
He must know all the turns of the Turf, and the tricks
Which folks would involve in such myst'ry;
If a horse should be poisoned, be able to fix
On the rogue, and relate the whole hist'ry.
He must watch every dodge and deceit in the odds,
By discerning 'twixt better and hedger;
He must mark all the winks, and the nudges, and nods,
And PROPHESY Derby and Leger.
MEM. (This last is a matter of lucky fortuity,
Which, when you are "out," merely wants ingenuity.)
And now as to terms. We already have shown
How pleasant this Editor's place is—
He must hunt-and of course keep a horse of his own,
Shoot-fish-and attend all the races ;-
Thus his work is so light, yet so pleasant withal,
From the honest fame he must inherit,-
The Proprietors don't wish to pay him at all,
But let his reward be-his merit.
MEM.-(Another announcement will appear by-and-by,
Directing all candidates where to apply.)
O! the life of an editor! who in the land
Has affairs more important or urgent on hand?—
He takes charge of all-on his shoulders weigh down
The business-transactions of country and town.
He must needs be omniscient-ubiquitous, too,
For affairs of all nations pass under his view;—
All the kingdoms of earth, every clime he surveys,
Far as ocean rolls on, or the sun darts its rays.
Revolutions in empires their rise and their fall-
Wars, battles, and sieges-he notices all-
Encounters by land, and engagements by sea,
The capture of Chusan, Cabool, and Ghuzne.
|