Was ever such unblushing harlotry,

Such sale of virtue in the Market place,

As by the Press? The red paint on her face

Is Degradation's mark. Alas, that she,

Born to bring forth the truth, still, is so base,

She kills her child and, then, to hide all trace,

Cracks bone by bone to dust, too fine to see.

O Press, poor harlot of the tyrant, Gold,

What freedom, but from truth, hast thou to boast?

Hark, who now speaks is murdered Truth's pale ghost:

"Conceiving life—oh, bring it forth! aye, hold

Thy child on high with love, as priest, the Host!

Crush not its bones, with smile and eyes set cold."