The Press. By Ebenezer Elliot . God said, “Let there be light !” Grim darkness felt his might, And fled away : Then startled seas, and mountains cold Shone forth all bright in blue and gold, And cried, “’Tis day, ’tis day !” “ Hail, holy light !” exclaimed The thunderous cloud, that flamed O’er daisies white ; And, lo ! the rose, in crimson dress’d, Leaned sweetly on the lily’s breast, And blushing murmur’d, “Light !” Then was the skylark born : Then rose the embattled corn ; The streams of praise Flow’d o’er the sunny hills of noon ; And when night came, the pallid moon Pour’d forth her pensive rays. Lo, heaven’s bright bow is glad ! Lo, trees and flowers, all clad In glory bloom ! And shall the mortal sons of God Be senseless as the trodden clod, And darker than the tomb ? No, by the Mind of Man ! By the swart Artizan ! By God, our Sire ! Our souls have holy light within, And every form of grief and sin Shall see and feel its fire. By earth and hell and heaven The shroud of souls is riven ; Mind, mind alone Is light, and hope, and life, and power ; Earth’s deepest night, from this bless’d hour, The night of minds, is gone. The second Ark we bring: “ The Press !” all nations sing ; What can they less ? Oh ! pallid want ; oh ! labour stark ; Behold, we bring the second Ark— The Press ! the Press ! the Press !