THE SUN.
“’Tis by thy secret, strong attractive force,
As with a chain indissoluble bound,
Thy system rolls entire; from the far bourne
Of utmost Saturn, wheeling wide his round
Of thirty years, to Mercury, whose disk
Can scarce be caught by philosophic eye,
Lost in the near effulgence of thy blaze.”
Had our poet written his Summer in 1781, the year in which Uranus was discovered, instead of 1727; or could he have waited till 1846, his “utmost Saturn wheeling wide his round of thirty years” would probably have been changed and in beautifully flowing verse would have been expressed the wonderful fact of “utmost Neptune, wheeling wide his round, whose years could only be by four and sixty and one hundred told.” So much in one respect had astronomy grown in a little more than a century. But we could have no heart to blame our poet’s neglect of our “utmost” planets, even had he known of their existence, since he was so evidently in earnest in giving its due to our glorious orb, recognized to-day as the source of all our light, and heat, and life.
“From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,
Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature’s depth;
He comes, attended by the Hours
And ever-fanning Breezes, on his way;
While from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
…
“When now, no more the alternate Twins are fired,
And Cancer reddens with the Solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the Night;
And soon, observant of approaching Day,
The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of Dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled East;
Till far o’er Ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the luster of her face,
White break the clouds away.”
Had our poetic friend, Thompson, lived in Meadville or New York, instead of London, he would not even on the 21st of June, have been so much disposed to sing:
“Short is the doubtful empire of the Night;”
for the shortest night of New York is over an hour longer than the shortest night of London. But what were Meadville and New York in 1727? June 21st is our longest day, in latitude 41° 30′, a little more than fifteen hours from sunrise to sunset; the night, of course, a little less than nine hours. On this day the sun reaches his northern limit, 23° 27′ 3.2″, and at 2:42 a. m. begins his southern journey; or, to put it astronomically, the sun enters Gemini, and summer begins, on June 21st, at 1:42 a. m. On the 1st, sun rises at 4:31 a. m., sets at 7:24 p. m.; on the 16th, rises at 4:29 a. m., sets at 7:32 p. m.; and on the 30th rises at 4:33 a. m., sets at 7:34 p. m. Many persons judging from the temperature will be inclined to think on the 21st that the sun must be at midday directly above their head; but it will have an elevation of not more than 73°.