 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
196
THE PRESS.
Ere the glorious Art that we love was invented,
Restoring the lustre Earth wore in her morn,
A picture the map of creation presented,
How bleak and forbidding—how lost and forlorn!
More dark than the midnight of dreary November,
A pall was spread over the region of mind;
The fires of the past had gone out, and no ember
Was saved from the wreck to illumine mankind.
Restoring the lustre Earth wore in her morn,
A picture the map of creation presented,
How bleak and forbidding—how lost and forlorn!
More dark than the midnight of dreary November,
A pall was spread over the region of mind;
The fires of the past had gone out, and no ember
Was saved from the wreck to illumine mankind.
The Genius of Liberty, bleeding and fettered,
Lay mute and heart-crushed in a pestilent cave,
While cowled Superstition, morose and unlettered,
Consigned with rude hand murder'd Hope to the grave.
Truth walked through the world with a visage dejected,
And Error, appareled in sable, was King;
The harp of the poet hung mute and neglected,
The red rust of ages corroding each string.
Lay mute and heart-crushed in a pestilent cave,
While cowled Superstition, morose and unlettered,
Consigned with rude hand murder'd Hope to the grave.
Truth walked through the world with a visage dejected,
And Error, appareled in sable, was King;
The harp of the poet hung mute and neglected,
The red rust of ages corroding each string.
Then hail to the Press, by which fetters were broken,
And dungeons unbarred to the visit of day—
Our glorious Art, that in thunder hath spoken,
The night-hag of Ignorance chasing away.
Plumed minions of pomp, with their pageantry hollow,
Before its effulgence dissolving, grew pale,
As vapory clouds at the smile of Apollo
Roll back, and the face of the waters unveil.
And dungeons unbarred to the visit of day—
Our glorious Art, that in thunder hath spoken,
The night-hag of Ignorance chasing away.
Plumed minions of pomp, with their pageantry hollow,
Before its effulgence dissolving, grew pale,
As vapory clouds at the smile of Apollo
Roll back, and the face of the waters unveil.
And hail to our brother, calm Tamer of Lightning,
The pride of his country and terror of kings!
Whose fame, though his body is dust, ever bright'ning
A pure, holy light on America flings.
The Staff of the Sage in his hand was a weapon
That aided in conflict a Washington's glaive;
While guard we the relic, no foe will dare step on
The green turf that covers a patriot's grave.
The pride of his country and terror of kings!
Whose fame, though his body is dust, ever bright'ning
A pure, holy light on America flings.
The Staff of the Sage in his hand was a weapon
That aided in conflict a Washington's glaive;
While guard we the relic, no foe will dare step on
The green turf that covers a patriot's grave.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |