Classic Poem

It was an old philosopher,
And also very wise,
That had a little " prism "
And specs upon his eyes;
And he caught a little sunbeam
That he would analyze.

It was a rare philosopher!
He labored days and nights,
And split his little sunbeam
Into — seven — lights;
And he blessed his specs and prism
That showed such lovely sights.

And he gathered mighty glory
For doing little more
Than a little drop of water
Had often done before;
And his name, 'twas Newton, kindles
'Till the light shall shine no more.

Ah! had he caught the sunbeam
Our poet saw one day,
He would have split his prism,
And thrown his specs away;
A dewdrop could have shown him
More colors to the ray.

Our poet keeps no prism
Nor other glasses, — yet
His simple optics sundered, —
'Twixt pearl and violet, —
At least a half a hundred! —
And he is counting yet!