Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 2.djvu/381

 Each snappish as a Leyden jar, Will hope to soothe the wordy war 'Twixt Ologist and Onomer?

Search a Reform Convention, where He- and she-resiarehs prepare To get the world in their power, You will not, when 'tis loudest, find Such gifts to hug and snarl combined As drive each astronomic mind With fifty-score Great-Bear-power!

No! put the Bootees on your foot, Elope with Virgo, strive to shoot That arrow of O'Ryan's, Drain Georgian Ciders to the lees, Attempt what crackbrained thing you please, But dream not you can e'er appease An angry man of science!

Ah, would I were, as I was once, To fair Astronomy a dunce, Or launching jeux d'esprit at her, Of light zodiacal making light, Deaf to all tales of comets bright, And knowing but such stars as might Roll r-rs at our theatre!

Then calm I drew my night-cap on, Nor bondsman was for what went on     Ere morning in the heavens; Twas no concern of mine to fix The Pleiades at seven or six,-- But now the omnium genitrix Seems all at sixes and sevens.

Alas, 'twas in an evil hour We signed the paper for the tower, With Mrs. D. to head it! For, if the Council have their way, We've merely had, as Frenchmen say, The painful maladie du pay, While they get all the credit!

Boys, henceforth doomed to spell Trustees, Think not it ends in double ease To those who hold the office; Shun Science as you would Despair, Sit not in Cassiopeia's chair, Nor hope from Berenice's hair To bring away your trophies!