LINES TO A WORN-OUT FOUNT OF TYPE. IN A NOTE TO A FRIEND.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume VI, Issue 498, 11 May 1850, Page 3

LINES TO A WORN-OUT FOUNT OF TYPE. IN A NOTE TO A FRIEND.

I'm sitting at my desk. George; Before me on the floor There lies a -worn out fount of type, Full twenty thousand score. And many months hare paised, George, Since they were bright and new, And many are the talei they're told, The false, the strange, the true ! Their beauty all has gone, George ; You scarcely now can trace, Upon the snowy medium, The likeness of their face ; They mind me of a man, George, Whose morn of life was full Of promise but whose evening's close Was desolate and dull. What tal»s of horror have they told, Of tempest and of wreck ; Of murder at the midnight hour, Of war, full many a "speck ;" Of ships, that far away at sea Went down before the blast; Of stifled cries of agony, As life's last moment passed! Of earthquakes and of suicides, Of failing crops of cotton ; Of bank defaulters, broken banks, And banking systems rotten ; Of boilers bursting, steam boats snagged, Of riots, duels fought ; Of robbers with their prey escaped, Of thieves with booty caught. Of landslides, and of water spouts i Of ants and alligators ; Of serpents in the briny deep, And giant iweet potatoes ; Of children lost and children found; Finances in disorder; Of fights among the firemen, And trouble? on the border. They've told us of a nation, George, Bent sorrowing o'er the dust Of one whom the had call'd to fill Her brightest, dearest trust ; Of sparkling crowns for youthful browi, Of royal coronations; O' plans to rid the earth of kings, Of temperance reformations. Of flood, and fire, and accident, These worn-out types have told ; And how the pestilence hath swept The youthful and the old; Of marriages, of births and deaths, Of thing* to please and vex us; Of a man jumping overboard, Another gone to Texas t They've told how long sweet summer days Have faded from our view; How Autumn's chilling wind hath swept The leaf-crowned forest through; How Winter's reign hath come and gone — Dark reign of storm and strife — And how the smiling Spring hath wanned The pale flowers back to life. I can't pretend to mention half My inky friends have told, Since shining bright and beautiful They issued from the mould. How unto some they joy have brought, To others grief and tears; Yet faithfully the record kept Of fast receding years !