The Astronomer.
Cold, yet salubrious, is the night,
And quiet reigns around;
Mid-winter’s nimbly spread its white
Robe o’er the goodly ground.
The silver’d earth reflects the moon,
As, in her majesty,
She rides across that vast saloon
Where mystic meteors fly,—
Where giant stars,[63] all in their course,
Roll through the plains of night,—
Sustain’d by their centrip’tal force,
And centrifugal flight,—
Illuminating the blue main
(Where discontents ne’er rise),
As on they travel in a train
Through the enchanting skies. * * *
Famed Venus, Jupiter, or Mars,
Attract the passer-by;
While countless other glittering stars
Ne’er catch a single eye.
Some creatures, weary with their toil,
Scarce lift their heads above;
And others, thoughtless of them all,
Prefer their downs of love.
But the Astronomer’s deep mind
Soars through the ocean air,—
He loves the Hand which has design’d
The heav’ns with so much care;
For in’t he finds a glorious feast
Of beauteous wonderment!
Though thousands ’round him take their rest,
He seeks the firmament:
Therein abides his only hope,
And there his soul is lost!—
In solitude he loves to cope
The grand nocturnal host;
His nourishment—the silv’ry draught,
While ’tis a cloudless sky;—
But lo! he turns and views, abaft,
Some striplings of dark dye.
And then a group, of murky hue,
Seem to conspire to mar
The radiant twinklers from his view,
And hide his favourite star.
All hope—awhile—now gone from him,
He seeks his lonely bed,
And there he utters, in a dream,
Those words—“When I am dead!” * * *
Awoke—his ever-studious mind
Impels his feathery pen,
And draws, perchance, his last design
Of the ethereal main.
Ah! something stirs him to a smile—
Like lightning skips his quill;
Then, for some reason, waits awhile,
And sits, as ’twere, stark still:
Or, studiously obedient to
The impulse of his heart,
Inclines his heavy-laden brow,
And drops his grey-goose dart.
Then, when ’tis eve, he travels forth
To scan the starry height,
With instruments of precious worth,
And compasses the night.
Fix’d,[64] and directed to the spot—
The object of his gaze—
Exclaims the man, “O, beauteous dot!—
Some men, methinks, will praise
Thee more than I, when ’neath the sod
My cold clay form is laid:—
When I th’ immortal path have trod,
They’ll talk of him that’s dead.” * * *
He strikes the bosom of his muse,
And chants in silent song
A hymn of joy, whilst he reviews
The grand celestial throng.
He envies not the king his throne;
The nation its proud wealth:
But ponders o’er the purple zone,
Till self-destroying health
Bids him relax the arduous task,—
He sighs at every breath,—
For on his pale cheeks lurk the mask
Of hungry-looking death.
Yet still assiduously goes on
The man (not of this world):
Until, alas! his period’s run—
The sails of life are furl’d!
His worldly goods are sought by those
The nearest of his kin;—
On cumb’rous shelves, in cupboards, doze
The products of his pen.
They see, at length, in their rude style
That in the vast blue heav’n
There rangeth one more ariel-isle!
Its name was all but given * * *
Enough though had been writ of it,
Man’s wisdom to absorb;
For yet-liv’d ’stronomers deem’d fit
To seek the new-born orb:—
Yes, and ’twas found! and then they raise
A tribute to its fame,
And learn the dead man’s works to praise.
And lauded forth his name.
[63] The Planets.
[64] His astronomical instrument.
