Classic Poem

The People's Press,—what thoughts will spring,
In naming that stupendous thing:
From yonder gulf that seeks the main,
And laves the southern flowery plain,
To where Umbagog's wave is curled,
Its halo sweeps the Western World;—
The mansion of the son of wealth,
The home of him whose boast is health,
Must each with equal joy confess,
How cheering is that magic Press.
Each fact it gleams, like light from heaven,
Forth to a waiting world is given;
Each burning truth that decks its page,
Becomes the heir-loom of the age,
To keep, far down the track of time,
Its course immortal, and sublime;
Each paragraph that views the light,
Is with undying lustre bright,
And breathes and burns when they have gone,
Who spake it first in living tone.
Oh, guard it well, that People's Press,
And bid its every number bless;
Let Freedom, Virtue, God, and Truth,
Be kindling themes for age and youth,
And with one foul, immoral blot,
Oh, stain its hallowed pages not.
Next to the sacred desk where stands,
The Priest who pleads, exhorts, commands,
The noblest station we can find,
Is his who sways the public mind,—
Who moulds its taste, its morals frames,
When good he praises, evil blames,
And gilds, upon its rainbow span,
“Good will and peace, henceforth, to man.”