Harpers Ferry Free Press

THE MUSES' SEAT.

"It is the gift of Poetry to consecrate every place in which it moves, to breathe around nature an odour more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of the morning."

Our empty coffers were suggesting to us the propriety—no, no, (for sure no delicate debtor will admit the propriety of a dun,) we mean the necessity of an appeal to delinquents, when we cast our eyes upon the following lines from the pen of the 'Boston Bard.' His versatile genius may have produced more sublime poetry, but we will venture to assert that he never told a more forcible truth. As even we ourselves detest a dun when couched in such homely phrase as we are wont to use, it is hoped that these pretty stanzas may have a due effect upon the current coin of the pockets as well as principles of those who have never yet contributed to the "printer's hour of peace."

THE PRINTER'S HOUR OF PEACE.
A PARODY.

Know ye the Printer's hour of peace?
Know ye an hour more fraught with joy
Than ever felt the maid of Greece,
When kissed by Venus' amorous boy?

'Tis not when round the mazy case
His nimble fingers kiss the types;
Nor is it when, with lengthened face,
The sturdy devil's tail he gripes.

'Tis not when news, of dreadful note,
His columns all with minion fill:
'Tis not when brother printers quote
The effusions of his stump-worn quill.

'Tis not when all his work is done,
His glimmering fire he hovers near,
And, heedless of the coming dun,
Grows merry o'er a pint of beer.

'Tis not when in Miss Fancy's glass
Long advertisements meet his eye,
And seem to whisper as they pass,
"We'll grace your columns by and by."

Nor is it when with numerous names:
His lengthened roll of vellum swells,
As if 'twere touch'd by conjuror's wand.
Or grew by fairy's magic spells,

No; reader—no—the Printer's hour;
His "hour of real, sweet repose,
Is not when by some magic power
His list of patrons daily grows.

But ah! 'tis when stern winter, drear
Comes robed in snow, and ruin, and woe to pour;
He hears, in whispers kind and dear,
"We've come to pay you for the paper."