Book II: The Astrologer Who Stumbled into a Well

To an astrologer who fellPlump 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 sufficeTo give a useful hint to most;For few there are in this our world so wiseAs not to trust in star or ghost,Or cherish secretly the creedThat 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 defianceTo 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 allowTo read his bosom thoughts? and howWould he imprint upon the stars sublimeThe shrouded secrets of the night of time?And all for what? To exercise the witOf 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 daysThe glory of his night-dispelling rays;And all from this we can divineIs, 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 universeWith human things, eternally diverse?Ye horoscopers, waning quacks,Please turn on Europe's courts your backs,And, taking on your travelling listsThe bellows-blowing alchemists,Budge off together to the land of mists.But I've digress'd. Return we now, bethinkingOf our poor star-man, whom we left a drinking.Besides the folly of his lying trade,This man the type may well be madeOf those who at chimeras stareWhen they should mind the things that are.