 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
THE ZODIAC.
Dear Julia—Philosophers gravely assert
That our beautiful world is a spherule of dirt,
That rolls, in a circuit, through regions of space,
And passes, each year, through the very same place;
That while it turns over, by day or by night,
We scarcely know whether we're standing upright;
But, yet, that our love for it sticks us so fast,
We can not fall off—but adhere to the last.
That our beautiful world is a spherule of dirt,
That rolls, in a circuit, through regions of space,
And passes, each year, through the very same place;
That while it turns over, by day or by night,
We scarcely know whether we're standing upright;
But, yet, that our love for it sticks us so fast,
We can not fall off—but adhere to the last.
The truth of such doctrine I will not dispute,
Because I'm engaged in another pursuit;
Besides, since I first crept about this machine,
Such queer topsy-turvy manœuvres I've seen,
That twenty to one (as the learned have said)
But mortals are, half the time, heels over head.
Yet, still, as a poet, you known, I am bound
To believe that the sun always travels around
The turnpike of heaven, in chariot of fire,
Drawn rapidly onward by steeds that ne'er tire,
Nor stop to refresh, though they pass, as they fly,
The signs of a dozen fine inns, in the sky.
Because I'm engaged in another pursuit;
Besides, since I first crept about this machine,
Such queer topsy-turvy manœuvres I've seen,
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But mortals are, half the time, heels over head.
Yet, still, as a poet, you known, I am bound
To believe that the sun always travels around
The turnpike of heaven, in chariot of fire,
Drawn rapidly onward by steeds that ne'er tire,
Nor stop to refresh, though they pass, as they fly,
The signs of a dozen fine inns, in the sky.
When last I addressed you, this bright charioteer
Was galloping on in his brilliant career,
The steeds from their nostrils still vomiting flame,
As past the next stage-house they rapidly came.
Poor Phœbus in vain might have thirsted for wine,
For nothing but water appeared on the sign:
So onward he drove in the bright, starry zone,
And left the cold, cheerless Aquarius alone.
Was galloping on in his brilliant career,
The steeds from their nostrils still vomiting flame,
As past the next stage-house they rapidly came.
Poor Phœbus in vain might have thirsted for wine,
For nothing but water appeared on the sign:
So onward he drove in the bright, starry zone,
And left the cold, cheerless Aquarius alone.
The scaly star, Pisces, soon greeted his eye,
His old stopping-place, if the ancients do n't lie,
Who counted this stage as the last on his route,
Its sign is so tempting—a fine salmon trout.
But soon the fierce steeds left it far in the rear,
For another, that promised some mutton, was near;
That Ram which had once a fair rider upon 't,
And let her fall plump in the famed Hellespont;
The crooked-horn Aries, whose rich golden fleece
Was carried by Jason, in triumph, to Greece,
Was the sign that invited the driver to bait,
But nothing, it seems, could induce him to wait;
A crack of his whip, and the mettlesome steeds
Start forward like lightning, while Aries recedes.
His old stopping-place, if the ancients do n't lie,
Who counted this stage as the last on his route,
Its sign is so tempting—a fine salmon trout.
But soon the fierce steeds left it far in the rear,
For another, that promised some mutton, was near;
That Ram which had once a fair rider upon 't,
And let her fall plump in the famed Hellespont;
The crooked-horn Aries, whose rich golden fleece
Was carried by Jason, in triumph, to Greece,
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But nothing, it seems, could induce him to wait;
A crack of his whip, and the mettlesome steeds
Start forward like lightning, while Aries recedes.
But Phœbus, 't is said, when he saw the next sign,
Was almost determined to stop and to dine;
For the golden-horned Bull, which so gallantly bore
The lovely Europa to Crete's happy shore,
Invitingly promised, for hunger's relief,
A fine, smoking sirloin of English roast beef.
Was almost determined to stop and to dine;
For the golden-horned Bull, which so gallantly bore
The lovely Europa to Crete's happy shore,
Invitingly promised, for hunger's relief,
A fine, smoking sirloin of English roast beef.
Apollo, however, regardless of inns,
Drove onward, nor even accosted the Twins,
Those famous Tyndarian brothers, that dwell,
By changes alternate, in heaven or hell;
The comrades of Jason in winning the fleece,
Whose smiles, it is said, lull the tempest to peace,
If sailors sincerely their favors invoke,
To save from the wreck which the billows have broke.
Behind were the Crab and the Lion afar,
As well as the Virgin, Erigone's star;
Astrea's bright balance now glowed on his sight,
It trembled—he threw in a handful of light,
And finding the darkness just equalled the day,
He whipped up his horses, and posted away.
The Scorpion and Centaur he rapidly passed,
And Pan, his old friend, he saluted at last;
For his steeds, at the moment these verses were wrote,
Were galloping up to the sign of the Goat.
In pure, native English, your minstrel would say,
That another New Year is commencing to-day.
Drove onward, nor even accosted the Twins,
Those famous Tyndarian brothers, that dwell,
By changes alternate, in heaven or hell;
The comrades of Jason in winning the fleece,
Whose smiles, it is said, lull the tempest to peace,
If sailors sincerely their favors invoke,
To save from the wreck which the billows have broke.
Behind were the Crab and the Lion afar,
As well as the Virgin, Erigone's star;
Astrea's bright balance now glowed on his sight,
It trembled—he threw in a handful of light,
And finding the darkness just equalled the day,
He whipped up his horses, and posted away.
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And Pan, his old friend, he saluted at last;
For his steeds, at the moment these verses were wrote,
Were galloping up to the sign of the Goat.
In pure, native English, your minstrel would say,
That another New Year is commencing to-day.
Dear, Julia, may blessings attend its return,
While life's little taper continues to burn;
And then, when the last welcome summons you hear,
May you wake to a happy, thrice happy New Year.
While life's little taper continues to burn;
And then, when the last welcome summons you hear,
May you wake to a happy, thrice happy New Year.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |