National Gazette

The COUNTRY PRINTER.

[Concluded]

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 printer: Yet, who here has pass'd this prime
At ease and rest, has labour'd many a day
But now, with years, is verging to decay.

He, in his time, the patriot of his town
With Press and Pen attack'd the royal pride,
Did what he could to pull their Lion down.
Clipp'd at his tail, 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 from 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!