Classic Poem

So, while he spoke, the wizzard's face grew black,
And scowling o'er his book with earnest gaze,
He looked like hunter searching out the track,
Where doubtful signs his straining eyes amaze;
Or, like a wrecker, peering thro' the haze,
When on the deep he hears the drowning cry;—
He scann'd the changing moon, her ancient ways,
The pictured stars he read with curious eye;
Then to his guest he spoke, and thus his sage reply:—