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.

Here, doom'd the fortune of the press to try, From year to year poor Type his trade pursues-- With anxious care and circumspective eye He dresses out his little sheet of news; Now laughing at the world, now looking grave, At once the Muse's midwife--and her slave.

In by-past years, perplext with vast designs, In cities fair he strove to gain a seat; But, wandering to a wood of many pines, In solitude he found his best retreat, When sick of towns, and sorrowful at heart, He to those deserts brought his favorite art.

IV.

Thou, who art plac'd in some more favour'd spot, Where spires ascend, and ships from every clime Discharge their freights--despise not thou the lot Of humble Type, who here has pass'd his prime; At case and press has labour'd many a day, But now, in years, is verging to decay.

He, in his time, the patriot of his town, With press and pen attack'd the royal side, Did what he could to pull their Lion down, Clipp'd at his beard, and twitch'd his sacred hide, Mimick'd his roarings, trod upon his toes, Pelted young whelps, and tweak'd the old one's nose.

Rous'd by his page, at church or court-house read, From depths of woods the willing rustics ran, Now by a priest, and now some deacon led With clubs and spits to guard the rights of man; Lads from the spade, the pick-ax, or the plough, Marching afar, to fight Burgoyne or Howe.

Where are they now?--the Village asks with grief, What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?-- Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief, Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains; Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach For seven-years' pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach.

Ye Guardians of your country and her laws! Since to the pen and press so much we owe Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause, From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow; Hence, a new order grows on reason's plan, And turns the fierce barbarian into--man.

Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd, Man, always found a tyrant or a slave, Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave: Despots and kings this restless race may share,-- But knowledge only makes them worth your care!

December 19, 1791. Issued in pamphlet form, together with "The Village Merchant," in 1794. Republished only in the edition of 1795, the text of which I have followed.