The instruments we did not mean
  For seeing through, but to be seen
      At tap of Trustee’s knuckle;
  But the Director locks the gate,
  And makes ourselves and strangers wait
  While he is ciphering on a slate
      The rust of Saturn’s buckle.

  So on the wall’s outside we stand,
  Admire the keyhole’s contour grand
      And 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 brew
  With such a telescope brand-new
      At the four-hundredth power? 
  He may bring some new comet down
  So near that it’ll singe the town
  And do the Burgess-Corps crisp-brown
      Ere 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 deal
      At junkshops with the sockets: 
  Savants, in other lands or this,
  If any theory you miss
  Whereon 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 fears
  He’ll set the very Twins by the ears,—­
      So mad, if you resist him,
  He’d get Aquarius to play
  A milkman’s trick, some cloudy day,
  And water all the Milky Way
      To starve some sucking system.

  But plaints are vain! through wrath or pride,
  The Council all espouse his side
      And 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, where
  He- and she-resiarehs prepare
      To get the world in their power,
  You will not, when ’tis loudest, find
  Such gifts to hug and snarl combined
  As drive each astronomic mind
      With fifty-score Great-Bear-power!

  No! put the Bootees on your foot,
  Elope with Virgo, strive to shoot
      That arrow of O’Ryan’s,
  Drain Georgian Ciders to the lees,
  Attempt what crackbrained thing you please,
  But dream not you can e’er appease
      An 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 might
      Roll r-rs at our theatre!