Source of the wisdom of the country round! Again I turn to that poor lonely shed Where many an author all his fame has found, And wretched proofs by candle-light are read,
Inverted letters, left the page to grace, Colons derang'd, and commas out of place. Beneath this roof the Muses chose their home;— Sad was their choice, less bookish ladies say.
Since from the blessed hour they deign'd to come One single cob-web was not brush'd away:— Fate early had pronounc'd this building's doom, Ne'er to be vex'd with boonder, brush, or broom.
Here, full in view, the ink-bespangled press Gives to the world its children, with a groan, Some born to live a month — a day — some less; Some, why they live at all, not clearly known,
All that are born must die — Type well knows that — The Almanack's his longest-living brat. Here lie the types, in curious order rang'd Ready alike to imprint your prose or verse;
Ready to speak ( their order only chang'd ) Creek-Indian lingo, Dutch, or Highland Erse; These types have printed Erskine's Gospel Treat, Tom Durfey's songs, and Bunyan's works, complete.
But faded are their charms — their beauty fled! No more their work your nicer eyes admire; Hence, from this press no courtly stuff is read; But almanacks, and ballads for the Squire,
Dull paragraphs, in homely language dress'd, The pedlar's bill, and sermons by request. Here, doom'd the fortune of the press to try, From year to year poor Type his trade pursues —
With anxious care and circumspective eye He dresses out his little sheet of news; Now laughing at the world, now looking grave, At once the Muse's midwife — and her slave.
In by-past years, perplext with vast designs, In cities fair he strove to gain a seat; But, wandering to a wood of many pines, In solitude he found his best retreat,
When sick of towns, and sorrowful at heart, He to those deserts brought his favorite art.
Cookies on Poetry Cove