As yon bright orb, that vivifies our ball,
Sees through our system, and illumines all;

So, sees and shines, our Moral Sun, The Press,
Alike to vivify the mind, and bless;

Sees the rat Leech turn towards Milan's walls,

'Till the black slime betrays him as he crawls;
Sees, from that recreant, vile, and eunuch-land,
Where felon-perjurers hold their market-stand,
Cooke, with his 'cheek of parchment, eye of stone,'
Get up the evidence, to go well down;

Sees who, with eager hands, the Green Bag cram,
And warns the nation of the frightful flam;

Sees Him, for whom they work the treacherous
task,

With face, scarce half conceal'd, behind their mask.
Fat, fifty-eight, and frisky, still a beau,

Grasping a half-made match; by Leech-light go;
Led by a passion, prurient, blind, and letter'd,
Lame, bloated, pointless, flameless, age'd and
shatter'd;

Creeping, like Guy Fawkes, to blow up his wife,
Whom, spurn'd in youth, he dogs through after-life.

Scorn'd, exiled, baffled, goaded in distress,

She owes her safety to a fearless Press:

With all the freedom that it makes its own,

It guards, alike, the people and their throne;

While fools with darkling eye-balls shun its gaze,
And soaring villains scorch beneath its blaze.