Ode To the Printer's Devil
WHO BROUGHT ME A PROOF TO BE CORRECTED, AND WHO FELL ASLEEP WHILE IT WAS UNDERGOING CORRECTION: BEING AN ODE FOUNDED ON FACT !
O H bright and blessed hour; —
The Devil 's asleep! — I see his little lashes
Lying in sable o'er his sable cheek;
Closed are his wicked little window-sashes,
And tranced is Evil's power!
The world seems hushed and dreaming out-a-doors,
Spirits but speak;
And the heart echoes, while the Devil snores.
Sleep, Baby of the damned!
Sleep, when no press of trouble standeth by!
Black wanderer amid the wandering,
How quiet is thine eye!
Strange are thy very small pernicious dreams —
With shades of printers crammed,
And pica, double pica, on the wing!
Or in cold sheets thy sprite perchance is flying
The world about —
Dying — and yet, not like the Devil dying —
Dele , — the Evil out!
Before sweet sleep drew down
The blinds upon thy Day & Martin eyes,
Thou did'st let slip thy slip of mischief on me,
With weary, weary sighs;
And then, outworn with demoning o'er town,
Oblivion won thee!
Best of compositors! thou didst compose
Thy decent little wicked self, and go
A Devil-cruiser round the shores of sleep —
I hear thee fathom many a slumber-deep,
In the waves of woe;
Dropping thy lids of lead
To sound the dead!
Heaven forgive me! I
Have wicked schemes about thee, wicked one;
And in my scheming, sigh
And stagger under a gigantic thought;
" What if I run my pen into thine eye,
And put thee out?
Killing the Devil will be a noble deed,
A deed to snatch perdition from mankind —
To make the Methodist's a stingless creed —
To root out terror from the Brewer's mind —
And break the bondage which the Printer presses —
To change the fate of Lawyers —
Confirm the Parson's holy sinecure —
Make worthless sin's approaches —
To justify the bringing up addresses
To me, in hackney coaches,
From operative Sawyers! "
" To murder thee " —
Methinks — " will never harm my precious head —
For what can chance me, when the Devil is dead? "
But when I look on thy serene repose,
Hear the small Satan dying through thy nose,
My thoughts become less dangerous and more deep;
I can but wish thee everlasting sleep!
Sleep free from dreams
Of type, and ink, and press, and dabbing-ball —
Sleep free from all
That would make shadowy, devilish slumber darker,
Sleep free from Mr. Baldwin's Mr. Parker!
Oh! fare thee well!
Farewell, black bit of breathing sin! Farewell,
Tiny remembrancer of a Printer's Hell!
Young thing of darkness, seeming
A small, poor type of wickedness set up!
Full is thy little cup
Of misery in the waking world! So dreaming
Perchance may now undemonize thy fate
And bear thee, Black-boy, to a whiter state!
Yet mortal evil is, than thine, more high; —
Thou art upright in sleep; men sleep — and lie!
And from thy lids to me a moral peeps,
For I correct my errors — while the Devil sleeps!
O H bright and blessed hour; —
The Devil 's asleep! — I see his little lashes
Lying in sable o'er his sable cheek;
Closed are his wicked little window-sashes,
And tranced is Evil's power!
The world seems hushed and dreaming out-a-doors,
Spirits but speak;
And the heart echoes, while the Devil snores.
Sleep, Baby of the damned!
Sleep, when no press of trouble standeth by!
Black wanderer amid the wandering,
How quiet is thine eye!
Strange are thy very small pernicious dreams —
With shades of printers crammed,
And pica, double pica, on the wing!
Or in cold sheets thy sprite perchance is flying
The world about —
Dying — and yet, not like the Devil dying —
Dele , — the Evil out!
Before sweet sleep drew down
The blinds upon thy Day & Martin eyes,
Thou did'st let slip thy slip of mischief on me,
With weary, weary sighs;
And then, outworn with demoning o'er town,
Oblivion won thee!
Best of compositors! thou didst compose
Thy decent little wicked self, and go
A Devil-cruiser round the shores of sleep —
I hear thee fathom many a slumber-deep,
In the waves of woe;
Dropping thy lids of lead
To sound the dead!
Heaven forgive me! I
Have wicked schemes about thee, wicked one;
And in my scheming, sigh
And stagger under a gigantic thought;
" What if I run my pen into thine eye,
And put thee out?
Killing the Devil will be a noble deed,
A deed to snatch perdition from mankind —
To make the Methodist's a stingless creed —
To root out terror from the Brewer's mind —
And break the bondage which the Printer presses —
To change the fate of Lawyers —
Confirm the Parson's holy sinecure —
Make worthless sin's approaches —
To justify the bringing up addresses
To me, in hackney coaches,
From operative Sawyers! "
" To murder thee " —
Methinks — " will never harm my precious head —
For what can chance me, when the Devil is dead? "
But when I look on thy serene repose,
Hear the small Satan dying through thy nose,
My thoughts become less dangerous and more deep;
I can but wish thee everlasting sleep!
Sleep free from dreams
Of type, and ink, and press, and dabbing-ball —
Sleep free from all
That would make shadowy, devilish slumber darker,
Sleep free from Mr. Baldwin's Mr. Parker!
Oh! fare thee well!
Farewell, black bit of breathing sin! Farewell,
Tiny remembrancer of a Printer's Hell!
Young thing of darkness, seeming
A small, poor type of wickedness set up!
Full is thy little cup
Of misery in the waking world! So dreaming
Perchance may now undemonize thy fate
And bear thee, Black-boy, to a whiter state!
Yet mortal evil is, than thine, more high; —
Thou art upright in sleep; men sleep — and lie!
And from thy lids to me a moral peeps,
For I correct my errors — while the Devil sleeps!
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