The Barometer: or, Weather-glass

In those dark Caverns of the teeming Earth, Where Nature gives to various Metals Birth: Where massy Bars of Oar unfashion'd lay, And her Veins glitter with a ruddy Ray; There, as the wond'ring Workman views the Mine With secret Riches fraught, and future Coin, His Hands a shining Silver Fountain force, That runs, and rowls unmarking of its Course. No Signs, no moisten'd Tracts of Earth betray Or its first-flowing, or returning way; Tho' broke, in gather'd Globes it still appears, And recollects it self in rounded Spheres.

None know its Nature: whether greatly born, The noble Fluid slow Perfection scorn; And ripe, and finish'd in it self, despise Subliming Sun-light, and maturing Skies. Or rather, if the Sun's imperfect Beam Leave it a loose, unripen'd Silver Stream, A Fluid Treasure: Whatsoe'er it be, It boasts of Uses of a high Degree.

But see the Fact: A Glassy Tube prepare, And from the Vessel pump the grosser Air: The Bottom let the Silver Lake supply, Obsequious to the Motions of the Sky: That so, when gath'ring Show'rs in Air depend, The fluctuating Metal may descend. And when the warmer, sultry Heats advise, The quick-emerging Liquor may arise, Possess the Void, from ev'ry Distance pass, And leave, and fill, all Spaces of the Glass.

The Tube thus fix'd; the Conscious Liquors tries, And tells before the Temper of the Skies. In its bright Face you certainly behold The distant Winter, and the future Cold. For when the mounting Fluid upward tends, And in the Glassy Channel high ascends; Then comes the Promise of serener Days, A brighter SUN in purer Aether plays; And laughing Fields confess the Summer Rays. But if the Silver Stream by too great Weight Swells much, and rises to the top-most Height; Then fade the wither'd Herbs, the Juices fly, The Plants grow thirsty, and the Meadows die.

But when the breathing Earth thin Mists exhales, And murky Smoak depends on heavy Gales, Or slowly sailing o'er the Surface low'rs, The Cause, and Nutriment of future Show'rs: Then from their Height the pond'rous Liquids flow; Sink down, and form a Silver Lake below. Observers draw not from the Bittourn's Play, Surer Presages of a weeping Day; When the Bird mounts beyond her common Height, And in the middle Aether shapes her Flight; Sportful enjoys the misty Clouds, and flings The dropping Moisture from her flaggy Wings. But now the Cold produces new Effects, The scatter'd Drops in shining Orbs collects. Then Fields look green, in fruitful Show'rs the Rain Soaks the dry Roots, and swells the teeming Grain.

But when the Streaming Metal's lucid Weight Falls deeply down, and loves a lower State; As if impatient of the Show'ry Skies, Retires, and, fearful of the Tempest, flies. That Sight, ye cautious Swains, observe with Skill: Portentous Sign! and Ominous of Ill! Soon will the pregnant Air her Vapours show; Winter come arm'd, and sounding Whirlwinds blow. But tho' the Fluid lesser press'd subsides, And almost all its Silver Substance hides: Yet other things beyond their Limits swell, Streams burst their Banks, and mighty Floods rebel, In frothy Tides each boiling Deluge raves, And Seas o'erflow with mad licentious Waves.

This wond'rous Glass a thousand Truths displays, And all the Secrets of the Skies betrays. By this the Face of Heav'n is justly shown; The Changes told, and all the Seasons known. This tells you when to trust a lose Attire, And warns you when to hope a Winter Fire.

On this Prognostic Trav'lers may rely, Tho' the Clouds gather, and obscure the Sky, And threaten Tempests to the doubtful Eye. Yet if inspecting of the sure Machine, The Glass deny, and promise it serene; Beneath the hanging Show'r they safe may go; And fearless of the Rain the Swain may mow.

This faithful Glass the Wrath of Heav'n defies, Makes Winter pointless, and disarms the Skies: Frosts, Colds, and Tempests, when by This prepar'd, Fall Innocent, and meet us on our Guard.