The Trustee's Lament

Per aspera ad astra.

(Scene: Outside the gate of the Astronomical Observatory at Albany.)

There was a time when I was blest;The stars might rise in East or WestWith all their sines and wonders;I cared for neither great nor small,As pointedly unmoved by allAs, on the top of steeple tall,A lightning-rod at thunders.

What did I care for Science then?I was a man with fellow-men,And called the Bear the Dipper;Segment meant piece of pie,--no more;Cosine, the parallelogram that boreJOHN SMITH & CO. above a door;Arc, what called Noah skipper.

No axes weighed upon my mind,(Unless I had a few to grind.)And as for my astronomy,

Had Hedgecock's quadrant then been known,I might a lamp-post's height have shownBy gas-tronomic skill,--if noneFind fault with the metonymy.

O hours of innocence! O waysHow far from these unhappy daysWhen all is vicy-versy!No flower more peaceful took its dueThan I, who then no difference knew'Twixt Ursy Major and my trueOld crony, Major Hersey.

Now in long broils and feuds we roast,Like Strasburg geese that living toastTo make a liver-paté,--And all because we fondly stroveTo set the city of our loveIn scientific fame aboveHer sister Cincinnati!

We built our tower and furnished itWith everything folks said was fit,From coping-stone to grounsel;And then, to give a knowing air,Just nominally assigned its careTo that unmanageable affair,A Scientific Council.

We built it, not that one or twoAstronomers the stars might viewAnd count the comets' hair-roots,But that it might by all be saidHow very freely we had bled,--We were not laying out a bedTo force their early square-roots.

The observations we wished madeWere on the spirit we'd displayed,Worthy of Athens' high days;But they've put in a man who thinksOnly of planets' nodes and winks,So full of astronomic kinksHe eats star-fish on Fridays.

The instruments we did not meanFor seeing through, but to be seenAt tap of Trustee's knuckle;But the Director locks the gate,And makes ourselves and strangers waitWhile he is ciphering on a slateThe rust of Saturn's buckle.

So on the wall's outside we stand,Admire the keyhole's contour grandAnd gateposts' sturdy granite;--But, ah, is Science safe, we say,With one who treats Trustees this way?Who knows but he may snub, some day,A well-conducted planet?

Who knows what mischief he may brewWith such a telescope brand-newAt the four-hundredth power?He may bring some new comet downSo near that it'll singe the townAnd do the Burgess-Corps crisp-brownEre they can storm his tower.

We wanted (having got our show)Some man, that had a name or so,To be our public showman;But this one shuts and locks the gate:Who'll answer but he'll peculate,(And, faith, some stars are missed of late,)Now that he's watched by no man?

Our own discoveries he may steal,Or put night's candles out, to dealAt junkshops with the sockets:Savants, in other lands or this,If any theory you missWhereon your cipher graven is,Don't fail to search his pockets!

Lock up your comets: if that fails,Then notch their ears and clip their tails,That you at need may swear to 'em;And watch your nebulous flocks at night,For, if your palings are not tight,He may, to gratify his spite,Let in the Little Bear to 'em.

Then he's so quarrelsome, we've fearsHe'll set the very Twins by the ears,--So mad, if you resist him,He'd get Aquarius to playA milkman's trick, some cloudy day,And water all the Milky WayTo starve some sucking system.

But plaints are vain! through wrath or pride,The Council all espouse his sideAnd will our missives con no more;And who that knows what savants are,

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

Search a Reform Convention, whereHe- and she-resiarehs prepareTo get the world in their power,You will not, when 'tis loudest, findSuch gifts to hug and snarl combinedAs drive each astronomic mindWith fifty-score Great-Bear-power!

No! put the Bootees on your foot,Elope with Virgo, strive to shootThat arrow of O'Ryan's,Drain Georgian Ciders to the lees,Attempt what crackbrained thing you please,But dream not you can e'er appeaseAn 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 mightRoll r-rs at our theatre!

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

Alas, 'twas in an evil hourWe 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 easeTo those who hold the office;Shun Science as you would Despair,Sit not in Cassiopeia's chair,Nor hope from Berenice's hairTo bring away your trophies!