Classic Poem

The Press—the Press—the glorious Press,
It makes the nations free?
Before it tyrants prostrate fall
And proud oppressors flee!
In what a state of wretchedness
Without it should we be;
And can we then too highly prize
The source of liberty?

The Press—the Press—the glorious Press,
It dissipates our gloom!
And sheds a ray of happiness
O'er victims of the tomb:
See, darkness from his ebon throne
Has fled to realms of night,
And o'er the world is now diffused
A flood of heavenly light.

The Press—the Press—the glorious Press,
What thanks are due to those,
Who all attempts to quench its beams,
Triumphantly oppose;
To them belongs the wreathe of fame!
The garland of renown!
The honour of a deathless name!
A never-fading crown!

The Press—the Press—the glorious Press,
Blessings by it abound!
It changes man, and makes him great,
Wherever man is found.
The idols of the heathen land,
And superstition's sway
And sceptres from the tyrant's hand,
Through it are cast away.

The Press—the Press—the glorious Press,
It makes the world anew;
And it will bring millennium on,
And give us then to view
The end of war, and lasting peace,
When sheathed shall be the sword;
And men shall call this hampered earth
The “Garden of the Lord.”