1850-60.] WILLIAM H. BUSHNELL. Then old age, with trembling fingers, No more strives to check its way, But low kneeling, seeks to fathom The wild, drifting, blinding spray ; Seeks to gaze through gloom on Heaven, On the east-born star to guide His lone bark, that mastless, helmless, Sinking, floats adown the tide. Nears the bark, death's fatal maelstrom — Through each open seam the wave Boils resistless, rushes, bubbles, Till it sinks in ocean grave : Vain is manhood, youth or beauty, Vain is wealth, or love, or pride — Life's frail bark is ever floating, Floating swiftly down the tide ! A SOiNG FOR THE PRESS. A SONG for the Press ! the Printing Press ! That has ruled the world alone, Since the finger of God first graved His laws On the tablet of senseless stone ; Since a spark of his wisdom downward sent Woke the slumbering thought to birth, And the Press, as a meteor, flashed thro' the gloom, — The dai'kness that lower'd o'er earth. A song for the Press ! — more potent far Than the fiat of crowned king — Than the cohorts of war — than the steel- clad men That the mightiest can bring. Kingdoms, and tower, and palace wall. That have braved a century's might. Crumble in ruin, and totter and fall, When the Press wakes the giant Right. A song for the Press — the lever long sought The world to sway, in times olden — To check the power of Oppression's hand — Break the rule of the scepter golden ; Pierce the gloom of the dungeon — the captive free. Rive oak door and iron rod. And send broadcast o'er a sin-bound world The words of a Hving God! A song for the Press — the Angel that lines, In light on its record page. Each glorious thought, and each noble deed — Each act of the passing age : The historian's pen, and the poet's wand — Each triumph — each God-born rhyme — Is recorded there, and forever lives. Defying the touch of Time ! A song for the Press ! Like the armed men That rushed o'er Rome's ivy'd wall. When Liberty swayed and trampled in dust Cfesar's pride and judgment hall ; So its silent step wakes the down-trod one, 'Mid his thraldom, his fear and gloom. And thunders in wrath round the crowned king, Foretelling of death and of doom ! A song for the Press — the east-born star ! Of religion — of liberty — power — Untrameled by wealth, by passion un- swayed, 'Tis the index — the scribe of each hour; And still shall remain — still the slender type Shall " click," and all nations bless ; And the last star from earth that ever fades out Be the God-model'd Printing Press !
