And so, my boys, we'll all rejoice,
And with our utmost strain of voice,
Sing from year to year, &c.
Long live our master, who could raise
The ALBION PRESS to print his praise;
And when another thousand 's up,
Again we'll drain the joyful cup.
From year to year, &c.
Let peace and concord be our guide,
In the hour of need, relief our pride ;
When business calls we'll not delay,
But merrily sing and hammer away.
From year to year, &c.
A LAY TO THE PRESS.
THOU Guardian Angel of the happy Free, Accept the lay thus dedicate to thee; Nor at thine holy shrine, a flame refuse, The grateful offering of an ardent Muse! Illustrious Press-bellipotent-from heaven, To spoil the dark Tartarian legions given! Thine hand can guard us through the plains of Time, And crown our victories in a halcyon clime! Thy might can aid us mounting for the skies, Gird for the conflict, and present the prize! And, whilst we pant, or pine in sorrow, thou Canst yield us half a heaven in smiles below! Couch'd in thy form the Deity outshines; And round thy wreath man's destiny He twines! Thy voice extends o'er boundless tracts of air, To cheer the sunken, or inflict despair! Remove, or strengthen, Jove's descending rod; Draw God to man, or raise mankind to God! Thy heavenly bow, stretch'd o'er the gloomy vast, With promise shines, and smiles upon the past;
Its showers of breaking life around distils,
And with a burst of song all Nature fills!
Thou faithful chronicler, since time began,
Of food for seraphs, and of bliss for man!
Of life the panorama thou shalt be,
Its dearest relic through eternity!
The infant catches thine inspiring ray,
And trembling on his eye awakes the day!
In pride, and majesty, the man of might
Basks in thy living plenitude of light!
The aged strews his path with thy sweet flowers,
To glad, of life, his few remaining hours;
And down the frigid walks of death among,
Thy smile transforms his anguish to a song!
Genius, all-glowing from his Maker's breast,
Springs on our view, at thy sublime behest ;—
Strewing his affluence o'er every land,
'Till scarce a wretch laments an empty hand!
Thou sovereign agent of Omnific Will,
At thy command strange elements are still;
Light o'er chaotic intellect is hurl'd,
And joy and order rule a wondering world!
Thine is the spirit of eternal Right!
And thy broad hand the dwelling place of Might!
Fate frames thy brow!-heaven gave the inspiring breath
Life fills thy smile, and in thy frown is death!
The golden chain that links society,
Is forg'd, in all its amplitude, by thee!
And the rich trump holds thy deep-graven name,
That owns the breath of Honour and of Fame!
The dens of infamy ope' at thy call,
And their huge pillars at thy bidding fall!
The hags of sulphur quit their hideous cells,
When all their secrets thy deep echo tells!
The Law and Justice laud thy mystic hand,
That lashes Crime and Folly from the land!
Thou art the friend to virtue in distress!
Th' avenger of the wrongs of wretchedness!
The scorpion-scourge of every foul desire!
Th' Herculean cleanser of Augean mire!
The fount whence Liberty's blest river springs!
The dread of tyrants, and the hope of kings!
The palace where the noblest spirits reign,
Youthful for ever in thy proud domain !
The high insignia of the Poet's dream,
That seals for immortality his theme!
The hovering inspiration of the brave!
The soothing matron to the wounded slave!
The solace to the smitten heart of Love!
The sigh that lures compassion from above!
The lightning's wing, to bear the vivid thought!
The thunder's tone, with mystic vengeance fraught!
Th' obsequious Benefactor of mankind!
The idol, and the worshipper of Mind!
The sun, th' imperial spring of pregnant light!
The moon, that silvers o'er the arch of night!
The pathless ocean,-clear, and broad, and free!
The noblest image of Divinity!.....
Pardon the line, light from thy poet's heart!
No metaphors well picture what thou art!
No language holds a glimmer to thy rays!
No thoughts embrace thy glory's boundless blaze !
Wonder, with deep'ning lines, o'ershades the eye,-
And leaves the blest fruition-'till we die!
Hadst thou ne'er sought us from the plains of light,
Our sages were but savages of night!
Then had base demons walk'd this baser earth,
And sacrificed her sons to spleen and mirth ;—
All that was good or lovely sought the skies,
Like the sweet Graces when Apollo dies!
Did angels then our grovelling spirits scan,
They'd burnt with mere contempt for brutal man!
Methinks the sun had hurried on his way.
Displeased to waste upon our world his day!-
Yawn'd had the rocks, to drink such "liquids" in,
And glut them with the spoils of woe and sin!
Then had no monuments of grateful earth
Liv'd to forget the skill that gave them birth ;-
When Alfred perish'd, had expir'd his name;
A Shakspere miss'd eternity of fame;
A Newton's soul been lost the stars among ;
A Milton's found oblivion, with his song ;-
A Howard's flown, but untranscribed, to heaven;
Nor to the urn of Worth one tear been given!
Go! and great Jove shall patronize thy reign!
Ride brilliantly o'er air, and land, and main!
Bid Genius smile-like Morning-o'er the grave!
Bind down Disorder, and unchain the slave!
Twist to thy spear Oppression's brazen rod!
Take thy bright buckler from the arm of God!
Drink from the goblet of eternal Truth!
And gird thy loins with everlasting Youth!
The guardian wing of Heaven thy helmet be!
Thy song" the Good, the Valiant, and the Free!"
Plymouth.
THE POET'S FAREWELL TO HIS MANUSCRIPT.
FAREWELL, dear task! thou often hast beguiled
Pain from my heart, and sickness from my brow-
For other eyes than those which wept or smiled
O'er thy progressing page will meet thee now!
Farewell-Farewell! my weak and friendless child!.
Thy parent's love can no assistance lend
To thy young dawn upon a waste so wild,
As this gay world may be without a friend!
Yet will I crave for thee where'er may lead
Thy timid footsteps through its wintry waste,
That this hard lot (if hard betide thee) end
In thy first day-that thou shalt not be traced
With the slow slime of sorrow from the hour
Thou'st dared, like me, at things beyond thy power.
Illuminated Magazine, Vol. 3.
THE BOOKSELLERS' CHARTER SONG.*
Air." The fine Old English Gentleman."
I'LL sing the praise of our proud trade, since Fourteen sixtynine,
The glorious freedom of the press, which never lay supine; And call to mind the noble souls of other days long past, Whose actions glow like beacon lights, to guide us to the last :
In solemn silence drink to those, all of the olden time.
Why not remember Britain's sons, who lent, by art and pen, Their aid, to snatch from Ignorance, worlds of unlettered men?
[guess, Who smote that demon to the earth ?-I'm sure you all can It was renowned Hill Carton, with his fine old wooden press :
In silence drink his memory, his of the olden time.
Wynken de Worde, and Pynson, first printer to Harry Eight, Lettow, Julian Notary and Machlinia, still more great; Will Faques, and Henry Papwell, first Bookseller of those times, [tered climes : And Bretton, who first imported books from Europe's letIn solemn silence drink to those, all of the olden time.
Skott, Godfrey, Rastell, Butler, the Copelands, and old Wyre,
Redman, Banks, and Andrew, who transfused the living fire;
Reynes, Ryddle, Gibson, Grafton, and the famed Miles
Coverdale,
[weal :
Whose name shall stand recorded through England's woe or
In solemn silence drink to those, all of the olden time.
Petit, Weyland, Hester, Lant, Middleton, Reyland, Wight, Wolf, Powell, Lynne, and Norton, who tore from darkness, light;
Written by Mr. John Feagan, Bookseller, Dublin; and sung at Mr. John Cumming's Annual Trade Sale, on Wednesday Evening, 11th November, 1840.
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