 | Poems by Two Brothers |  |
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PHRENOLOGY
“Quorsum hæc tam putida tendunt?”
Horace.
A curious sect's in vogue, who deem the soul
Of man is legible upon his poll:
Give them a squint at yonder doctor's pate,
And they'll soon tell you why he dines on plate:
Ask why yon bustling statesman, who for years
Has pour'd his speeches in the senate's ears,
Tho' always in a politician's sweat,
Has hardly grasp'd the seals of office yet?
The problem gravels me—the man's possest
Of talents—this his many schemes attest.
The draw-back, what?—they tell me, looking big,
“His scull was never moulded for intrigue.”
Whene'er a culprit has consign'd his breath,
And prov'd the scripture adage—death for death,
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To see if murder juts behind his ear.
So far 'tis barely plausible:—but stay!
I ne'er can muster brass enough, to say
That a rude lump, or bunch too prominent,
Is a bad symbol of a vicious bent.
But when the sages strike another key,
Consorting things that never will agree,
And my consistency of conduct rate
By inequalities upon my pate,
And make an inharmonious bump the test
Of my delight in concord, —'tis at best
An awkward system, and not over-wise,
And badly built on incoherencies.
Another lustrum will behold our youth,
With eager souls all panting after truth,
Shrewd Spurzheim's visionary pages turn,
And, with Napoleon's bust before them, learn
Without the agency of what small bone
Quick-lime had ne'er upon a host been thrown:
In what rough rise a trivial sink had sav'd
The towns he burnt, the nations he enslav'd.
E'en now, when Harold's minstrel left the scene,
Where such a brilliant meteor he had been,
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Gazettes announc'd the volume of his brains.
Rise, Sons of Science and Invention, rise!
Make some new inroad on the starry skies;
Draw from the main some truths unknown before,
Rummage the strata, every nook explore,
To lead mankind from this fantastic lore;
Solve the long-doubted problems pending still,
And these few blanks in nature's annals fill:
Tell us why Saturn rolls begirt with flame?
Whence the red depth of Mars's aspect came?
Are the dark tracts the silver moon displays,
Dusk with the gloom of caverns or of seas?
Think ye, with Olbers, that her glow intense,
Erst deem'd volcanic, is reflected hence?
Are the black spots, which in yon sun appear
Long vistas thro' his flaming atmosphere,
Rents in his fiery robe, thro' which the eye
Gains access to his secret sanctuary?
Or may we that hypothesis explode,
Led by your science nearer to our God?
Shall we, with Glasgow's learned Watt, maintain
That yon bright bow is not produc'd by rain?
Or deem the theory but ill surmis'd,
And call it light (as Brewster) polaris'd?
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How the frail nitre-moulded points combine;
What secret cause, when Heaven and ocean greet,
Commands their close, or dictates their retreat.
On you we rest, to check th' encroaching sway
This outrè science gains from day to day;
Investigation's blood-hound scent employ
On themes more worthy of our scrutiny;
Rob this attractive magnet of its force,
And check this torrent's inundating course.
C. T.
| Poems by Two Brothers | |