Then, thrice the ravens rend the liquid air, And croaking notes proclaim the settled fair. Then round their airy palaces they fly, To greet the sun; and, seized with secret joy, When storms are over-blown, with food repair To their forsaken nests, and callow care. Not that I think their breasts with heavenly souls Inspired, as man, who destiny controls; But, with the changeful temper of the skies, As rains condense, and sunshine rarefies, So turn the species in their altered minds, Composed by calms, and discomposed by winds. From hence proceeds the birds' harmonious voice; From hence the cows exult, and frisking lambs rejoice. Observe the daily circle of the sun, And the short year of each revolving moon: By them thou shalt foresee the following day, Nor shall a starry night thy hopes betray. When first the moon appears, if then she shrouds Her silver crescent tipped with sable clouds, Conclude she bodes a tempest on the main, And brews for fields impetuous floods of rain. Or, if her face with fiery flushing glow, Expect the rattling winds aloft to blow. But, four nights old, (for that's the surest sign,) With sharpened horns if glorious then she shine, Next day, nor only that, but all the moon, 'Till her revolving race be wholly run, Are void of tempests, both by land and sea, And sailors in the port their promised vow shall pay. Above the rest, the sun, who never lies, Foretells the change of weather in the skies: For, if he rise unwilling to his race, Clouds on his brow, and spots upon his face, Or if through mists he shoots his sullen beams, Frugal of light, in loose and straggling streams; Suspect a drizzling day, with southern rain, Fatal to fruits, and flocks, and promised grain. Or if Aurora, with half-opened eyes, And a pale sickly cheek, salute the skies; How shall the vine, with tender leaves, defend Her teeming clusters, when the storms descend, When ridgy roofs and tiles can scarce avail To bar the ruin of the rattling hail? But, more than all, the setting sun survey, When down the steep of heaven he drives the day: For oft we find him finishing his race, With various colours erring on his face. If fiery red his glowing globe descends, High winds and furious tempests he portends: But, if his cheeks are swoln with livid blue, He bodes wet weather by his watery hue: If dusky spots are varied on his brow, And, streaked with red, a troubled colour show; That sullen mixture shall at once declare Winds, rain, and storms, and elemental war. What desperate madman then would venture o'er The frith, or haul his cables from the shore? But, if with purple rays he brings the light, And a pure heaven resigns to quiet night, No rising winds, or falling storms, are nigh; } But northern breezes through the forest fly, } And drive the rack, and purge the ruffled sky. }