The Astrologer Who Stumbled Into A Well.

[1]      To an astrologer who fell      Plump to the bottom of a well,      'Poor blockhead!' cried a passer-by,      'Not see your feet, and read the sky?'      This upshot of a story will suffice      To give a useful hint to most;      For few there are in this our world so wise      As not to trust in star or ghost,      Or cherish secretly the creed      That men the book of destiny may read.      This book, by Homer and his pupils sung,      What is it, in plain common sense,      But what was chance those ancient folks among,      And with ourselves, God's providence?      Now chance doth bid defiance      To every thing like science;      'Twere wrong, if not,      To call it hazard, fortune, lot -      Things palpably uncertain.      But from the purposes divine,      The deep of infinite design,      Who boasts to lift the curtain?      Whom but himself doth God allow      To read his bosom thoughts? and how      Would he imprint upon the stars sublime      The shrouded secrets of the night of time?      And all for what? To exercise the wit      Of those who on astrology have writ?      To help us shun inevitable ills?      To poison for us even pleasure's rills?      The choicest blessings to destroy,      Exhausting, ere they come, their joy?      Such faith is worse than error - 'tis a crime.      The sky-host moves and marks the course of time;      The sun sheds on our nicely-measured days      The glory of his night-dispelling rays;      And all from this we can divine      Is, that they need to rise and shine, -      To roll the seasons, ripen fruits,      And cheer the hearts of men and brutes.      How tallies this revolving universe      With human things, eternally diverse?      Ye horoscopers, waning quacks,      Please turn on Europe's courts your backs,      And, taking on your travelling lists      The bellows-blowing alchemists,      Budge off together to the land of mists.      But I've digress'd. Return we now, bethinking      Of our poor star-man, whom we left a drinking.      Besides the folly of his lying trade,      This man the type may well be made      Of those who at chimeras stare      When they should mind the things that are.