As the war-horse smelleth the battle afar,
  The entered Soul, no less,
He saith: 'Ha! Ha!' where the trumpets are
  And the thunders of the Press.

Canst thou number the days that we fulfil,
  Or the Times that we bring forth?
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,
  And cause them reign on earth?
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings
  To please his foolishness?
Sit down at the heart of men and things,
  Companion of the Press!

The Pope may launch his Interdict,
  The Union its decree,
But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked
  By Us and such as We.
Remember the battle and stand aside
  While Thrones and Powers confess
That King over all the children of pride
  Is the Press—the Press—the Press!