Not Argus with his fifty pair of eyes
Look'd sharper for his prey than honest Type
Explores each package, of alluring size,
Prepar'd to seize them with a nimble gripe,
Did not the post-boy watch his goods, and swear
That village Type shall only have his share.
Ask you what matter fills his various page?
A mere farrago 'tis, of mingled things;
Whate'er is done on Madam Terra's stage
He to the knowledge of his townsmen brings:
One while, he tells of monarchs run away;
And now, of witches drown'd in Buzzard's bay.
Some miracles he makes, and some he steals;
Half Nature's works are giants in his eyes:
Much, very much, in wonderment he deals,—
New-Hampshire apples grown to pumpkin size,
Pumpkins almost as large as country inns,
And ladies bearing, each,—three lovely twins.
He, births and deaths with cold indifference views;
A paragraph from him is all they claim:
And here the rural squire, amongst the news
Sees the fair record of some lordling's fame;
All that was good, minutely brought to light,
All that was ill,—conceal'd from vulgar sight!
III.
THE OFFICE
Source of the wisdom of the country round!
Again I turn to that poor lonely shed
Where many an author all his fame has found,
And wretched proofs by candle-light are read,
Inverted letters, left the page to grace,
Colons derang'd, and commas out of place.
Beneath this roof the Muses chose their home;—
Sad was their choice, less bookish ladies say.
Since from the blessed hour they deign'd to come
One single cob-web was not brush'd away:—
Fate early had pronounc'd this building's doom,
Ne'er to be vex'd with boonder, brush, or broom.
Here, full in view, the ink-bespangled press
Gives to the world its children, with a groan,
Some born to live a month—a day—some less;
Some, why they live at all, not clearly known,
All that are born must die—Type well knows that—
The Almanack's his longest-living brat.
Here lie the types, in curious order rang'd
Ready alike to imprint your prose or verse;
Ready to speak (their order only chang'd)
Creek-Indian lingo, Dutch, or Highland Erse;
These types have printed Erskine's Gospel Treat,
Tom Durfey's songs, and Bunyan's works, complete.
But faded are their charms—their beauty fled!
No more their work your nicer eyes admire;
Hence, from this press no courtly stuff is read;
But almanacks, and ballads for the Squire,
Dull paragraphs, in homely language dress'd,
The pedlar's bill, and sermons by request.