Poems and Lancashire Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

When first, from old Westminster's hoary pile,
The Art of Printing dawned on Britain's isle,
In some dim chapel of that sacred fane
The venerable Caxton ruled his train,—
Whose artful toil, foredoomed by mystic tie,
Flushed the young stream of England's liberty.
England! where noble hearts had wrestled long,
In dumb contention between right and wrong,

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'Twas there in cloistered shade, he wove the spell
At whose behest the chain of silence fell;
And, nursing skill, with strange mutations fraught,
Gave freedom to the prisoned realms of thought!
Strange were the implements, the labour strange;
The little rill of art was big with change;
With loving care, the initiated few
There, brought the infant mystery to view;
And, as in dim secluded gloom they toiled,
Fate's folded skein of printed thought uncoiled;
Whilst the hushed murmurs of the working throng
Mingled with solemn strains of sacred song:
There learned churchmen pondered in amaze,
And kingly patrons dealt bewildered praise:
Ah, little dreamt they what that germ contained,—
What vast, upheaving powers, heaven-ordained!

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Rude were the artist's tools, the product slight;
Costly and few the works it brought to light;
Mysterious came the first imprinted page,
To th' wondering gaze of an unletter'd age;
And small the inducement such an art to ply,
When only clerks could read, and only kings could buy.

But time,—the soil of life's eventful field—
Was doomed, by fate, the mighty plant to yield;
Doomed to sustain, and nurture, through the night
Of undergrowth, until it burst to sight,
And cheered the nations with its presence bright!
Slow grew the art—though often checked,—it grew;
Now, nipt with frost, now fed with rain and dew;
Slow grew the struggling art, but still, it grew.
In patient majesty, the nursling rose;

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Rooted by struggle, and made strong by blows;
Till e'en its nurses watched it with surprise,
And tyrants trembled as they saw it rise!
For, as it grew, to realms of light it led,
And fed the freedom upon which it fed.
Oh, freedom! Spark of heaven-descended fire,
That never fades from noble heart's desire!
The bird that in the wild wood carols free—
No bird, imprisoned, sings so well as he!
Thanks to those lofty stars of England's night,
Who cheered her struggling sons with steadfast light!
Thanks to the men who fought and suffered long,
To make the right triumphant over wrong!
Thanks to those gallant hearts of later breed,
By whom the Press was from its trammels freed,—
Now, thousands print what millions rush to read!

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But stay, my roving muse,—restrain thy flight
What is it brings the Press-gang here to-night?
Come they, as erst, some wandering slave to seize?
Ah, no,—our mission is to free, and please
In mutual self-reliance to combine,
To soothe the last sad hours of life's decline;
To help the feeble and to cheer the sad;
The worn-out workman's sinking heart to glad;
From bitter penury the sick to save,
And smooth the totterer's way unto the grave.
And feeble, though, our histrionic skill,
It humbly seeks to lessen human ill.
Then, oh, with generous hearts, give kind acclaim,
And cheer the labour for its noble aim.

Oh, Printing, Art with mystic power fraught!
Thou swift dispenser of undying thought!
Strew lofty lessons still, at heaven's behest.

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And teach us Charity above the rest!
And, till we're summoned hence, by fatal call,—
Father of Nature's Chapel, bless us all!

In the old printing-offices of England, and even in many of the best printing-offices of the kingdom now, the workmen form a little court of law, summoned occasionally for the settlement of disputes among themselves. This court they call “The Chapel,” and the President of the court is called “The Father of the Chapel.” Doubtless these names arise from the fact that the first English printing-office was one of the chapels of Westminster Abbey.