THE ASTROLOGER.
Alas! for our ancient believings,
We have nothing now left to believe;
The oracle, augur, and omen
No longer dismay and deceive.
All hush’d are the oaks of Dodona;
No more on the winds of the north,
As it sways to and fro the huge branches,
The voice of the future comes forth.
No more o’er the flow'r-wreathed victim
The priest at the red altar bends:
No more on the flight of the vulture
The dark hour of vict'ry depends.
The stars have forgotten their science,
Or we have forgotten its lore;
In the rulers, the bright ones of midnight,
We question of fortune no more.
O folly! to deem that far planets
Recorded the hour of our birth;
Too glorious they are, and too lovely,
For the wo and the weakness of earth.
Now the science of fate is grown lowly,
We question of gipsies and cards;
’Tis a question how much of the actual
The fate of the vot'ry rewards.
’Tis the same in all ages; the future
Still seems to the spirit its home;
We are weary and worn with the present.
But happiness still is to come.
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