The Printer's Consolation
Dublin Core
Title
The Printer's Consolation
Description
Tell me, ye gentle winds
That round my pathway play,
Is there no place on earthWhere printer's get their pay?
The whispering breeze went byWith accents filled with woe;
A voice borne on the sorrowing air,In sadness answered "No."
That smoothly glide along,
Is there no cherished placeWhere printers meet no wrong?
The gentle brook replied,In murmurs soft and low,
And winding on its verdant way,It meekly answered "No."
Now rising in the west,
Is there upon the globeOne spot by printer's blest?
The flashing clouds outspokeWith an indignant glow—
A voice that filled the dearth with aweIn thunder answered "No."
Withholding day by day,
Is there no honor in thy breastThe printer's bill to pay?
Unanswering turns he round—How plain his actions show—
An uttered oath-capped sound is heard,His actions answer "No."
Who bless life's pathway through,
Is there no sacred shrineWhere printers get their due?
A mantling blush each cheek diffusedDid tenfold grace impart—
A soft, responsive sigh replied,"'Tis found in woman's heart."
Ye messengers of love,
Shall suffering printers here belowHave no redress above?
The angel bands replied,"To us is knowledge given—
Delinquents on the printer's booksCan never enter Heaven."
Source
1:18, p. 4
Date
11.19.1859
Collection
Citation
“The Printer's Consolation,” Periodical Poets, accessed September 8, 2024, https://periodicalpoets.com/items/show/601.
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