Henry Prentiss ----------------------------------------------------------------------- USGENWEB ARCHIVES NOTICE: These electronic pages may NOT be reproduced in any format for profit or presentation by other organization or persons. Persons or organizations desiring to use this material, must obtain the written consent of the contributor, or the legal representative of the submitter, and contact the listed USGenWeb archivist with proof of this consent. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ File contributed and transcribed for use in USGenWeb Archives by Tina S. Vickery on April 22, 1999 ------------------------------------------------------------------- Henry Prentiss Born in 1779, the son of Rev. Caleb Prentiss and Pamelia (Mellen) Prentiss, of Reading, Mass. He married Mary, daughter of Dr. John Hart, of Reading, and came to Paris, Me., quite early, though not reckoned by the town historian as among the first settlers. He was a frequent contributor to the early local papers, and a forcible writer. He occasionally wrote poetry, which evidently was a strong family trait. He died in Paris, in 1843. We give an extract for one of his poems, which appeared in the first issue of the Oxford Observer. POWER OF THE PRESS. The Press, with a majesty boundless as sea, And a voice loud as thunder, bids Oxford be free; With a stride from the ocean she measures the plain, And swears on the mountains of Oxford she'll reign. She seeks a retreat in the land of the brave; She shrinks at the tyrant, and weep o'er the slave. The Land of the Hills to the brave is a home, For the hills of the Swiss to their foes are a tomb. Fair daughter of heaven, O virtue, inspire The soul of the Press with thine own sacred fire! If on the escutcheon of Oxford remain. A vice or a crime to encrimson her name, The foul crimson blot in oblivion wipe, By the flash of thy frown or the lash of thy type. E'en hallowed on earth; O Justice, preside O'er the fate of our counsels, or destinies guide, Hang high o'er our homes thy bright balance in Heaven, And by thy red bolt the iniquity riven. O palsy the hand by extortion corroded, Doom peaceless the soul by its infamy goaded; If guilt with her train of dark vassals arrayed, The quiet dominions of Oxford invade, The Press thy artillery, the type be thy bow, To lay the base miscreant lifeless and low. His corse be the carrion where ravens shall feed, His bones bleach the turf on which tramples the steed. But when the oppressed in their anguish shall cry, Their cheek pale with sorrow, grief-smitten their eye, Then deal out thy mercy, the victim opprest, From the gripe of the ruthless extortioner wrest. The Press be thine angel, our faults to record, Our vices to punish, or virtues reward; Our morals to chasten, our follies expose, To gladden the bosom though pregnant with woes, Our minds to enlighten, our wand'rings correct, To rescue our youth who in vices are wrecked, Our tastes to improve and our manners refine, And point the bold sinner to piety's shrine. A light to the blind, to the darkling a guide, A bride to the groom, and a groom to the bride. A home to a stranger, a guest to the host, Who brings him glad tidings of a heritage lost. A pillar of fire to enlighten our way, A mirror, the scenery of life to display. The yeomanry chart which shall point out the soil Whose bounties shall gladden the culturer's toil. An age that shall ken the rich secrets of earth, And drag them reluctant to being and birth.