'THE printer, in his folio, heraldeth the world. Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees, wars, fires, inundations, thefts, murders, massacres, meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, shipwrecks, piracies, sea-fights, law-suits, pleas, proclamations, embassies, trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays; then again, as in a new-shifted scene, treasons, cheating-tricks, robberies, enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, new discoveries, expeditions; now comical then tragical matters. To-day we hear of new offices created, to-morrow of great men deposed, and then again of fresh honors conferred; one is let loose, another prisoned; one purchaseth, another breaketh; he thrives, his neighbor turneth bankrupt; now plenty, then again dearth and famine; one runs, another rides, wrangles, laughs, weeps, and so forth. Thus do we daily hear such like, both public and private news.' OLD BORTON. HE stood there alone at that shadowy hour, By the swinging lamp dimly burning; All silent within, save the ticking type, All without, save the night-watch turning; And heavily echoed the solemn sound, As slowly he paced o'er the frozen ground. And dark were the mansions so lately that shone, With the joy of festivity gleaming, And hearts that were beating in sympathy then, Were now living it o'er in their dreaming; Yet the PRINTER still worked at his lonely post, As slowly he gathered his mighty host. And there lay the merchant all pillowed in down, And building bright hopes for the morrow, Nor dreamed he that Fate was then waving a wand That would bring to him fear and sorrow; Yet the PRINTER was there in his shadowy room, And he set in his frame-work that rich man's doom! The young wife was sleeping, whom lately had bound The ties that death only can sever; And dreaming she started, yet woke with a smile, For she thought they were parted for ever! But the PRINTER was clicking the types that would tell On the morrow _the truth_ of that midnight spell! And there lay the statesman, whose feverish brow And restless, the pillow was pressing, For he felt through the shadowy mist of his dream His loftiest hopes now possessing; Yet the PRINTER worked on, mid silence and gloom, And dug for Ambition its lowliest tomb. And slowly that workman went gathering up His budget of grief and of gladness; A wreath for the noble, a grave for the low, For the happy, a full cup of sadness; Strange stories of wonder, to enchant the ear, And dark ones of terror, to curdle with fear.