The gallow tree, when cutting purse 395 Breeds bus'ness for heroic verse, Which none does hear, but would have hung T' have been the theme of such a song. Those two together long had liv'd, In mansion prudently contriv'd; 400 Where neither tree nor house could bar The free detection of a star And nigh an ancient obelisk <e> Was rais'd by him, found out by FISK, On which was a written not in words, 405 But hieroglyphic mute of birds, Many rare pithy saws concerning The worth of astrologic learning. From top of this there hung a rope, To a which he fasten'd telescope; 410 The spectacles with which the stars He reads in smallest characters. It happen'd as a boy, one night, Did fly his tarsel of a kite, The strangest long-wing'd hawk that flies, 415 That, like a bird of Paradise, Or herald's martlet, has no legs, Nor hatches young ones, nor lays eggs; His train was six yards long, milk-white, At th' end of which there hung a light, 420 Inclos'd in lanthorn, made of paper, That far off like a star did appear. This SIDROPHEL by chance espy'd, And with amazement staring wide, Bless us! quoth he, what dreadful wonder 425 Is that appears in heaven yonder? A comet, and without a beard! Or star that ne'er before appear'd! I'm certain 'tis not in the scrowl Of all those beasts, and fish, and fowl, 430 With which, like Indian plantations, The learned stock the constellations Nor those that draw for signs have bin To th' houses where the planets inn. It must be supernatural, 435 <e> Unless it be that cannon-ball That, shot i' th' air point-blank upright, Was borne to that prodigious height, That learn'd Philosophers maintain, It ne'er came backwards down again; 440 But in the airy region yet Hangs like the body of MAHOMET For if it be above the shade That by the earth's round bulk is made, 'Tis probable it may from far 445 Appear no bullet, but a star. This said, he to his engine flew, Plac'd near at hand, in open view, And rais'd it 'till it levell'd right Against the glow-worm tail of kite, 450 Then peeping thro', Bless us! (quoth he) It is a planet, now I see And, if I err not, by his proper Figure, that's like tobacco-stopper, It should be Saturn. Yes, 'tis clear 455 'Tis Saturn; but what makes him there? He's got between the Dragon's Tail And farther Leg behind o' th' Whale. Pray heav'n divert the fatal omen, For 'tis a prodigy not common; 460 And can no less than the world's end, Or Nature's funeral, portend.