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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6574.txt b/6574.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..17cd71e --- /dev/null +++ b/6574.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5051 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Watchers of the Sky, by Alfred Noyes + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Watchers of the Sky + +Author: Alfred Noyes + +Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6574] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on December 28, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WATCHERS OF THE SKY *** + + + + +Produced by Beth L. Constantine, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +THE TORCH-BEARERS + + +WATCHERS OF THE SKY + + + +BY + +ALFRED NOYES + + + + +PREFATORY NOTE + +This volume, while it is complete in itself, is also the first of a +trilogy, the scope of which is suggested in the prologue. The story of +scientific discovery has its own epic unity--a unity of purpose and +endeavour--the single torch passing from hand to hand through the +centuries; and the great moments of science when, after long labour, +the pioneers saw their accumulated facts falling into a significant +order--sometimes in the form of a law that revolutionised the whole +world of thought--have an intense human interest, and belong +essentially to the creative imagination of poetry. It is with these +moments that my poem is chiefly concerned, not with any impossible +attempt to cover the whole field or to make a new poetic system, after +the Lucretian model, out of modern science. + +The theme has been in my mind for a good many years; and the first +volume, dealing with the "Watchers of the Sky," began to take definite +shape during what was to me an unforgettable experience--the night I +was privileged to spend on a summit of the Sierra Madre Mountains, +when the first trial was made of the new 100-inch telescope. The +prologue to this volume attempts to give a picture of that night, and +to elucidate my own purpose. + +The first tale in this volume plunges into the middle of things, with +the revolution brought about by Copernicus; but, within the tale, +partly by means of an incidental lyric, there is an attempt to give a +bird's-eye view of what had gone before. The torch then passes to +Tycho Brahe, who, driven into exile with his tables of the stars, at +the very point of death hands them over to a young man named Kepler. +Kepler, with their help, arrives at his own great laws, and +corresponds with Galileo--the intensely human drama of whose life I +have endeavoured to depict with more historical accuracy than can be +attributed to much of the poetic literature that has gathered around +his name. Too many writers have succumbed to the temptation of the +cry, "e pur si muove!" It is, of course, rejected by every reliable +historian, and was first attributed to Galileo a hundred years after +his death. M. Ponsard, in his play on the subject, succumbed to the +extent of making his final scene end with Galileo "frappant du pied la +terre," and crying, "pourtant elle tourne." Galileo's recantation was +a far more subtle and tragically complicated affair than that. Even +Landor succumbed to the easy method of making him display his entirely +legendary scars to Milton. If these familiar pictures are not to be +found in my poem, it may be well for me to assure the hasty reader +that it is because I have endeavoured to present a more just picture. +I have tried to suggest the complications of motive in this section by +a series of letters passing between the characters chiefly concerned. +There was, of course, a certain poetic significance in the legend of +"e pur si muove"; and this significance I have endeavoured to retain +without violating historical truth. + +In the year of Galileo's death Newton was born, and the subsequent +sections carry the story on to the modern observatory again. The form +I have adopted is a development from that of an earlier book, +"_Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_" where certain poets and +discoverers of another kind were brought together round a central +idea, and their stories told in a combination of narrative and lyrical +verse. "The Torch-Bearers" flowed all the more naturally into a +similar form in view of the fact that Tycho Brahe, Kepler, and many +other pioneers of science wrote a considerable number of poems. +Those imbedded in the works of Kepler--whose blazing and fantastic +genius was, indeed, primarily poetic--are of extraordinary interest. I +was helped, too, in the general scheme by those constant meetings +between science and poetry, of which the most famous and beautiful are +the visit of Sir Henry Wotton to Kepler, and the visit of Milton to +Galileo in prison. + +Even if science and poetry were as deadly opposites as the shallow +often affirm, the method and scheme indicated above would at least +make it possible to convey something of the splendour of the long +battle for the light in its most human aspect. Poetry has its own +precision of expression and, in modern times, it has been seeking more +and more for truth, sometimes even at the expense of beauty. It may be +possible to carry that quest a stage farther, to the point where, in +the great rhythmical laws of the universe revealed by science, truth +and beauty are reunited. If poetry can do this, it will not be without +some value to science itself, and it will be playing its part in the +reconstruction of a shattered world. The passing of the old order of +dogmatic religion has left the modern world in a strange chaos, +craving for something in which it can unfeignedly believe, and often +following will-o'-the-wisps. Forty years ago, Matthew Arnold +prophesied that it would be for poetry, "where it is worthy of its +high destinies," to help to carry on the purer fire, and to express in +new terms those eternal ideas which must ever be the only sure stay of +the human race. It is not within the province of science to attempt a +post-Copernican justification of the ways of God to man; but, in the +laws of nature revealed by science, and in "that grand sequence of +events which"--as Darwin affirmed--"the mind refuses to accept as the +result of blind chance," poetry may discover its own new grounds for +the attempt. It is easy to assume that all hope and faith are shallow. +It is even easier to practise a really shallow and devitalising +pessimism. The modern annunciation that there is a skeleton an inch +beneath the skin of man is neither new nor profound. Neither science +nor poetry can rest there; and if, in this poem, an attempt is made to +show that spiritual values are not diminished or overwhelmed by the +"fifteen hundred universes" that passed in review before the telescope +of Herschel, it is only after the opposite argument--so common and so +easy to-day--has been faced; and only after poetry has at least +endeavoured to follow the torch of science to its own deep-set +boundary-mark in that immense darkness of Space and Time. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Prologue + + I. Copernicus + + II. Tycho Brahe + + III. Kepler + + IV. Galileo + + V. Newton + + VI. William Herschel Conducts + + VII. Sir John Herschel Remembers + + Epilogue + + + + +PROLOGUE + +THE OBSERVATORY + + +At noon, upon the mountain's purple height, +Above the pine-woods and the clouds it shone +No larger than the small white dome of shell +Left by the fledgling wren when wings are born. +By night it joined the company of heaven, +And, with its constant light, became a star. +A needle-point of light, minute, remote, +It sent a subtler message through the abyss, +Held more significance for the seeing eye +Than all the darkness that would blot it out, +Yet could not dwarf it. + High in heaven it shone, +Alive with all the thoughts, and hopes, and dreams +Of man's adventurous mind. + Up there, I knew +The explorers of the sky, the pioneers +Of science, now made ready to attack +That darkness once again, and win new worlds. +To-morrow night they hoped to crown the toil +Of twenty years, and turn upon the sky +The noblest weapon ever made by man. +War had delayed them. They had been drawn away +Designing darker weapons. But no gun +Could outrange this. + +"To-morrow night"--so wrote their chief--"we try +Our great new telescope, the hundred-inch. +Your Milton's 'optic tube' has grown in power +Since Galileo, famous, blind, and old, +Talked with him, in that prison, of the sky. +We creep to power by inches. Europe trusts +Her 'giant forty' still. Even to-night +Our own old sixty has its work to do; +And now our hundred-inch . . . I hardly dare +To think what this new muzzle of ours may find. +Come up, and spend that night among the stars +Here, on our mountain-top. If all goes well, +Then, at the least, my friend, you'll see a moon +Stranger, but nearer, many a thousand mile +Than earth has ever seen her, even in dreams. +As for the stars, if seeing them were all, +Three thousand million new-found points of light +Is our rough guess. But never speak of this. +You know our press. They'd miss the one result +To flash 'three thousand millions' round the world." +To-morrow night! For more than twenty years, +They had thought and planned and worked. Ten years had gone, +One-fourth, or more, of man's brief working life, +Before they made those solid tons of glass, +Their hundred-inch reflector, the clear pool, +The polished flawless pool that it must be +To hold the perfect image of a star. +And, even now, some secret flaw--none knew +Until to-morrow's test--might waste it all. +Where was the gambler that would stake so much,-- +Time, patience, treasure, on a single throw? +The cost of it,--they'd not find that again, +Either in gold or life-stuff! All their youth +Was fuel to the flame of this one work. +Once in a lifetime to the man of science, +Despite what fools believe his ice-cooled blood, +There comes this drama. + If he fails, he fails +Utterly. He at least will have no time +For fresh beginnings. Other men, no doubt, +Years hence, will use the footholes that he cut +In those precipitous cliffs, and reach the height, +But he will never see it." + So for me, +The light words of that letter seemed to hide +The passion of a lifetime, and I shared +The crowning moment of its hope and fear. +Next day, through whispering aisles of palm we rode +Up to the foot-hills, dreaming desert-hills +That to assuage their own delicious drought +Had set each tawny sun-kissed slope ablaze +With peach and orange orchards. + Up and up, +Along the thin white trail that wound and climbed +And zig-zagged through the grey-green mountain sage, +The car went crawling, till the shining plain +Below it, like an airman's map, unrolled. +Houses and orchards dwindled to white specks +In midget cubes and squares of tufted green. +Once, as we rounded one steep curve, that made +The head swim at the canyoned gulf below, +We saw through thirty miles of lucid air +Elvishly small, sharp as a crumpled petal +Blown from the stem, a yard away, a sail +Lazily drifting on the warm blue sea. +Up for nine miles along that spiral trail +Slowly we wound to reach the lucid height +Above the clouds, where that white dome of shell, +No wren's now, but an eagle's, took the flush +Of dying day. The sage-brush all died out, +And all the southern growths, and round us now, +Firs of the north, and strong, storm-rooted pines +Exhaled a keener fragrance; till, at last, +Reversing all the laws of lesser hills, +They towered like giants round us. Darkness fell +Before we reached the mountain's naked height. + +Over us, like some great cathedral dome, +The observatory loomed against the sky; +And the dark mountain with its headlong gulfs +Had lost all memory of the world below; +For all those cloudless throngs of glittering stars +And all those glimmerings where the abyss of space +Is powdered with a milky dust, each grain +A burning sun, and every sun the lord +Of its own darkling planets,--all those lights +Met, in a darker deep, the lights of earth, +Lights on the sea, lights of invisible towns, +Trembling and indistinguishable from stars, +In those black gulfs around the mountain's feet. +Then, into the glimmering dome, with bated breath, +We entered, and, above us, in the gloom +Saw that majestic weapon of the light +Uptowering like the shaft of some huge gun +Through one arched rift of sky. + Dark at its base +With naked arms, the crew that all day long +Had sweated to make ready for this night +Waited their captain's word. + The switchboard shone +With elfin lamps of white and red, and keys +Whence, at a finger's touch, that monstrous tube +Moved like a creature dowered with life and will, +To peer from deep to deep. + Below it pulsed +The clock-machine that slowly, throb by throb, +Timed to the pace of the revolving earth, +Drove the titanic muzzle on and on, +Fixed to the chosen star that else would glide +Out of its field of vision. + So, set free +Balanced against the wheel of time, it swung, +Or rested, while, to find new realms of sky +The dome that housed it, like a moon revolved, +So smoothly that the watchers hardly knew +They moved within; till, through the glimmering doors, +They saw the dark procession of the pines +Like Indian warriors, quietly stealing by. + +Then, at a word, the mighty weapon dipped +Its muzzle and aimed at one small point of light +One seeming insignificant star. + The chief, +Mounting the ladder, while we held our breath, +Looked through the eye-piece. + Then we heard him laugh +His thanks to God, and hide it in a jest. +"A prominence on Jupiter!"-- + They laughed, +"What do you mean?"--"It's moving," cried the chief, +They laughed again, and watched his glimmering face +High overhead against that moving tower. +"Come up and see, then!" + One by one they went, +And, though each laughed as he returned to earth, +Their souls were in their eyes. + Then I, too, looked, +And saw that insignificant spark of light +Touched with new meaning, beautifully reborn, +A swimming world, a perfect rounded pearl, +Poised in the violet sky; and, as I gazed, +I saw a miracle,--right on its upmost edge +A tiny mound of white that slowly rose, +Then, like an exquisite seed-pearl, swung quite clear +And swam in heaven above its parent world +To greet its three bright sister-moons. + A moon, +Of Jupiter, no more, but clearer far +Than mortal eyes had seen before from earth, +O, beautiful and clear beyond all dreams +Was that one silver phrase of the starry tune +Which Galileo's "old discoverer" first +Dimly revealed, dissolving into clouds +The imagined fabric of our universe. +_"Jupiter stands in heaven and will stand +Though all the sycophants bark at him,"_ he cried, +Hailing the truth before he, too, went down, +Whelmed in the cloudy wreckage of that dream. + +So one by one we looked, the men who served +Urania, and the men from Vulcan's forge. +A beautiful eagerness in the darkness lit +The swarthy faces that too long had missed +A meaning in the dull mechanic maze +Of labour on this blind earth, but found it now. +Though only a moment's wandering melody +Hopelessly far above, it gave their toil +Its only consecration and its joy. +There, with dark-smouldering eyes and naked throats, +Blue-dungareed, red-shirted, grimed and smeared +With engine-grease and sweat, they gathered round +The foot of that dim ladder; each muttering low +As he came down, his wonder at what he saw +To those who waited,--a picture for the brush +Of Rembrandt, lighted only by the rift +Above them, where the giant muzzle thrust +Out through the dim arched roof, and slowly throbbed, +Against the slowly moving wheel of the earth, +Holding their chosen star. + There, like an elf, +Perched on the side of that dark slanting tower +The Italian mechanician watched the moons, +That Italy discovered. + One by one, +American, English, French, and Dutch, they climbed +To see the wonder that their own blind hands +Had helped to achieve. + At midnight while they paused +To adjust the clock-machine, I wandered out +Alone, into the silence of the night. +The silence? On that lonely height I heard +Eternal voices; +For, as I looked into the gulf beneath, +Whence almost all the lights had vanished now, +The whole dark mountain seemed to have lost its earth +And to be sailing like a ship through heaven. +All round it surged the mighty sea-like sound +Of soughing pine-woods, one vast ebb and flow +Of absolute peace, aloof from all earth's pain, +So calm, so quiet, it seemed the cradle-song, +The deep soft breathing of the universe +Over its youngest child, the soul of man. +And, as I listened, that Aeolian voice +Became an invocation and a prayer: +O you, that on your loftier mountain dwell +And move like light in light among the thoughts +Of heaven, translating our mortality +Into immortal song, is there not one +Among you that can turn to music now +This long dark fight for truth? Not one to touch +With beauty this long battle for the light, +This little victory of the spirit of man +Doomed to defeat--for what was all we saw +To that which neither eyes nor soul could see?-- +Doomed to defeat and yet unconquerable, +Climbing its nine miles nearer to the stars. +Wars we have sung. The blind, blood-boltered kings +Move with an epic music to their thrones. +Have you no song, then, of that nobler war? +Of those who strove for light, but could not dream +Even of this victory that they helped to win, +Silent discoverers, lonely pioneers, +Prisoners and exiles, martyrs of the truth +Who handed on the fire, from age to age; +Of those who, step by step, drove back the night +And struggled, year on year, for one more glimpse +Among the stars, of sovran law, their guide; +Of those who searching inward, saw the rocks +Dissolving into a new abyss, and saw +Those planetary systems far within, +Atoms, electrons, whirling on their way +To build and to unbuild our solid world; +Of those who conquered, inch by difficult inch, +The freedom of this realm of law for man; +Dreamers of dreams, the builders of our hope, +The healers and the binders up of wounds, +Who, while the dynasts drenched the world with blood, +Would in the still small circle of a lamp +Wrestle with death like Heracles of old +To save one stricken child. + Is there no song +To touch this moving universe of law +With ultimate light, the glimmer of that great dawn +Which over our ruined altars yet shall break +In purer splendour, and restore mankind +From darker dreams than even Lucretius knew +To vision of that one Power which guides the world. +How should men find it? Only through those doors +Which, opening inward, in each separate soul +Give each man access to that Soul of all +Living within each life, not to be found +Or known, till, looking inward, each alone +Meets the unknowable and eternal God. + +And there was one that moved like light in light +Before me there,--Love, human and divine, +That can exalt all weakness into power,-- +Whispering, _Take this deathless torch of song_... +Whispering, but with such faith, that even I +Was humbled into thinking this might be +Through love, though all the wisdom of the world +Account it folly. + Let my breast be bared +To every shaft, then, so that Love be still +My one celestial guide the while I sing +Of those who caught the pure Promethean fire +One from another, each crying as he went down +To one that waited, crowned with youth and joy,-- +_Take thou the splendour, carry it out of sight +Into the great new age I must not know, +Into the great new realm I must not tread_. + + + + +I + +COPERNICUS + + +The neighbours gossiped idly at the door. +Copernicus lay dying overhead. +His little throng of friends, with startled eyes, +Whispered together, in that dark house of dreams, +From which by one dim crevice in the wall +He used to watch the stars. + "His book has come +From Nuremberg at last; but who would dare +To let him see it now?"-- + "They have altered it! +Though Rome approved in full, this preface, look, +Declares that his discoveries are a dream!"-- +"He has asked a thousand times if it has come; +Could we tear out those pages?"-- + "He'd suspect."-- +"What shall be done, then?"-- + "Hold it back awhile. +That was the priest's voice in the room above. +He may forget it. Those last sacraments +May set his mind at rest, and bring him peace."-- +Then, stealing quietly to that upper door, +They opened it a little, and saw within +The lean white deathbed of Copernicus +Who made our world a world without an end. +There, in that narrow room, they saw his face +Grey, seamed with thought, lit by a single lamp; +They saw those glorious eyes +Closing, that once had looked beyond the spheres +And seen our ancient firmaments dissolve +Into a boundless night. + Beside him knelt +Two women, like bowed shadows. At his feet, +An old physician watched him. At his head, +The cowled Franciscan murmured, while the light +Shone faintly on the chalice. + All grew still. +The fragrance of the wine was like faint flowers, +The first breath of those far celestial fields.... + +Then, like a dying soldier, that must leave +His last command to others, while the fight +Is yet uncertain, and the victory far, +Copernicus whispered, in a fevered dream, +"Yes, it is Death. But you must hold him back, +There, in the doorway, for a little while, +Until I know the work is rightly done. +Use all your weapons, doctor. I must live +To see and touch one copy of my book. +Have they not brought it yet? + They promised me +It should be here by nightfall. + One of you go +And hasten it. I can hold back +Death till dawn. + +Have they not brought it yet?--from Nuremberg. +Do not deceive me. I must know it safe, +Printed and safe, for other men to use. +I could die then. My use would be fulfilled. +What has delayed them? Will not some one go +And tell them that my strength is running out? +Tell them that book would be an angel's hand +In mine, an easier pillow for my head, +A little lantern in the engulfing dark. +You see, I hid its struggling light so long +Under too small a bushel, and I fear +It may go out forever. In the noon +Of life's brief day, I could not see the need +As now I see it, when the night shuts down. +I was afraid, perhaps, it might confuse +The lights that guide us for the souls of men. + +But now I see three stages in our life. +At first, we bask contented in our sun +And take what daylight shows us for the truth. +Then we discover, in some midnight grief, +How all day long the sunlight blinded us +To depths beyond, where all our knowledge dies. +That's where men shrink, and lose their way in doubt. +Then, last, as death draws nearer, comes a night +In whose majestic shadow men see God, +Absolute Knowledge, reconciling all. +So, all my life I pondered on that scheme +Which makes this earth the centre of all worlds, +Lighted and wheeled around by sun and moon +And that great crystal sphere wherein men thought +Myriads of lesser stars were fixed like lamps, +Each in its place,--one mighty glittering wheel +Revolving round this dark abode of man. +Night after night, with even pace they moved. +Year after year, not altering by one point, +Their order, or their stations, those fixed stars +In that revolving firmament. The Plough +Still pointed to the Pole. Fixed in their sphere, +How else explain that vast unchanging wheel? +How, but by thinking all those lesser lights +Were huger suns, divided from our earth +By so immense a gulf that, if they moved +Ten thousand leagues an hour among themselves, +It would not seem one hair's-breadth to our eyes. +Utterly inconceivable, I know; +And yet we daily kneel to boundless Power +And build our hope on that Infinitude. + +This did not daunt me, then. Indeed, I saw +Light upon chaos. Many discordant dreams +Began to move in lucid music now. +For what could be more baffling than the thought +That those enormous heavens must circle earth +Diurnally--a journey that would need +Swiftness to which the lightning flash would seem +A white slug creeping on the walls of night; +While, if earth softly on her axle spun +One quiet revolution answered all. +It was our moving selves that made the sky +Seem to revolve. Have not all ages seen +A like illusion baffling half mankind +In life, thought, art? Men think, at every turn +Of their own souls, the very heavens have moved. + +Light upon chaos, light, and yet more light; +For--as I watched the planets--Venus, Mars, +Appeared to wax and wane from month to month +As though they moved, now near, now far, from earth. +Earth could not be their centre. Was the sun +Their sovran lord then, as Pythagoras held? +Was this great earth, so 'stablished, so secure, +A planet also? Did it also move +Around the sun? If this were true, my friends, +No revolution in this world's affairs, +Not that blind maelstrom where imperial Rome +Went down into the dark, could so engulf +All that we thought we knew. We who believed +In our own majesty, we who walked with gods +As younger sons on this proud central stage, +Round which the whole bright firmament revolved +For our especial glory, must we creep +Like ants upon our midget ball of dust +Lost in immensity? + I could not take +That darkness lightly. I withheld my book +For many a year, until I clearly saw, +And Rome approved me--have they not brought it yet?-- +That this tremendous music could not drown +The still supernal music of the soul, +Or quench the light that shone when Christ was born. +For who, if one lost star could lead the kings +To God's own Son, would shrink from following these +To His eternal throne? + This at the least +We know, the soul of man can soar through heaven. +It is our own wild wings that dwarf the world +To nothingness beneath us. Let the soul +Take courage, then. If its own thought be true, +Not all the immensities of little minds +Can ever quench its own celestial fire. +No. This new night was needed, that the soul +Might conquer its own kingdom and arise +To its full stature. So, in face of death, +I saw that I must speak the truth I knew. + +Have they not brought it? What delays my book? +I am afraid. Tell me the truth, my friends. +At this last hour, the Church may yet withhold +Her sanction. Not the Church, but those who think +A little darkness helps her. + Were this true, +They would do well. If the poor light we win +Confuse or blind us, to the Light of lights, +Let all our wisdom perish. I affirm +A greater Darkness, where the one true Church +Shall after all her agonies of loss +And many an age of doubt, perhaps, to come, +See this processional host of splendours burn +Like tapers round her altar. + So I speak +Not for myself, but for the age unborn. +I caught the fire from those who went before, +The bearers of the torch who could not see +The goal to which they strained. I caught their fire, +And carried it, only a little way beyond; +But there are those that wait for it, I know, +Those who will carry it on to victory. +I dare not fail them. Looking back, I see +Those others,--fallen, with their arms outstretched +Dead, pointing to the future. + Far, far back, +Before the Egyptians built their pyramids +With those dark funnels pointing to the north, +Through which the Pharaohs from their desert tombs +Gaze all night long upon the Polar Star, +Some wandering Arab crept from death to life +Led by the Plough across those wastes of pearl.... + +Long, long ago--have they not brought it yet? +My book?--I finished it one summer's night, +And felt my blood all beating into song. +I meant to print those verses in my book, +A prelude, hinting at that deeper night +Which darkens all our knowledge. Then I thought +The measure moved too lightly. + Do you recall +Those verses, Elsa? They would pass the time. +How happy I was the night I wrote that song!" +Then, one of those bowed shadows raised her head +And, like a mother crooning to her child, +Murmured the words he wrote, so long ago. + +In old Cathay, in far Cathay, + Before the western world began, +They saw the moving fount of day + Eclipsed, as by a shadowy fan; +They stood upon their Chinese wall. + They saw his fire to ashes fade, +And felt the deeper slumber fall + On domes of pearl and towers of jade. + +With slim brown hands, in Araby, + They traced, upon the desert sand, +Their Rams and Scorpions of the sky, + And strove--and failed--to understand. +Before their footprints were effaced + The shifting sand forgot their rune; +Their hieroglyphs were all erased, + Their desert naked to the moon. + +In Bagdad of the purple nights, + Haroun Al Raschid built a tower, +Where sages watched a thousand lights + And read their legends, for an hour. +The tower is down, the Caliph dead, + Their astrolabes are wrecked with rust. +Orion glitters overhead, + Aladdin's lamp is in the dust. + +In Babylon, in Babylon, + They baked their tablets of the clay; +And, year by year, inscribed thereon + The dark eclipses of their day; +They saw the moving finger write + Its _Mene, Mene_, on their sun. +A mightier shadow cloaks their light, + And clay is clay in Babylon. + +A shadow moved towards him from the door. +Copernicus, with a cry, upraised his head. +"The book, I cannot see it, let me feel +The lettering on the cover. + It is here! +Put out the lamp, now. Draw those curtains back, +And let me die with starlight on my face. +An angel's hand in mine . . . yes; I can say +My _nunc dimittis_ now . . . light, and more light +In that pure realm whose darkness is our peace." + + + + +II + +TYCHO BRAHE + + +I + + +They thought him a magician, Tycho Brahe, +Who lived on that strange island in the Sound, +Nine miles from Elsinore. + His legend reached +The Mermaid Inn the year that Shakespeare died. +Fynes Moryson had brought his travellers' tales +Of Wheen, the heart-shaped isle where Tycho made +His great discoveries, and, with Jeppe, his dwarf, +And flaxen-haired Christine, the peasant girl, +Dreamed his great dreams for five-and-twenty years. +For there he lit that lanthorn of the law, +Uraniborg; that fortress of the truth, +With Pegasus flying above its loftiest tower, +While, in its roofs, like wide enchanted eyes +Watching, the brightest windows in the world, +Opened upon the stars. + +Nine miles from Elsinore, with all those ghosts, +There's magic enough in that! But white-cliffed Wheen, +Six miles in girth, with crowds of hunchback waves +Crawling all round it, and those moonstruck windows, +Held its own magic, too; for Tycho Brahe +By his mysterious alchemy of dreams +Had so enriched the soil, that when the king +Of England wished to buy it, Denmark asked +A price too great for any king on earth. +"Give us," they said, "in scarlet cardinal's cloth +Enough to cover it, and, at every corner, +Of every piece, a right rose-noble too; +Then all that kings can buy of Wheen is yours. +Only," said they, "a merchant bought it once; +And, when he came to claim it, goblins flocked +All round him, from its forty goblin farms, +And mocked him, bidding him take away the stones +That he had bought, for nothing else was his." +These things were fables. They were also true. +They thought him a magician, Tycho Brahe, +The astrologer, who wore the mask of gold. +Perhaps he was. There's magic in the truth; +And only those who find and follow its laws +Can work its miracles. + Tycho sought the truth +From that strange year in boyhood when he heard +The great eclipse foretold; and, on the day +Appointed, at the very minute even, +Beheld the weirdly punctual shadow creep +Across the sun, bewildering all the birds +With thoughts of evening. + Picture him, on that day, +The boy at Copenhagen, with his mane +Of thick red hair, thrusting his freckled face +Out of his upper window, holding the piece +Of glass he blackened above his candle-flame +To watch that orange ember in the sky +Wane into smouldering ash. + He whispered there, +"So it is true. By searching in the heavens, +Men can foretell the future." + In the street +Below him, throngs were babbling of the plague +That might or might not follow. + He resolved +To make himself the master of that deep art +And know what might be known. + He bought the books +Of Stadius, with his tables of the stars. +Night after night, among the gabled roofs, +Climbing and creeping through a world unknown +Save to the roosting stork, he learned to find +The constellations, Cassiopeia's throne, +The Plough still pointing to the Polar Star, +The sword-belt of Orion. There he watched +The movements of the planets, hours on hours, +And wondered at the mystery of it all. +All this he did in secret, for his birth +Was noble, and such wonderings were a sign +Of low estate, when Tycho Brahe was young; +And all his kinsmen hoped that Tycho Brahe +Would live, serene as they, among his dogs +And horses; or, if honour must be won, +Let the superfluous glory flow from fields +Where blood might still be shed; or from those courts +Where statesmen lie. But Tycho sought the truth. +So, when they sent him in his tutor's charge +To Leipzig, for such studies as they held +More worthy of his princely blood, he searched +The Almagest; and, while his tutor slept, +Measured the delicate angles of the stars, +Out of his window, with his compasses, +His only instrument. Even with this rude aid +He found so many an ancient record wrong +That more and more he burned to find the truth. + +One night at home, as Tycho searched the sky, +Out of his window, compasses in hand, +Fixing one point upon a planet, one +Upon some loftier star, a ripple of laughter +Startled him, from the garden walk below. +He lowered his compass, peered into the dark +And saw--Christine, the blue-eyed peasant girl, +With bare brown feet, standing among the flowers. +She held what seemed an apple in her hand; +And, in a voice that Aprilled all his blood, +The low soft voice of earth, drawing him down +From those cold heights to that warm breast of Spring, +A natural voice that had not learned to use +The false tones of the world, simple and clear +As a bird's voice, out of the fragrant darkness called, +"I saw it falling from your window-ledge! +I thought it was an apple, till it rolled +Over my foot. + It's heavy. Shall I try +To throw it back to you?" + Tycho saw a stain +Of purple across one small arched glistening foot. +"Your foot Is bruised," he cried. + "O no," she laughed, +And plucked the stain off. "Only a petal, see." +She showed it to him. + "But this--I wonder now +If I can throw it." + Twice she tried and failed; +Or Tycho failed to catch that slippery sphere. +He saw the supple body swaying below, +The ripe red lips that parted as she laughed, +And those deep eyes where all the stars were drowned. + +At the third time he caught it; and she vanished, +Waving her hand, a little floating moth, +Between the pine-trees, into the warm dark night. +He turned into his room, and quickly thrust +Under his pillow that forbidden fruit; +For the door opened, and the hot red face +Of Otto Brahe, his father, glowered at him. +"What's this? What's this?" + The furious-eyed old man +Limped to the bedside, pulled the mystery out, +And stared upon the strangest apple of Eve +That ever troubled Eden,--heavy as bronze, +And delicately enchased with silver stars, +The small celestial globe that Tycho bought +In Leipzig. + Then the storm burst on his head! +This moon-struck 'pothecary's-prentice work, +These cheap-jack calendar-maker's gypsy tricks +Would damn the mother of any Knutsdorp squire, +And crown his father like a stag of ten. +Quarrel on quarrel followed from that night, +Till Tycho sickened of his ancient name; +And, wandering through the woods about his home, +Found on a hill-top, ringed with fragrant pines, +A little open glade of whispering ferns. +Thither, at night, he stole to watch the stars; +And there he told the oldest tale on earth +To one that watched beside him, one whose eyes +Shone with true love, more beautiful than the stars, +A daughter of earth, the peasant-girl, Christine. + +They met there, in the dusk, on his last night +At home, before he went to Wittenberg. +They stood knee-deep among the whispering ferns, +And said good-bye. + "I shall return," he said, +"And shame them for their folly, who would set +Their pride above the stars, Christine, and you. +At Wittenberg or Rostoch I shall find +More chances and more knowledge. All those worlds +Are still to conquer. We know nothing yet; +The books are crammed with fables. They foretell +Here an eclipse, and there a dawning moon, +But most of them were out a month or more +On Jupiter and Saturn. + There's one way, +And only one, to knowledge of the law +Whereby the stars are steered, and so to read +The future, even perhaps the destinies +Of men and nations,--only one sure way, +And that's to watch them, watch them, and record +The truth we know, and not the lies we dream. +Dear, while I watch them, though the hills and sea +Divide us, every night our eyes can meet +Among those constant glories. Every night +Your eyes and mine, upraised to that bright realm, +Can, in one moment, speak across the world. +I shall come back with knowledge and with power, +And you--will wait for me?" + She answered him +In silence, with the starlight of her eyes. + + + + +II + + +He watched the skies at Wittenberg. The plague +Drove him to Rostoch, and he watched them there; +But, even there, the plague of little minds +Beset him. At a wedding-feast he met +His noble countryman, Manderup, who asked, +With mocking courtesy, whether Tycho Brahe +Was ready yet to practise his black art +At country fairs. The guests, and Tycho, laughed; +Whereat the swaggering Junker blandly sneered, +"If fortune-telling fail, Christine will dance, +Thus--tambourine on hip," he struck a pose. +"Her pretty feet will pack that booth of yours." +They fought, at midnight, in a wood, with swords. +And not a spark of light but those that leapt +Blue from the clashing blades. Tycho had lost +His moon and stars awhile, almost his life; +For, in one furious bout, his enemy's blade +Dashed like a scribble of lightning into the face +Of Tycho Brahe, and left him spluttering blood, +Groping through that dark wood with outstretched hands, +To fall in a death-black swoon. + They carried him back +To Rostoch; and when Tycho saw at last +That mirrored patch of mutilated flesh, +Seared as by fire, between the frank blue eyes +And firm young mouth where, like a living flower +Upon some stricken tree, youth lingered still, +He'd but one thought, Christine would shrink from him +In fear, or worse, in pity. An end had come +Worse than old age, to all the glory of youth. +Urania would not let her lover stray +Into a mortal's arms. He must remain +Her own, for ever; and for ever, alone. + +Yet, as the days went by, to face the world, +He made himself a delicate mask of gold +And silver, shaped like those that minstrels wear +At carnival in Venice, or when love, +Disguising its disguise of mortal flesh, +Wooes as a nameless prince from far away. +And when this world's day, with its blaze and coil +Was ended, and the first white star awoke +In that pure realm where all our tumults die, +His eyes and hers, meeting on Hesperus, +Renewed their troth. + He seemed to see Christine, +Ringed by the pine-trees on that distant hill, +A small white figure, lost in space and time, +Yet gazing at the sky, and conquering all, +Height, depth, and heaven itself, by the sheer power +Of love at one with everlasting laws, +A love that shared the constancy of heaven, +And spoke to him across, above, the world. + + + + +III + + +Not till he crossed the Danube did he find +Among the fountains and the storied eaves +Of Augsburg, one to share his task with him. +Paul Hainzel, of that city, greatly loved +To talk with Tycho of the strange new dreams +Copernicus had kindled. Did this earth +Move? Was the sun the centre of our scheme? +And Tycho told him, there is but one way +To know the truth, and that's to sweep aside +All the dark cobwebs of old sophistry, +And watch and learn that moving alphabet, +Each smallest silver character inscribed +Upon the skies themselves, noting them down, +Till on a day we find them taking shape +In phrases, with a meaning; and, at last, +The hard-won beauty of that celestial book +With all its epic harmonies unfold +Like some great poet's universal song. + +He was a great magician, Tycho Brahe. +"Hainzel," he said, "we have no magic wand, +But what the truth can give us. If we find +Even with a compass, through a bedroom window, +That half the glittering Almagest is wrong, +Think you, what noble conquests might be ours, +Had we but nobler instruments." + He showed +Quivering with eagerness, his first rude plan +For that great quadrant,--not the wooden toy +Of old Scultetus, but a kingly weapon, +Huge as a Roman battering-ram, and fine +In its divisions as any goldsmith's work. +"It could be built," said Tycho, "but the cost +Would buy a dozen culverin for your wars." +Then Hainzel, fired by Tycho's burning brain, +Answered, "We'll make it. We've a war to wage +On Chaos, and his kingdoms of the night." +They chose the cunningest artists of the town, +Clock-makers, jewellers, carpenters, and smiths, +And, setting them all afire with Tycho's dream, +Within a month his dream was oak and brass. +Its beams were fourteen cubits, solid oak, +Banded with iron. Its arch was polished brass +Whereon five thousand exquisite divisions +Were marked to show the minutes of degrees. + +So huge and heavy it was, a score of men, +Could hardly drag and fix it to its place +In Hainzel's garden. + Many a shining night, +Tycho and Hainzel, out of that maze of flowers, +Charted the stars, discovering point by point, +How all the records erred, until the fame +Of this new master, hovering above the schools +Like a strange hawk, threatened the creeping dreams +Of all the Aristotelians, and began +To set their mouse-holes twittering "Tycho Brahe!" + +Then Tycho Brahe came home, to find Christine. +Up to that whispering glade of ferns he sped, +At the first wink of Hesperus. + He stood +In shadow, under the darkest pine, to hide +The little golden mask upon his face. +He wondered, will she shrink from me in fear +Or loathing? Will she even come at all? +And, as he wondered, like a light she moved +Before him. + "Is it you?"-- + "Christine! Christine," +He whispered, "It is I, the mountebank, +Playing a jest upon you. It's only a mask! +Do not be frightened. I am here behind it." + +Her red lips parted, and between them shone, +The little teeth like white pomegranate seeds. +He saw her frightened eyes. + Then, with a cry, +Her arms went round him, and her eyelids closed. +Lying against his heart, she set her lips +Against his lips, and claimed him for her own. + + + + +IV + + +One frosty night, as Tycho bent his way +Home to the dark old abbey, he upraised +His eyes, and saw a portent in the sky. +There, in its most familiar patch of blue, +Where Cassiopeia's five-fold glory burned, +An unknown brilliance quivered, a huge star +Unseen before, a strange new visitant +To heavens unchangeable, as the world believed, +Since the creation. + Could new stars be born? +Night after night he watched that miracle +Growing and changing colour as it grew; +White at the first, and large as Jupiter; +And, in the third month, yellow, and larger yet; +Red in the fifth month, like Aldebaran, +And larger even than Lyra. In the seventh, +Bluish like Saturn; whence it dulled and dwined +Little by little, till after eight months more +Into the dark abysmal blue of night, +Whence it arose, the wonder died away. +But, while it blazed above him, Tycho brought +Those delicate records of two hundred nights +To Copenhagen. There, in his golden mask, +At supper with Pratensis, who believed +Only what old books told him, Tycho met +Dancey, the French Ambassador, rainbow-gay +In satin hose and doublet, supple and thin, +Brown-eyed, and bearded with a soft black tuft +Neat as a blackbird's wing,--a spirit as keen +And swift as France on all the starry trails +Of thought. + He saw the deep and simple fire, +The mystery of all genius in those eyes +Above that golden wizard. + Tycho raised +His wine-cup, brimming--they thought--with purple dreams; +And bade them drink to their triumphant Queen +Of all the Muses, to their Lady of Light +Urania, and the great new star. + They laughed, +Thinking the young astrologer's golden mask +Hid a sardonic jest. + "The skies are clear," +Said Tycho Brahe, "and we have eyes to see. +Put out your candles. Open those windows there!" +The colder darkness breathed upon their brows, +And Tycho pointed, into the deep blue night. +There, in their most immutable height of heaven, +In _ipso caelo_, in the ethereal realm, +Beyond all planets, red as Mars it burned, +The one impossible glory. + "But it's true!" +Pratensis gasped; then, clutching the first straw, +"Now I recall how Pliny the Elder said, +Hipparchus also saw a strange new star, +Not where the comets, not where the _Rosae_ bloom +And fade, but in that solid crystal sphere +Where nothing changes." + Tycho smiled, and showed +The record of his watchings. + "But the world +Must know all this," cried Dancey. "You must print it." +"Print it?" said Tycho, turning that golden mask +On both his friends. "Could I, a noble, print +This trafficking with Urania in a book? +They'd hound me out of Denmark! This disgrace +Of work, with hands or brain, no matter why, +No matter how, in one who ought to dwell +Fixed to the solid upper sphere, my friends, +Would never be forgiven." + Dancey stared +In mute amazement, but that mask of gold +Outstared him, sphinx-like, and inscrutable. + +Soon through all Europe, like the blinded moths, +Roused by a lantern in old palaces +Among the mouldering tapestries of thought, +Weird fables woke and fluttered to and fro, +And wild-eyed sages hunted them for truth. +The Italian, Frangipani, thought the star +The lost Electra, that had left her throne +Among the Pleiads, and plunged into the night +Like a veiled mourner, when Troy town was burned. +The German painter, Busch, of Erfurt, wrote, +"It was a comet, made of mortal sins; +A poisonous mist, touched by the wrath of God +To fire; from which there would descend on earth +All manner of evil--plagues and sudden death, +Frenchmen and famine." + Preachers thumped and raved. +Theodore Beza in Calvin's pulpit tore +His grim black gown, and vowed it was the Star +That led the Magi. It had now returned +To mark the world's end and the Judgment Day. +Then, in this hubbub, Dancey told the king +Of Denmark, "There is one who knows the truth-- +Your subject Tycho Brahe, who, night by night, +Watched and recorded all that truth could see. +It would bring honour to all Denmark, sire, +If Tycho could forget his rank awhile, +And print these great discoveries in a book, +For all the world to read." + So Tycho Brahe +Received a letter in the king's own hand, +Urging him, "Truth is the one pure fountain-head +Of all nobility. Pray forget your rank." +His noble kinsmen echoed, "If you wish +To please His Majesty and ourselves, forget +Your rank." + "I will," said Tycho Brahe; +"Your reasoning has convinced me. I will print +My book, '_De Nova Stella._' And to prove +All you have said concerning temporal rank +And this eternal truth you love so well, +I marry, to-day,"--they foamed, but all their mouths +Were stopped and stuffed and sealed with their own words,-- +"I marry to-day my own true love, Christine." + + + + +V + + +They thought him a magician, Tycho Brahe. +Perhaps he was. There's magic all around us +In rocks and trees, and in the minds of men, +Deep hidden springs of magic. + He that strikes +The rock aright, may find them where he will. + +And Tycho tasted happiness in his hour. +There was a prince in Denmark in those days; +And, when he heard how other kings desired +The secrets of this new astrology, +He said, "This man, in after years, will bring +Glory to Denmark, honour to her prince. +He is a Dane. Give him this isle of Wheen, +And let him make his great discoveries there. +Let him have gold to buy his instruments, +And build his house and his observatory." + +So Tycho set this island where he lived +Whispering with wizardry; and, in its heart, +He lighted that strange lanthorn of the law, +And built himself that wonder of the world, +Uraniborg, a fortress for the truth, +A city of the heavens. + Around it ran +A mighty rampart twenty-two feet high, +And twenty feet in thickness at the base. +Its angles pointed north, south, east and west, +With gates and turrets; and, within this wall, +Were fruitful orchards, apple, and cherry, and pear; +And, sheltered in their midst from all but sun, +A garden, warm and busy with singing bees. +There, many an hour, his flaxen-haired Christine, +Sang to her child, her first-born, Magdalen, +Or watched her playing, a flower among the flowers. +Dark in the centre of that zone of bliss +Arose the magic towers of Tycho Brahe. +Two of them had great windows in their roofs +Opening upon the sky where'er he willed, +And under these observatories he made +A library of many a golden book; +Poets and sages of old Greece and Rome, +And many a mellow legend, many a dream +Of dawning truth in Egypt, or the dusk +Of Araby. Under all of these he made +A subterranean crypt for alchemy, +With sixteen furnaces; and, under this, +He sank a well, so deep, that Jeppe declared +He had tapped the central fountains of the world, +And drew his magic from those cold clear springs. +This was the very well, said Jeppe, the dwarf, +Where Truth was hidden; but, by Tycho Brahe +And his weird skill, the magic water flowed, +Through pipes, uphill, to all the house above: +The kitchen where his cooks could broil a trout +For sages or prepare a feast for kings; +The garrets for the students in the roof; +The guest-rooms, and the red room to the north, +The study and the blue room to the south; +The small octagonal yellow room that held +The sunlight like a jewel all day long, +And Magdalen, with her happy dreams, at night; +Then, facing to the west, one long green room, +The ceiling painted like the bower of Eve +With flowers and leaves, the windows opening wide +Through which Christine and Tycho Brahe at dawn +Could see the white sails drifting on the Sound +Like petals from their orchard. + To the north, +He built a printing house for noble books, +Poems, and those deep legends of the sky, +Still to be born at his Uraniborg. +Beyond the rampart to the north arose +A workshop for his instruments. To the south +A low thatched farm-house rambled round a yard +Alive with clucking hens; and, further yet +To southward on another hill, he made +A great house for his larger instruments, +And called it Stiernborg, mountain of the stars. + +And, on his towers and turrets, Tycho set +Statues with golden verses in the praise +Of famous men, the bearers of the torch, +From Ptolemy to the new Copernicus. +Then, in that storm-proof mountain of the stars, +He set in all their splendour of new-made brass +His armouries for the assault of heaven,-- +Circles in azimuth, armillary spheres, +Revolving zodiacs with great brazen rings; +Quadrants of solid brass, ten cubits broad, +Brass parallactic rules, made to revolve +In azimuth; clocks with wheels; an astrolabe; +And that large globe strengthened by oaken beams +He made at Augsburg. + All his gold he spent; +But Denmark had a prince in those great days; +And, in his brain, the dreams of Tycho Brahe +Kindled a thirst for glory. So he made +Tycho the Lord of sundry lands and rents, +And Keeper of the Chapel where the kings +Of Oldenburg were buried; for he said +"To whom could all these kings entrust their bones +More fitly than to him who read the stars, +And though a mortal, knew immortal laws; +And paced, at night, the silent halls of heaven." + + + + +VI + + +He was a great magician, Tycho Brahe. +There, on his island, for a score of years, +He watched the skies, recording star on star, +For future ages, and, by patient toil, +Perfected his great tables of the sun, +The moon, the planets. + There, too happy far +For any history, sons and daughters rose, +A little clan of love, around Christine; +And Tycho thought, when I am dead, my sons +Will rule and work in my Uraniborg. +And yet a doubt would trouble him, for he knew +The children of Christine would still be held +Ignoble, by the world. + Disciples came, +Young-eyed and swift, the bearers of the torch +From many a city to Uraniborg, +And Tycho Brahe received them like a king, +And bade them light their torches at his fire. +The King of Scotland came, with all his court, +And dwelt eight days in Tycho Brahe's domain, +Asking him many a riddle, deep and dark, +Whose answer, none the less, a king should know. +What boots it on this earth to be a king, +To rule a part of earth, and not to know +The worth of his own realm, whether he rule +As God's vice-gerent, and his realm be still +The centre of the centre of all worlds; +Or whether, as Copernicus proclaimed, +This earth itself be moving, a lost grain +Of dust among the innumerable stars? +For this would dwarf all glory but the soul, +In king or peasant, that can hail the truth, +Though truth should slay it. + So to Tycho Brahe, +The king became a subject for eight days. +But, in the crowded hall, when he had gone, +Jeppe raised his matted head, with a chuckle of glee, +Quiet as the gurgle of joy in a dark rock-pool, +When the first ripple and wash of the first spring-tide +Flows bubbling under the dry sun-blackened fringe +Of seaweed, setting it all afloat again, +In magical colours, like a merman's hair. +"Jeppe has a thought," the gay young students cried, +Thronging him round, for all believed that Jeppe +Was fey, and had strange visions of the truth. +"What is the thought, Jeppe?" + "I can think no thoughts," +Croaked Jeppe. "But I have made myself a song." +"Silence," they cried, "for Jeppe the nightingale! +Sing, Jeppe!" + And, wagging his great head to and fro +Before the fire, with deep dark eyes, he crooned: + + THE SONG OF JEPPE + +"What!" said the king, + "Is earth a bird or bee? + Can this uncharted boundless realm of ours +Drone thro' the sky, with leagues of struggling sea, + Forests, and hills, and towns, and palace-towers?" + "Ay," said the dwarf, + "I have watched from Stiernborg's crown + Her far dark rim uplift against the sky; +But, while earth soars, men say the stars go down; + And, while earth sails, men say the stars go by." +An elvish tale! + Ask Jeppe, the dwarf! _He_ knows. + That's why his eyes look fey; for, chuckling deep, +Heels over head amongst the stars he goes, + As all men go; but most are sound asleep. +King, saint, sage, + Even those that count it true, + Act as this miracle touched them not at all. +They are borne, undizzied, thro' the rushing blue, + And build their empires on a sky-tossed ball. + +Then said the king, + "If earth so lightly move, + What of my realm? O, what shall now stand sure?" +"Naught," said the dwarf, "in all this world, but love. + All else is dream-stuff and shall not endure. +'Tis nearer now! + Our universe hath no centre, + Our shadowy earth and fleeting heavens no stay, +But that deep inward realm which each can enter, + Even Jeppe, the dwarf, by his own secret way." + +"Where?" said the king, + "O, where? I have not found it!" + "Here," said the dwarf, and music echoed "here." +"This infinite circle hath no line to bound it; + Therefore that deep strange centre is everywhere. +Let the earth soar thro' heaven, that centre abideth; + Or plunge to the pit, His covenant still holds true. +In the heart of a dying bird, the Master hideth; + In the soul of a king," said the dwarf, + "and in _my_ soul, too." + + + + +VII + + +Princes and courtiers came, a few to seek +A little knowledge, many more to gape +In wonder at Tycho's gold and silver mask; +Or when they saw the beauty of his towers, +Envy and hate him for them. + Thus arose +The small grey cloud upon the distant sky, +That broke in storm at last. + "Beware," croaked Jeppe, +Lifting his shaggy head beside the fire, +When guests like these had gone, "Master, beware!" +And Tycho of the frank blue eyes would laugh. +Even when he found Witichius playing him false + His anger, like a momentary breeze, +Died on the dreaming deep; for Tycho Brahe +Turned to a nobler riddle,--"Have you thought," +He asked his young disciples, "how the sea +Is moved to that strange rhythm we call the tides? +He that can answer this shall have his name +Honoured among the bearers of the torch +While Pegasus flies above Uraniborg. +I was delayed three hours or more to-day +By the neap-tide. The fishermen on the coast +Are never wrong. They time it by the moon. +_Post hoc_, perhaps, not _propter hoc_; and yet +Through all the changes of the sky and sea +That old white clock of ours with the battered face +Does seem infallible. + There's a love-song too, +The sailors on the coast of Sweden sing, +I have often pondered it. Your courtly poets +Upbraid the inconstant moon. But these men know +The moon and sea are lovers, and they move +In a most constant measure. Hear the words +And tell me, if you can, what silver chains +Bind them together." Then, in a voice as low +And rhythmical as the sea, he spoke that song: + + THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE SEA + + Reproach not yet our sails' delay; + You cannot see the shoaling bay, + The banks of sand, the fretful bars, + That ebb left naked to the stars. + The sea's white shepherdess, the moon, + Shall lead us into harbour soon. + + Dear, when you see her glory shine + Between your fragrant boughs of pine, + Know there is but one hour to wait + Before her hands unlock the gate, + And the full flood of singing foam + Follow her lovely footsteps home. + + Then waves like flocks of silver sheep + Come rustling inland from the deep, + And into rambling valleys press + Behind their heavenly shepherdess. + You cannot see them? Lift your eyes + And see their mistress in the skies. + She rises with her silver bow. + + I feel the tide begin to flow; + And every thought and hope and dream + Follow her call, and homeward stream. + Borne on the universal tide, + The wanderer hastens to his bride. + The sea's white shepherdess, the moon, + Shall lead him into harbour, soon. + + + + +VIII + + +He was a great magician, Tycho Brahe, +But not so great that he could read the heart +Or rule the hand of princes. + When his friend +King Frederick died, the young Prince Christian reigned; +And, round him, fool and knave made common cause +Against the magic that could pour their gold +Into a gulf of stars. This Tycho Brahe +Had grown too proud. He held them in contempt, +So they believed; for, when he spoke, their thoughts +Crept at his feet like spaniels. Junkerdom +Felt it was foolish, for he towered above it, +And so it hated him. Did he not spend +Gold that a fool could spend as quickly as he? +Were there not great estates bestowed upon him +In wisdom's name, that from the dawn of time +Had been the natural right of Junkerdom? +And would he not bequeath them to his heirs, +The children of Christine, an unfree woman? +"Why you, sire, even you," they told the king, +"He has made a laughing-stock. That horoscope +He read for you, the night when you were born, +Printed, and bound it in green velvet, too,-- +Read it The whole world laughs at it. He said +That Venus was the star that ruled your fate, +And Venus would destroy you. Tycho Brahe +Inspired your royal father with the fear +That kept your youth so long in leading-strings, +The fear that every pretty hedgerow flower +Would be your Circe. So he thought to avenge +Our mockery of this peasant-girl Christine, +To whom, indeed, he plays the faithful swine, +Knowing full well his gold and silver nose +Would never win another." + Thus the sky +Darkened above Uraniborg, and those +Who dwelt within it, till one evil day, +One seeming happy day, when Tycho marked +The seven-hundredth star upon his chart, +Two pompous officers from Walchendorp, +The chancellor, knocked at Tycho's eastern gate. +"We are sent," they said, "to see and to report +What use you make of these estates of yours. +Your alchemy has turned more gold to lead +Than Denmark can approve. The uses now! +Show us the uses of this work of yours." +Then Tycho showed his tables of the stars, +Seven hundred stars, each noted in its place +With exquisite precision, the result +Of watching heaven for five-and-twenty years. +"And is this all?" they said. + They sought to invent +Some ground for damning him. The truth alone +Would serve them, as it seemed. For these were men +Who could not understand. + "Not all, I hope," +Said Tycho, "for I think, before I die, +I shall have marked a thousand." + "To what end? +When shall we reap the fruits of all this toil? +Show us its uses." + "In the time to come," +Said Tycho Brahe, "perhaps a hundred years, +Perhaps a thousand, when our own poor names +Are quite forgotten, and our kingdoms dust, +On one sure certain day, the torch-bearers +Will, at some point of contact, see a light +Moving upon this chaos. Though our eyes +Be shut for ever in an iron sleep, +Their eyes shall see the kingdom of the law, +Our undiscovered cosmos. They shall see it-- +A new creation rising from the deep, +Beautiful, whole. + We are like men that hear +Disjointed notes of some supernal choir. +Year after year, we patiently record +All we can gather. In that far-off time, +A people that we have not known shall hear them, +Moving like music to a single end." + +They could not understand: this life that sought +Only to bear the torch and hand it on; +And so they made report that all the dreams +Of Tycho Brahe were fruitless; perilous, too, +Since he avowed that any fruit they bore +Would fall, in distant years, to alien hands. + +Little by little, Walchendorp withdrew +His rents from Tycho Brahe, accusing him +Of gross neglects. The Chapel at Roskilde +Was falling into ruin. Tycho Brahe +Was Keeper of the Bones of Oldenburg. +He must rebuild the Chapel. All the gifts +That Frederick gave to help him in his task, +Were turned to stumbling-blocks; till, one dark day, +He called his young disciples round him there, +And in that mellow library of dreams, +Lit by the dying sunset, poured his heart +And mind before them, bidding them farewell. +Through the wide-open windows as he spoke +They heard the sorrowful whisper of the sea +Ebbing and flowing around Uraniborg. +"An end has come," he said, "to all we planned. +Uraniborg has drained her treasury dry. +Your Alma Mater now must close her gates +On you, her guests; on me; and, worst of all, +On one most dear, who made this place my home. +For you are young, your homes are all to win, +And you would all have gone your separate ways +In a brief while; and, though I think you love +Your college of the skies, it could not mean +All that it meant to those who called it 'home.' + +You that have worked with me, for one brief year, +Will never quite forget Uraniborg. +This room, the sunset gilding all those books, +The star-charts and that old celestial globe, +The long bright evenings by the winter fire, +Of Tycho Brahe were fruitless; perilous +The talk that opened heaven, the songs you sung, +Yes, even, I think, the tricks you played with Jeppe, +Will somehow, when yourselves are growing old, +Be hallowed into beauty, touched with tears, +For you will wish they might be yours again. + +These have been mine for five-and-twenty years, +And more than these,--the work, the dreams I shared +With you, and others here. My heart will break +To leave them. But the appointed time has come +As it must come to all men. + You and I +Have watched too many constant stars to dream +That heaven or earth, the destinies of men +Or nations, are the sport of chance. An end +Comes to us all through blindness, age, or death. +If mine must come in exile, it stall find me +Bearing the torch as far as I can bear it, +Until I fall at the feet of the young runner, +Who takes it from me, and carries it out of sight, +Into the great new age I shall not know, +Into the great new realms I must not tread. +Come, then, swift-footed, let me see you stand +Waiting before me, crowned with youth and joy, +At the next turning. Take it from my hand, +For I am almost ready now to fall. + +Something I have achieved, yes, though I say it, +I have not loitered on that fiery way. +And if I front the judgment of the wise +In centuries to come, with more of dread +Than my destroyers, it is because this work +Will be of use, remembered and appraised, +When all their hate is dead. + I say the work, +Not the blind rumour, the glory or fame of it. +These observations of seven hundred stars +Are little enough in sight of those great hosts +Which nightly wheel around us, though I hope, +Yes, I still hope, in some more generous land +To make my thousand up before I die. +Little enough, I know,--a midget's work! +The men that follow me, with more delicate art +May add their tens of thousands; yet my sum +Will save them just that five-and-twenty years +Of patience, bring them sooner to their goal, +That kingdom of the law I shall not see. +We are on the verge of great discoveries. +I feel them as a dreamer feels the dawn +Before his eyes are opened. Many of you +Will see them. In that day you will recall +This, our last meeting at Uraniborg, +And how I told you that this work of ours +Would lead to victories for the coming age. +The victors may forget us. What of that? +Theirs be the palms, the shouting, and the praise. +Ours be the fathers' glory in the sons. +Ours the delight of giving, the deep joy +Of labouring, on the cliff's face, all night long, +Cutting them foot-holes in the solid rock, +Whereby they climb so gaily to the heights, +And gaze upon their new-discovered worlds. +You will not find me there. When you descend, +Look for me in the darkness at the foot +Of those high cliffs, under the drifted leaves. +That's where we hide at last, we pioneers, +For we are very proud, and must be sought +Before the world can find us, in our graves. +There have been compensations. I have seen +In darkness, more perhaps than eyes can see +When sunlight blinds them on the mountain-tops; +Guessed at a glory past our mortal range, +And only mine because the night was mine. + +Of those three systems of the universe, +The Ptolemaic, held by all the schools, +May yet be proven false. We yet may find +This earth of ours is not the sovran lord +Of all those wheeling spheres. Ourselves have marked +Movements among the planets that forbid +Acceptance of it wholly. Some of these +Are moving round the sun, if we can trust +Our years of watching. There are stranger dreams. +This radical, Copernicus, the priest, +Of whom I often talked with you, declares +Ail of these movements can be reconciled, +If--a hypothesis only--we should take +The sun itself for centre, and assume +That this huge earth, so 'stablished, so secure +In its foundations, is a planet also, +And moves around the sun. + I cannot think it. +This leap of thought is yet too great for me. +I have no doubt that Ptolemy was wrong. +Some of his planets move around the sun. +Copernicus is nearer to the truth +In some things. But the planets we have watched +Still wander from the course that he assigned. +Therefore, my system, which includes the best +Of both, I hold may yet be proven true. +This earth of ours, as Jeppe declared one day, +So simply that we laughed, is 'much too big +To move,' so let it be the centre still, +And let the planets move around their sun; +But let the sun with all its planets move +Around our central earth. + This at the least +Accords with all we know, and saves mankind +From that enormous plunge into the night; +Saves them from voyaging for ten thousand years +Through boundless darkness without sight of land; +Saves them from all that agony of loss, +As one by one the beacon-fires of faith +Are drowned in blackness. + I beseech you, then, +Let me be proven wrong, before you take +That darkness lightly. If at last you find +The proven facts against me, take the plunge. +Launch out into that darkness. Let the lamps +Of heaven, the glowing hearth-fires that we knew +Die out behind you, while the freshening wind +Blows on your brows, and overhead you see +The stars of truth that lead you from your home. + +I love this island,--every little glen, +Hazel-wood, brook, and fish-pond; every bough +And blossom in that garden; and I hoped +To die here. But it is not chance, I know, +That sends me wandering through the world again. +My use perhaps is ended; and the power +That made me, breaks me." + As he spoke, they saw +The tears upon his face. He bowed his head +And left them silent in the darkened room. +They saw his face no more. + The self-same hour, +Tycho, Christine, and all their children, left +Their island-home for even In their ship +They took a few of the smaller instruments, +And that most precious record of the stars, +His legacy to the future. Into the night +They vanished, leaving on the ghostly cliffs +Only one dark, distorted, dog-like shape +To watch them, sobbing, under its matted hair, +"Master, have you forgotten Jeppe, your dwarf?" + + + + +IX + + +He was a great magician, Tycho Brahe, +And yet his magic, under changing skies, +Could never change his heart, or touch the hills +Of those far countries with the tints of home. +And, after many a month of wandering, +He came to Prague; and, though with open hands +Rodolphe received him, like an exiled king, +A new Aeneas, exiled for the truth +(For so they called him), none could heal the wounds +That bled within, or lull his grief to sleep +With that familiar whisper of the waves, +Ebbing and flowing around Uraniborg. + +Doggedly still he laboured; point by point, +Crept on, with aching heart and burning brain, +Until his table of the stars had reached +The thousand that he hoped, to crown his toil. +But Christine heard him murmuring in the night, +"The work, the work! Not to have lived in vain! +Into whose hands can I entrust it all? +I thought to find him standing by the way, +Waiting to seize the splendour from my hand, +The swift, young-eyed runner with the torch. +Let me not live in vain, let me not fall +Before I yield it to the appointed soul." +And yet the Power that made and broke him heard: +For, on a certain day, to Tycho came +Another exile, guided through the dark +Of Europe by the starlight in his eyes, +Or that invisible hand which guides the world. +He asked him, as the runner with the torch +Alone could ask, asked as a natural right +For Tycho's hard-won life-work, those results, +His tables of the stars. He gave his name +Almost as one who told him, _It is I;_ +And yet unconscious that he told; a name +Not famous yet, though truth had marked him out +Already, by his exile, as her own,-- +The name of Johann Kepler. + "It was strange," +Wrote Kepler, not long after, "for I asked +Unheard-of things, and yet he gave them to me +As if I were his son. When first I saw him, +We seemed to have known each other years ago +In some forgotten world. I could not guess +That Tycho Brahe was dying. He was quick +Of temper, and we quarrelled now and then, +Only to find ourselves more closely bound +Than ever. I believe that Tycho died +Simply of heartache for his native land. +For though he always met me with a smile, +Or jest upon his lips, he could not sleep +Or work, and often unawares I caught +Odd little whispered phrases on his lips +As if he talked to himself, in a kind of dream. +Yet I believe the clouds dispersed a little +Around his death-bed, and with that strange joy +Which comes in death, he saw the unchanging stars. +Christine was there. She held him in her arms. +I think, too, that he knew his work was safe. +An hour before he died, he smiled at me, +And whispered,--what he meant I hardly know-- +Perhaps a broken echo from the past, +A fragment of some old familiar thought, +And yet I seemed to know. It haunts me still: +_'Come then, swift-footed, let me see you stand, +Waiting before me, crowned with youth and joy; +This is the turning. Take it from my hand. +For I am ready, ready now, to fall.'"_ + + + + +III + +KEPLER + + +John Kepler, from the chimney corner, watched +His wife Susannah, with her sleeves rolled back +Making a salad in a big blue bowl. +The thick tufts of his black rebellious hair +Brushed into sleek submission; his trim beard +Snug as the soft round body of a thrush +Between the white wings of his fan-shaped ruff +(His best, with the fine lace border) spoke of guests +Expected; and his quick grey humorous eyes, +His firm red whimsical pleasure-loving mouth, +And all those elvish twinklings of his face, +Were lit with eagerness. Only between his brows, +Perplexed beneath that subtle load of dreams, +Two delicate shadows brooded. + "What does it mean? +Sir Henry Wotton's letter breathed a hint +That Italy is prohibiting my book," +He muttered. "Then, if Austria damns it too, +Susannah mine, we may be forced to choose +Between the truth and exile. When he comes, +He'll tell me more. Ambassadors, I suppose, +Can only write in cipher, while our world +Is steered to heaven by murderers and thieves; +But, if he'd wrapped his friendly warnings up +In a verse or two, I might have done more work +These last three days, eh, Sue?" + "Look, John," said she, +"What beautiful hearts of lettuce! Tell me now +How shall I mix it? Will your English guest +Turn up his nose at dandelion leaves +As crisp and young as these? They've just the tang +Of bitterness in their milk that gives a relish +And makes all sweet; and that's philosophy, John. +Now--these spring onions! Would his Excellency +Like sugared rose-leaves better?" + "He's a poet, +Not an ambassador only, so I think +He'll like a cottage salad." + "A poet, John! +I hate their arrogant little insect ways! +I'll put a toadstool in." + "Poets, dear heart, +Can be divided into two clear kinds,-- +One that, by virtue of a half-grown brain, +Lives in a silly world of his own making, +A bubble, blown by himself, in which he flits +And dizzily bombinates, chanting 'I, I, I,' +For there is nothing in the heavens above +Or the earth, or hell beneath, but goes to swell +His personal pronoun. Bring him some dreadful news +His dearest friend is burned to death,--You'll see +The monstrous insect strike an attitude +And shape himself into one capital I, +A rubric, with red eyes. You'll see him use +The coffin for his pedestal, hear him mouth +His 'I, I, I' instructing haggard grief +Concerning his odd ego. Does he chirp +Of love, it's 'I, I, I' Narcissus, love, +Myself, Narcissus, imaged in those eyes; +For all the love-notes that he sounds are made +After the fashion of passionate grasshoppers, +By grating one hind-leg across another. +Nor does he learn to sound that mellower 'You,' +Until his bubble bursts and leaves him drowned, +An insect in a soap-sud. +But there's another kind, whose mind still moves +In vital concord with the soul of things; +So that it thinks in music, and its thoughts +Pulse into natural song. A separate voice, +And yet caught up by the surrounding choirs, +There, in the harmonies of the Universe, +Losing himself, he saves his soul alive." +"John, I'm afraid!"-- + "Afraid of what, Susannah?"-- +"Afraid to put those Ducklings on to roast. +Your friend may miss his road; and, if he's late, +My little part of the music will be spoiled."-- +"He won't, Susannah. Bad poets are always late. +Good poets, at times, delay a note or two; +But all the great are punctual as the sun. +What's that? He's early! That's his knock, I think!"-- +"The Lord have mercy, John, there's nothing ready! +Take him into your study and talk to him, +Talk hard. He's come an hour before his time; +And I've to change my dress. I'll into the kitchen!" + +Then, in a moment, all the cottage rang +With greetings; hand grasped hand; his Excellency +Forgot the careful prologue he'd prepared, +And made an end of mystery. He had brought +A message from his wisdom-loving king +Who, hearing of new menaces to the light +In Europe, urged the illustrious Kepler now +To make his home in England. There, his thought +And speech would both be free. + "My friend," said Wotton, +"I have moved in those old strongholds of the night, +And heard strange mutterings. It is not many years +Since Bruno burned. There's trouble brewing too, +For one you know, I think,--the Florentine +Who made that curious optic tube."-- + "You mean +The man at Padua, Galileo?"-- + "Yes." +"They will not dare or need. Proof or disproof +Rests with their eyes."-- + "Kepler, have you not heard +Of those who, fifteen hundred years ago, +Had eyes and would not see? Eyes quickly close +When souls prefer the dark."-- +"So be it. Other and younger eyes will see. +Perhaps that's why God gave the young a spice +Of devilry. They'll go look, while elders gasp; +And, when the Devil and Truth go hand in hand, +God help their enemies. You will send my thanks, +My grateful thanks, Sir Henry, to your king. +To-day I cannot answer you. I must think. +It would be very difficult My wife +Would find it hard to leave her native land. +Say nothing yet before her." + Then, to hide +Their secret from Susannah, Kepler poured +His mind out, and the world's dead branches bloomed. +For, when he talked, another spring began +To which our May was winter; and, in the boughs +Of his delicious thoughts, like feathered choirs, +Bits of old rhyme, scraps from the Sabine farm, +Celestial phrases from the Shepherd King, +And fluttering morsels from Catullus sang. +Much was fantastic. All was touched with light +That only genius knows to steal from heaven. +He spoke of poetry, as the "flowering time +Of knowledge," called it "thought in passionate tune +With those great rhythms that steer the moon and sun; +Thought in such concord with the soul of things +That it can only move, like tides and stars, +And man's own beating heart, and the wings of birds, +In law, whose service only sets them free." +Therefore it often leaps to the truth we seek, +Clasping it, as a lover clasps his bride +In darkness, ere the sage can light his lamp. +And so, in music, men might find the road +To truth, at many a point, where sages grope. +One day, a greater Plato would arise +To write a new philosophy, he said, +Showing how music is the golden clue +To all the windings of the world's dark maze. +Himself had used it, partly proved it, too, +In his own book,--_the Harmonies of the World._ +'All that the years discover points one way +To this great ordered harmony," he said, +"Revealed on earth by music. Planets move +In subtle accord like notes of one great song +Audible only to the Artificer, +The Eternal Artist. There's no grief, no pain, +But music--follow it simply as a clue, +A microcosmic pattern of the whole-- +Can show you, somewhere in its golden scheme, +The use of all such discords; and, at last, +Their exquisite solution. Then darkness breaks +Into diviner light, love's agony climbs +Through death to life, and evil builds up heaven. +Have you not heard, in some great symphony, +Those golden mathematics making clear +The victory of the soul? Have you not heard +The very heavens opening? + Do those fools +Who thought me an infidel then, still smile at me +For trying to read the stars in terms of song, +Discern their orbits, measure their distances, +By musical proportions? Let them smile, +My folly at least revealed those three great laws; +Gave me the golden vases of the Egyptians, +To set in the great new temple of my God +Beyond the bounds of Egypt. + They will forget +My methods, doubtless, as the years go by, +And the world's wisdom shuts its music out. +The dust will gather on all my harmonies; +Or scholars turn my pages listlessly, +Glance at the musical phrases, and pass on, +Not troubling even to read one Latin page. +Yet they'll accept those great results as mine. +I call them mine. How can I help exulting, +Who climbed my ladder of music to the skies +And found, by accident, let them call it so, +Or by the inspiration of that Power +Which built His world of music, those three laws:-- +First, how the speed of planets round the sun +Bears a proportion, beautifully precise +As music, to their silver distances; +Next, that although they seem to swerve aside +From those plain circles of old Copernicus +Their paths were not less rhythmical and exact, +But followed always that most exquisite curve +In its most perfect form, the pure ellipse; +Third, that although their speed from point to point +Appeared to change, their radii always moved +Through equal fields of space in equal times. +Was this my infidelity, was this +Less full of beauty, less divine in truth, +Than their dull chaos? You, the poet will know +How, as those dark perplexities grew clear, +And old anomalous discords changed to song, +My whole soul bowed and cried, _Almighty God +These are Thy thoughts, I am thinking after Thee!_ +I hope that Tycho knows. I owed so much +To Tycho Brahe; for it was he who built +The towers from which I hailed those three great laws. +How strange and far away it all seems now. +The thistles grow upon that little isle +Where Tycho's great Uraniborg once was. +Yet, for a few sad years, before it fell +Into decay and ruin, there was one +Who crept about its crumbling corridors, +And lit the fire of memory on its hearth."-- +Wotton looked quickly up, "I think I have heard +Something of that. You mean poor Jeppe, his dwarf. +Fynes Moryson, at the Mermaid Inn one night +Showed a most curious manuscript, a scrawl +On yellow parchment, crusted here and there +With sea-salt, or the salt of those thick tears +Creatures like Jeppe, the crooked dwarf, could weep. +It had been found, clasped in a crooked hand, +Under the cliffs of Wheen, a crooked hand +That many a time had beckoned to passing ships, +Hoping to find some voyager who would take +A letter to its master. + The sailors laughed +And jeered at him, till Jeppe threw stones at them. +And now Jeppe, too, was dead, and one who knew +Fynes Moryson, had found him, and brought home +That curious crooked scrawl. Fynes Englished it +Out of its barbarous Danish. Thus it ran: +'Master, have you forgotten Jeppe, your dwarf, +Who used to lie beside the big log-fire +And feed from your own hand? The hall is dark, +There are no voices now,--only the wind +And the sea-gulls crying round Uraniborg. +I too am crying, Master, even I, +Because there is no fire upon the hearth, +No light in any window. It is night, +And all the faces that I knew are gone. + +Master, I watched you leaving us. I saw +The white sails dwindling into sea-gull's wings, +Then melting into foam, and all was dark. +I lay among the wild flowers on the cliff +And dug my nails into the stiff white chalk +And called you, Tycho Brahe. You did not hear; +But gulls and jackdaws, wheeling round my head, +Mocked me with _Tycho Brahe_, and _Tycho Brahe_! + +You were a great magician, Tycho Brahe; +And, now that they have driven you away, +I, that am only Jeppe,--the crooked dwarf, +You used to laugh at for his matted hair, +And head too big and heavy--take your pen +Here in your study. I will write it down +And send it by a sailor to the King +Of Scotland, and who knows, the mouse that gnawed +The lion free, may save you, Tycho Brahe.'" +"He is free now," said Kepler, "had he lived +He would have sent for Jeppe to join him there +At Prague. But death forestalled him, and your King. +The years in which he watched that planet Mars, +His patient notes and records, all were mine; +And, mark you, had he clipped or trimmed one fact +By even a hair's-breadth, so that his results +Made a pure circle of that planet's path +It might have baffled us for an age and drowned +All our new light in darkness. But he held +To what he saw. He might so easily, +So comfortably have said, 'My instruments +Are crude and fallible. In so fine a point +Eyes may have erred, too. Why not acquiesce? +Why mar the tune, why dislocate a world, +For one slight clash of seeming fact with faith?' +But no, though stars might swerve, he held his course, +Recording only what his eyes could see +Until death closed them. + Then, to his results, +I added mine and saw, in one wild gleam, +Strange as the light of day to one born blind, +A subtler concord ruling them and heard +Profounder tones of harmony resolve +Those broken melodies into song again."-- +"Faintly and far away, I, too, have seen +In music, and in verse, that golden clue +Whereof you speak," said Wotton. "In all true song, +There is a hidden logic. Even the rhyme +That, in bad poets, wrings the neck of thought, +Is like a subtle calculus to the true, +An instrument of discovery. It reveals +New harmonies, new analogies. It links +Far things and near, not in unnatural chains, +But in those true accords which still escape +The plodding reason, yet unify the world. +I caught some glimpses of this mystic power +In verses of your own, that elegy +On Tycho, and that great quatrain of yours-- +I cannot quite recall the Latin words, +But made it roughly mine in words like these: + +_'I know that I am dust, and daily die; + Yet, as I trace those rhythmic spheres at night, +I stand before the Thunderer's throne on high + And feast on nectar in the halls of light.'_ + +My version lacks the glory of your lines +But..." + "Mine too was a version," + Kepler laughed, +"Turned into Latin from old Ptolemy's Greek; +For, even in verse, half of the joy, I think, +Is just to pass the torch from hand to hand +An undimmed splendour. But, last night, I tried +Some music all my own. I had a dream +That I was wandering in some distant world. +I have often dreamed it Once it was the moon. +I wrote that down in prose. When I am dead, +It may be printed. This was a fairer dream: +For I was walking in a far-off spring +Upon the planet, Venus. Only verse +Could spread true wings for that delicious world; +And so I wrote it--for no eyes but mine, +Or 'twould be seized on, doubtless, as fresh proof +Of poor old Kepler's madness."-- + "Let me hear, +Madman to madman; for I, too, write verse." +Then Kepler, in a rhythmic murmur, breathed +His rich enchanted memories of that dream: + +"Beauty burned before me + Swinging a lanthorn through that fragrant night. + I followed a distant singing, + And a dreaming light + How she led me, I cannot tell + To that strange world afar, + Nor how I walked, in that wild glen + Upon the sunset star. + + Winged creatures floated + Under those rose-red boughs of violet bloom, + With delicate forms unknown on Earth + 'Twixt irised plume and plume; + Human-hearted, angel-eyed, + And crowned with unknown flowers; + For nothing in that enchanted world + Followed the way of ours. + + Only I saw that Beauty, + On Hesper, as on earth, still held command; + And though, as one in slumber, + I roamed that radiant land, + With all these earth-born senses sealed + To what the Hesperians knew, + The faithful lanthorn of her law + Was mine on Hesper too. + + Then, half at home with wonder, + I saw strange flocks of flowers like birds take flight; + Great trees that burned like opals + To lure their loves at night; + Dark beings that could move in realms + No dream of ours has known. + Till these became as common things + As men account their own. + + Yet, when that lanthorn led me + Back to the world where once I thought me wise; + I saw, on this my planet, + What souls, with awful eyes. + Hardly I dared to walk her fields + As in that strange re-birth + I looked on those wild miracles + The birds and flowers of earth." + +Silence a moment held them, loth to break +The spell of that strange dream, + "One proof the more" +Said Wotton at last, "that songs can mount and fly +To truth; for this fantastic vision of yours +Of life in other spheres, awakes in me, +Either that slumbering knowledge of Socrates, +Or some strange premonition that the years +Will prove it true. This music leads us far +From all our creeds, except that faith in law. +Your quest for knowledge--how it rests on that! +How sure the soul is that if truth destroy +The temple, in three days the truth will build +A nobler temple; and that order reigns +In all things. Even your atheist builds his doubt +On that strange faith; destroys his heaven and God +In absolute faith that his own thought is true +To law, God's lanthorn to our stumbling feet; +And so, despite himself, he worships God, +For where true souls are, there are God and heaven."-- + +"It is an ancient wisdom. Long ago," +Said Kepler, "under the glittering Eastern sky, +The shepherd king looked up at those great stars, +Those ordered hosts, and cried _Caeli narrant +Gloriam Dei!_ + Though there be some to-day +Who'd ape Lucretius, and believe themselves +Epicureans, little they know of him +Who, even in utter darkness, bowed his head, +To something nobler than the gods of Rome +Reigning beyond the darkness. + They accept +The law, the music of these ordered worlds; +And straight deny the law's first postulate, +That out of nothingness nothing can be born, +Nor greater things from less. Can music rise +By chance from chaos, as they said that star +In Serpentarius rose? I told them, then, +That when I was a boy, with time to spare, +I played at anagrams. Out of my Latin name +_Johannes Keplerus_ came that sinister phrase +_Serpens in akuleo_. Struck by this, +I tried again, but trusted it to chance. +I took some playing cards, and wrote on each +One letter of my name. Then I began +To shuffle them; and, at every shuffle, I read +The letters, in their order, as they came, +To see what meaning chance might give to them. +Wotton, the gods and goddesses must have laughed +To see the weeks I lost in studying chance; +For had I scattered those cards into the black +Epicurean eternity, I'll swear +They'd still be playing at leap-frog in the dark, +And show no glimmer of sense. And yet--to hear +Those wittols talk, you'd think you'd but to mix +A bushel of good Greek letters in a sack +And shake them roundly for an age or so, +To pour the Odyssey out. + At last, I told, +Those disputants what my wife had said. One night +When I was tired and all my mind a-dust +With pondering on their atoms, I was called +To supper, and she placed before me there +A most delicious salad. 'It would appear,' +I thought aloud, 'that if these pewter dishes, +Green hearts of lettuce, tarragon, slips of thyme, +Slices of hard boiled egg, and grains of salt. +With drops of water, vinegar and oil, +Had in a bottomless gulf been flying about +From all eternity, one sure certain day +The sweet invisible hand of Happy Chance +Would serve them as a salad.' + 'Likely enough,' +My wife replied, 'but not so good as mine, +Nor so well dressed.'" + They laughed. Susannah's voice +Broke in, "I've made a better one. The receipt +Came from the _Golden Lion_. I have dished +Ducklings and peas and all. Come, John, say grace." + + + + +IV + +GALILEO + + +I + + +(_Celeste, in the Convent at Arcetri, writes to her old lover at +Rome._) + +My friend, my dearest friend, my own dear love, +I, who am dead to love, and see around me +The funeral tapers lighted, send this cry +Out of my heart to yours, before the end. +You told me once you would endure the rack +To save my heart one pang. O, save it now! +Last night there came a dreadful word from Rome +For my dear lord and father, summoning him +Before the inquisitors there, to take his trial +At threescore years and ten. There is a threat +Of torture, if his lips will not deny +The truth his eyes have seen. + You know my father, +You know me, too. You never will believe +That he and I are enemies of the faith. +Could I, who put away all earthly love, +Deny the Cross to which I nailed this flesh? +Could he, who, on the night when all those heavens +Opened above us, with their circling worlds, +Knelt with me, crushed beneath that weight of glory, +Forget the Maker of that glory now? +You'll not believe it. Neither would the Church, +Had not his enemies poisoned all the springs +And fountain-heads of truth. It is not Rome +That summons him, but Magini, Sizy, Scheiner, +Lorini, all the blind, pedantic crew +That envy him his fame, and hate his works +For dwarfing theirs. + Must such things always be +When truth is born? +Only five nights ago we walked together, +My father and I, here in the Convent garden; +And, as the dusk turned everything to dreams, +We dreamed together of his work well done +And happiness to be. We did not dream +That even then, muttering above his book, +His enemies, those enemies whom the truth +Stings into hate, were plotting to destroy him. +Yet something shadowed him. I recall his words-- +"The grapes are ripening. See, Celeste, how black +And heavy. We shall have good wine this year,"-- +"Yes, all grows ripe," I said, "your life-work, too, +Dear father. Are you happy now to know +Your book is printed, and the new world born?" +He shook his head, a little sadly, I thought. +"Autumn's too full of endings. Fruits grow ripe +And fall, and then comes winter." + "Not for you! +Never," I said, "for those who write their names +In heaven. Think, father, through all ages now +No one can ever watch that starry sky +Without remembering you. Your fame ..." + And there +He stopped me, laid his hand upon my arm, +And standing in the darkness with dead leaves +Drifting around him, and his bare grey head +Bowed in complete humility, his voice +Shaken and low, he said like one in prayer, +"Celeste, beware of that. Say truth, not fame. +If there be any happiness on earth, +It springs from truth alone, the truth we live +In act and thought. I have looked up there and seen +Too many worlds to talk of fame on earth. +Fame, on this grain of dust among the stars, +The trumpet of a gnat that thinks to halt +The great sun-clusters moving on their way +In silence! Yes, that's fame, but truth, Celeste, +Truth and its laws are constant, even up there; +That's where one man may face and fight the world. +His weakness turns to strength. He is made one +With universal forces, and he holds +The password to eternity. +Gate after gate swings back through all the heavens. +No sentry halts him, and no flaming sword. +Say truth, Celeste, not fame." + "No, for I'll say +A better word," I told him. "I'll say love." +He took my face between his hands and said-- +His face all dark between me and the stars-- +"What's love, Celeste, but this dear face of truth +Upturned to heaven." + He left me, and I heard, +Some twelve hours later, that this man whose soul +Was dedicate to Truth, was threatened now +With torture, if his lips did not deny +The truth he loved. + I tell you all these things +Because to help him, you must understand him; +And even you may doubt him, if you hear +Only those plausible outside witnesses +Who never heard his heart-beats as have I. +So let me tell you all--his quest for truth, +And how this hate began. + Even from the first, +He made his enemies of those almost-minds +Who chanced upon some new thing in the dark +And could not see its meaning, for he saw, +Always, the law illumining it within. +So when he heard of that strange optic-glass +Which brought the distance near, he thought it out +By reason, where that other hit upon it +Only by chance. He made his telescope; +And O, how vividly that day comes back, +When in their gorgeous robes the Senate stood +Beside him on that high Venetian tower, +Scanning the bare blue sea that showed no speck +Of sail. Then, one by one, he bade them look; +And one by one they gasped, "a miracle." +Brown sails and red, a fleet of fishing boats, +See how the bright foam bursts around their bows! +See how the bare-legged sailors walk the decks! +Then, quickly looking up, as if to catch +The vision, ere it tricked them, all they saw +Was empty sea again. + Many believed +That all was trickery, but he bade them note +The colours of the boats, and count their sails. +Then, in a little while, the naked eye +Saw on the sky-line certain specks that grew, +Took form and colour; and, within an hour, +Their magic fleet came foaming into port. +Whereat old senators, wagging their white beards, +And plucking at golden chains with stiff old claws +Too feeble for the sword-hilt, squeaked at once: +"This glass will give us great advantages +In time of war." + War, war, O God of love, +Even amidst their wonder at Thy world, +Dazed with new beauty, gifted with new powers, +These old men dreamed of blood. This was the thought +To which all else must pander, if he hoped +Even for one hour to see those dull eyes blaze +At his discoveries. + "Wolves," he called them, "wolves"; +And yet he humoured them. He stooped to them. +Promised them more advantages, and talked +As elders do to children. You may call it +Weakness, and yet could any man do more, +Alone, against a world, with such a trust +To guard for future ages? All his life +He has had some weanling truth to guard, has fought +Desperately to defend it, taking cover +Wherever he could, behind old fallen trees +Of superstition, or ruins of old thought. +He has read horoscopes to keep his work +Among the stars in favour with his prince, +I tell you this that you may understand +What seems inconstant in him. It may be +That he was wrong in these things, and must pay +A dreadful penalty. But you must explore +His mind's great ranges, plains and lonely peaks +Before you know him, as I know him now. +How could he talk to children, but in words +That children understand? Have not some said +That God Himself has made His glory dark +For men to bear it. In his human sphere +My father has done this. + War was the dream +That filmed those old men's eyes. They did not hear +My father, when he hinted at his hope +Of opening up the heavens for mankind +With that new power of bringing far things near. +My heart burned as I heard him; but they blinked +Like owls at noonday. Then I saw him turn, +Desperately, to humour them, from thoughts +Of heaven to thoughts of warfare. + Late that night +My own dear lord and father came to me +And whispered, with a glory in his face +As one who has looked on things too beautiful +To breathe aloud, "Come out, Celeste, and see +A miracle." + I followed him. He showed me, +Looking along his outstretched hand, a star, +A point of light above our olive-trees. +It was the star called Jupiter. And then +He bade me look again, but through his glass. +I feared to look at first, lest I should see +Some wonder never meant for mortal eyes. +He too, had felt the same, not fear, but awe, +As if his hand were laid upon the veil +Between this world and heaven. + Then . . . I, too, saw, +Small as the smallest bead of mist that clings +To a spider's thread at dawn, the floating disk +Of what had been a star, a planet now, +And near it, with no disk that eyes could see, +Four needle-points of light, unseen before. +"The moons of Jupiter," he whispered low, +"I have watched them as they moved, from night to night; +A system like our own, although the world +Their fourfold lights and shadows make so strange +Must--as I think--be mightier than we dreamed, +A Titan planet. Earth begins to fade +And dwindle; yes, the heavens are opening now. +Perhaps up there, this night, some lonely soul +Gazes at earth, watches our dawning moon, +And wonders, as we wonder." + In that dark +We knelt together . . . + Very strange to see +The vanity and fickleness of princes. +Before his enemies had provoked the wrath +Of Rome against him, he had given the name +Of Medicean stars to those four moons +In honour of Prince Cosmo. This aroused +The court of France to seek a lasting place +Upon the map of heaven. A letter came +Beseeching him to find another star +Even more brilliant, and to call it _Henri_ +After the reigning and most brilliant prince +Of France. They did not wish the family name +Of Bourbon. This would dissipate the glory. +No, they preferred his proper name of Henri. +We read it together in the garden here, +Weeping with laughter, never dreaming then +That this, this, this, could stir the little hearts +Of men to envy. + O, but afterwards, +The blindness of the men who thought themselves +His enemies. The men who never knew him, +The men that had set up a thing of straw +And called it by his name, and wished to burn +Their image and himself in one wild fire. +Men? Were they men or children? They refused +Even to look through Galileo's glass, +Lest seeing might persuade them. Even that sage, +That great Aristotelian, Julius Libri, +Holding his breath there, like a fractious child +Until his cheeks grew purple, and the veins +Were bursting on his brow, swore he would die +Sooner than look. + And that poor monstrous babe +Not long thereafter, kept his word and died, +Died of his own pent rage, as I have heard. +Whereat my lord and father shook his head +And, smiling, somewhat sadly--oh, you know +That smile of his, more deadly to the false +Than even his reasoning--murmured, _"Libri, dead, +Who called the moons of Jupiter absurd! +He swore he would not look at them from earth, +I hope he saw them on his way to heaven."_ +Welser in Augsburg, Clavius at Rome, +Scoffed at the fabled moons of Jupiter, +It was a trick, they said. He had made a glass +To fool the world with false appearances. +Perhaps the lens was flawed. Perhaps his wits +Were wandering. Anything rather than the truth +Which might disturb the mighty in their seat. +"Let Galileo hold his own opinions. +I, Clavius, will hold mine." + He wrote to Kepler; +"You, Kepler, are the first, whose open mind +And lofty genius could accept for truth +The things which I have seen. With you for friend, +The abuse of the multitude will not trouble me. +Jupiter stands in heaven and will stand, +Though all the sycophants bark at him. + In Pisa, +Florence, Bologna, Venice, Padua, +Many have seen the moons. These witnesses +Are silent and uncertain. Do you wonder? +Most of them could not, even when they saw them, +Distinguish Mars from Jupiter. Shall we side +With Heraclitus or Democritus? +I think, my Kepler, we will only laugh +At this immeasurable stupidity. +Picture the leaders of our college here. +A thousand times I have offered them the proof +Of their own eyes. They sleep here, like gorged snakes, +Refusing even to look at planets, moons, +Or telescope. They think philosophy +Is all in books, and that the truth is found +Neither in nature, nor the Universe, +But in comparing texts. How you would laugh +Had you but heard our first philosopher +Before the Grand Duke, trying to tear down +And argue the new planets out of heaven, +Now by his own weird logic and closed eyes +And now by magic spells." + How could he help +Despising them a little? It's an error +Even for a giant to despise a midge; +For, when the giant reels beneath some stroke +Of fate, the buzzing clouds will swoop upon him, +Cluster and feed upon his bleeding wounds, +And do what midges can to sting him blind. +These human midges have not missed their chance. +They have missed no smallest spot upon that sun. +My mother was not married--they have found-- +To my dear father. All his children, then, +And doubtless all their thoughts are evil, too; +But who that judged him ever sought to know +Whether, as evil sometimes wears the cloak +Of virtue, nobler virtue in this man +Might wear that outward semblance of a sin? +Yes, even you who love me, may believe +These thoughts are born of my own tainted heart; +And yet I write them, kneeling in my cell +And whisper them to One who blesses me +Here, from His Cross, upon the bare grey wall. +So, if you love me, bless me also, you, +By helping him. Make plain to all you meet +What part his enemies have played in this. +How some one, somehow, altered the command +Laid on him all those years ago, by Rome, +So that it reads to-day as if he vowed +Never to think or breathe that this round earth +Moves with its sister-planets round the sun. +'Tis true he promised not to write or speak +As if this truth were 'stablished equally +With God's eternal laws; and so he wrote +His Dialogues, reasoning for it, and against, +And gave the last word to Simplicio, +Saying that human reason must bow down +Before the power of God. + And even this +His enemies have twisted to a sneer +Against the Pope, and cunningly declared +Simplicio to be Urban. + Why, my friend, +There were three dolphins on the titlepage, +Each with the tail of another in its mouth. +The censor had not seen this, and they swore +It held some hidden meaning. Then they found +The same three dolphins sprawled on all the books +Landini printed at his Florence press. +They tried another charge. + I am not afraid +Of any truth that they can bring against him; +But, O, my friend, I more than fear their lies. +I do not fear the justice of our God; +But I do fear the vanity of men; +Even of Urban; not His Holiness, +But Urban, the weak man, who may resent, +And in resentment rush half-way to meet +This cunning lie with credence. Vanity! +O, half the wrongs on earth arise from that! +Greed, and war's pomp, all envy, and most hate, +Are born of that; while one dear humble heart, +Beating with love for man, between two thieves, +Proves more than all His wounds and miracles +Our Crucified to be the Son of God. +Say that I long to see him; that my prayers +Knock at the gates of mercy, night and day. +Urge him to leave the judgment now with God +And strive no more. + If he be right, the stars +Fight for him in their courses. Let him bow +His poor, dishonoured, glorious, old grey head +Before this storm, and then come home to me. +O, quickly, or I fear 'twill be too late; +For I am dying. Do not tell him this; +But I must live to hold his hands again, +And know that he is safe. +I dare not leave him, helpless and half blind, +Half father and half child, to rack and cord. +By all the Christ within you, save him, you; +And, though you may have ceased to love me now, +One faithful shadow in your own last hour +Shall watch beside you till all shadows die, +And heaven unfold to bless you where I failed. + + + + +II + + +(_Scheiner writes to Castelli, after the Trial._) + +What think you of your Galileo now, +Your hero that like Ajax should defy +The lightning? Yesterday I saw him stand +Trembling before our court of Cardinals, +Trembling before the colour of their robes +As sheep, before the slaughter, at the sight +And smell of blood. His lips could hardly speak, +And--mark you--neither rack, nor cord had touched him. +Out of the Inquisition's five degrees +Of rigor: first, the public threat of torture; +Second, the repetition of the threat +Within the torture-chamber, where we show +The instruments of torture to the accused; +Third, the undressing and the binding; fourth, +Laying him on the rack; then, fifth and last, +Torture, _territio realis_; out of these, +Your Galileo reached the second only, +When, clapping both his hands against his sides, +He whined about a rupture that forbade +These extreme courses. Great heroic soul +Dropped like a cur into a sea of terror, +He sank right under. Then he came up gasping, +Ready to swear, deny, abjure, recant, +Anything, everything! Foolish, weak, old man, +Who had been so proud of his discoveries, +And dared to teach his betters. How we grinned +To see him kneeling there and whispering, thus, +Through his white lips, bending his old grey head: +_"I, Galileo Galilei, born +A Florentine, now seventy years of age, +Kneeling before you, having before mine eyes, +And touching with my hands the Holy Gospels, +Swear that I always have believed, do now, +And always will believe what Holy Church +Has held and preached and taught me to believe; +And now, whereas I rightly am accused, +Of heresy, having falsely held the sun +To be the centre of our Universe, +And also that this earth is not the centre, +But moves; +I most illogically desire +Completely to expunge this dark suspicion, +So reasonably conceived. I now abjure, +Detest and curse these errors; and I swear +That should I know another, friend or foe, +Holding the selfsame heresy as myself, +I will denounce him to the Inquisitor +In whatsoever place I chance to be. +So help me God, and these His Holy Gospels, +Which with my hands I touch!"_ + You will observe +His promise to denounce. Beware, Castelli! +What think you of your Galileo now? + + + + +III + + +_(Castelli writes, enclosing Schemer's letter, to Campanella.)_ + +What think I? This,--that he has laid his hands +Like Samson on the pillars of our world, +And one more trembling utterance such as this +Will overwhelm us all. + O, Campanella, +You know that I am loyal to our faith, +As Galileo too has always been. +You know that I believe, as he believes, +In the one Catholic Apostolic Church; +Yet there are many times when I could wish +That some blind Samson would indeed tear down +All this proud temporal fabric, made with hands, +And that, once more, we suffered with our Lord, +Were persecuted, crucified with Him. +I tell you, Campanella, on that day +When Galileo faced our Cardinals, +A veil was rent for me. There, in one flash, +I saw the eternal tragedy, transformed +Into new terms. I saw the Christ once more, +Before the court of Pilate. Peter there +Denied Him once again; and, as for me, +Never has all my soul so humbly knelt +To God in Christ, as when that sad old man +Bowed his grey head, and knelt--at seventy years-- +To acquiesce, and shake the world with shame. +_He shall not strive or cry_! Strange, is it not, +How nearly Scheiner--even amidst his hate-- +Quoted the Prophets? Do we think this world +So greatly bettered, that the ancient cry, +"_Despised, rejected_," hails our God no more? + + + + +IV + + +(_Celeste writes to her father in his imprisonment at Siena_.) + +Dear father, it will seem a thousand years +Until I see you home again and well. +I would not have you doubt that all this time +I have prayed for you continually. I saw +A copy of your sentence. I was grieved; +And yet it gladdened me, for I found a way +To be of use, by taking on myself +Your penance. Therefore, if you fail in this, +If you forget it--and indeed, to save you +The trouble of remembering it--your child +Will do it for you. + Ah, could she do more! +How willingly would your Celeste endure +A straiter prison than she lives in now +To set you free. + "A prison," I have said; +And yet, if you were here, 'twould not be so. +When you were pent in Rome, I used to say, +"Would he were at Siena!" God fulfilled +That wish. You are at Siena; and I now say +Would he were at Arcctri. + So perhaps +Little by little, angels can be wooed +Each day, by some new prayer of mine or yours, +To bring you wholly back to me, and save +Some few of the flying days that yet remain. +You see, these other Nuns have each their friend, +Their patron Saint, their ever near _devoto_, +To whom they tell their joys and griefs; but I +Have only you, dear father, and if you +Were only near me, I could want no more. +Your garden looks as if it missed your love. +The unpruned branches lean against the wall +To look for you. The walks run wild with flowers. +Even your watch-tower seems to wait for you; +And, though the fruit is not so good this year +(The vines were hurt by hail, I think, and thieves +Have climbed the wall too often for the pears), +The crop of peas is good, and only waits +Your hand to gather it. + In the dovecote, too, +You'll find some plump young pigeons. We must make +A feast for your return. + In my small plot, +Here at the Convent, better watched than yours, +I raised a little harvest. With the price +I got for it, I had three Masses said +For my dear father's sake. + + + + +V + + +_(Galileo writes to his friend Castelli, after his return to +Arcetri.) _ + +Castelli, O Castelli, she is dead. +I found her driving death back with her soul +Till I should come. + I could not even see +Her face.--These useless eyes had spent their power +On distant worlds, and lost that last faint look +Of love on earth. + I am in the dark, Castelli, +Utterly and irreparably blind. +The Universe which once these outworn eyes +Enlarged so far beyond its ancient bounds +Is henceforth shrunk into that narrow space +Which I myself inhabit. + Yet I found +Even in the dark, her tears against my face, +Her thin soft childish arms around my neck, +And her voice whispering ... love, undying love; +Asking me, at this last, to tell her true, +If we should meet again. + Her trust in me +Had shaken her faith in what my judges held; +And, as I felt her fingers clutch my hand, +Like a child drowning, "Tell me the truth," she said, +"Before I lose the light of your dear face"-- +It seemed so strange that dying she could see me +While I had lost her,--"tell me, before I go." +"Believe in Love," was all my soul could breathe. +I heard no answer. Only I felt her hand +Clasp mine and hold it tighter. Then she died, +And left me to my darkness. Could I guess +At unseen glories, in this deeper night, +Make new discoveries of profounder realms, +Within the soul? O, could I find Him there, +Rise to Him through His harmonies of law +And make His will my own! + This much, at least, +I know already, that--in some strange way-- +His law implies His love; for, failing that +All grows discordant, and the primal Power +Ignobler than His children. + So I trust +One day to find her, waiting for me still, +When all things are made new. + I raise this torch +Of knowledge. It is one with my right hand, +And the dark sap that keeps it burning flows +Out of my heart; and yet, for all my faith, +It shows me only darkness. + Was I wrong? +Did I forget the subtler truth of Rome +And, in my pride, obscure the world's one light? +Did I subordinate to this moving earth +Our swiftlier-moving God? + O, my Celeste, +Once, once at least, you knew far more than I; +And she is dead, Castelli, she is dead. + + + + +VI + + +(_Viviani, many years later, writes to a friend in England_) + +I was his last disciple, as you say +I went to him, at seventeen years of age, +And offered him my hands and eyes to use, +When, voicing the true mind and heart of Rome, +Father Castelli, his most faithful friend, +Wrote, for my master, that compassionate plea; +_The noblest eye that Nature ever made +Is darkened; one so exquisitely dowered, +So delicate in power that it beheld +More than all other eyes in ages gone +And opened the eyes of all that are to come._ +But, out of England, even then, there shone +The first ethereal promise of light +That crowns my master dead. Well I recall +That day of days. There was no faintest breath +Among his garden cypress-trees. They dreamed +Dark, on a sky too beautiful for tears, +And the first star was trembling overhead, +When, quietly as a messenger from heaven, +Moving unseen, through his own purer realm, +Amongst the shadows of our mortal world, +A young man, with a strange light on his face +Knocked at the door of Galileo's house. +His name was Milton. + By the hand of God, +He, the one living soul on earth with power +To read the starry soul of this blind man, +Was led through Italy to his prison door. +He looked on Galileo, touched his hand ... +_O, dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, +Irrecoverably dark .... _ + In after days, +He wrote it; but it pulsed within him then; +And Galileo rising to his feet +And turning on him those unseeing eyes +That had searched heaven and seen so many worlds, +Said to him, "You have found me." +Often he told me in those last sad months +Of how your grave young island poet brought +Peace to him, with the knowledge that, far off, +In other lands, the truth he had proclaimed +Was gathering power. + Soon after, death unlocked +His prison, and the city that he loved, +Florence, his town of flowers, whose gates in life +He was forbid to pass, received him dead. + +You write to me from England, that his name +Is now among the mightiest in the world, +And in his name I thank you. + I am old; +And I was very young when, long ago, +I stood beside his poor dishonoured grave +Where hate denied him even an epitaph; +And I have seen, slowly and silently, +His purer fame arising, like a moon +In marble on the twilight of those aisles +At Santa Croce, where the dread decree +Was read against him. + Now, against two wrongs, +Let me defend two victims: first, the Church +Whom many have vilified for my master's doom; +And second, Galileo, whom they reproach +Because they think that in his blind old age +He might with one great eagle's glance have cowed +His judges, played the hero, raised his hands +Above his head, and posturing like a mummer +Cried (as one empty rumour now declares) +After his recantation--_yet, it moves_! +Out of this wild confusion, fourfold wrongs +Are heaped on both sides.--I would fain bring peace, +The peace of truth to both before I die; +And, as I hope, rest at my master's feet. +It was not Rome that tried to murder truth; +But the blind hate and vanity of man. +Had Galileo but concealed the smile +With which, like Socrates, he answered fools, +They would not, in the name of Christ, have mixed +This hemlock in his chalice. + O pitiful +Pitiful human hearts that must deny +Their own unfolding heavens, for one light word +Twisted by whispering malice. + Did he mean +Simplicio, in his dialogues, for the Pope? +Doubtful enough--the name was borrowed straight +From older dialogues. + If he gave one thought +Of Urban's to Simplicio--you know well +How composite are all characters in books, +How authors find their colours here and there, +And paint both saints and villains from themselves. +No matter. This was Urban. Make it clear. +Simplicio means a simpleton. The saints +Are aroused by ridicule to most human wrath. +Urban was once his friend. This hint of ours +Kills all of that. And so we mortals close +The doors of Love and Knowledge on the world. +And so, for many an age, the name of Christ +Has been misused by man to mask man's hate. +How should the Church escape, then? I who loved +My master, know he had no truer friend +Than many of those true servants of the Church, +Fathers and priests who, in their lowlier sphere, +Moved nearer than her cardinals to the Christ. +These were the very Rome, and held her keys. +Those who charge Rome with hatred of the light +Would charge the sun with darkness, and accuse +This dome of sky for all the blood-red wrongs +That men commit beneath it. Art and song +That found her once in Europe their sole shrine +And sanctuary absolve her from that stain. + +But there's this other charge against my friend, +And master, Galileo. It is brought +By friends, made sharper by their pity and grief, +The charge that he refused his martyrdom +And so denied his own high faith. + Whose faith,-- +His friends', his Protestant followers', or his own? +Faced by the torture, that sublime old man +Was still a faithful Catholic, and his thought +Plunged deeper than his Protestant followers knew. +His aim was not to strike a blow at Rome +But to confound his enemies. He believed +As humbly as Castelli or Celeste +That there is nothing absolute but that Power +With which his Church confronted him. To this +He bowed his head, acknowledging that his light +Was darkness; but affirming, all the more, +That Ptolemy's light was even darker yet. +Read your own Protestant Milton, who derived +His mighty argument from my master's lips: +_"Whether the sun predominant in heaven +Rise on the earth, or earth rise on the sun; +Leave them to God above; Him serve and fear."_ +Just as in boyhood, when my master watched +The swinging lamp in the cathedral there +At Pisa; and, by one finger on his pulse, +Found that, although the great bronze miracle swung +Through ever-shortening spaces, yet it moved +More slowly, and so still swung in equal times; +He straight devised another boon to man, +Those pulse-clocks which by many a fevered bed +Our doctors use; dreamed of that timepiece, too, +Whose punctual swinging pendulum on earth +Measures the starry periods, and to-day +Talks peacefully to children by the fire +Like an old grandad full of ancient tales, +Remembering endless ages, and foretelling +Eternities to come; but, all the while +There, in the dim cathedral, he knew well, +That dreaming youngster, with his tawny mane +Of red-gold hair, and deep ethereal eyes, +What odorous clouds of incense round him rose; +Was conscious in the dimness, of great throngs +Kneeling around him; shared in his own heart +The music and the silence and the cry, +_O, salutaris hostia!_--so now, +There was no mortal conflict in his mind +Between his dream-clocks and things absolute, +And one far voice, most absolute of all, +Feeble with suffering, calling night and day +"_Return, return_;" the voice of his Celeste. +All these things co-existed, and the less +Were comprehended, like the swinging lamp, +Within that great cathedral of his soul. +Often he bade me, in that desolate house +_Il Giojello_, of old a jewel of light, +Read to him one sad letter, till he knew +The most of it by heart, and while he walked +His garden, leaning on my arm, at times +I think he quite forgot that I was there; +For he would quietly murmur it to himself, +As if she had sent it, half an hour ago: +"Now, with this little winter's gift of fruit +I send you, father, from our southward wall, +Our convent's rarest flower, a Christmas rose. +At this cold season, it should please you much, +Seeing how rare it is; but, with the rose, +You must accept its thorns, which bring to mind +Our Lord's own bitter Passion. Its green leaves +Image the hope that through His Passion we, +After this winter of our mortal life, +May find the beauty of an eternal spring +In heaven." +Praise me the martyr, out of whose agonies +Some great new hope is born, but not the fool +Who starves his heart to prove what eyes can see +And intellect confirm throughout the world. +Why must he follow the idiot schoolboy code, +Torture his soul to reinforce the sight +Of those that closed their eyes and would not see. +To your own men of science, fifty turns +Of the thumbscrew would not prove that earth revolved. +Call it Italian subtlety if you will, +I say his intricate cause could not be won +By blind heroics. Much that his enemies challenged +Was not yet wholly proven, though his mind +Had leapt to a certainty. He must leave the rest +To those that should come after, swift and young,-- +Those runners with the torch for whom he longed +As his deliverers. Had he chosen death +Before his hour, his proofs had been obscured +For many a year. His respite gave him time +To push new pawns out, in the blindfold play +Of those last months, and checkmate, not the Church +But those that hid behind her. He believed +His truth was all harmonious with her own. +How could he choose between them? Must he die +To affirm a discord that himself denied? +On many a point, he was less sure than we: +But surer far of much that we forget +The movements that he saw he could but judge +By some fixed point in space. He chose the sun. +Could this be absolute? Could he then be sure +That this great sun did not with all its worlds +Move round a deeper centre? What became +Of your Copernicus then? Could he be sure +Of any unchanging centre, whence to judge +This myriad-marching universe, but one-- +The absolute throne of God. + Affirming this +Eternal Rock, his own uncertainties +Became more certain, and although his lips +Breathed not a syllable of it, though he stood +Silent as earth that also seemed so still, +The very silence thundered, _yet it moves_! + +He held to what he knew, secured his work +Through feeble hands like mine, in other lands, +Not least in England, as I think you know. +For, partly through your poet, as I believe, +When his great music rolled upon your skies, +New thoughts were kindled in the general mind. +'Twas at Arcetri that your Milton gained +The first great glimpse of his celestial realm. +Picture him,--still a prisoner of our light, +Closing his glorious eyes--that in the dark, +He might behold this wheeling universe,-- +The planets gilding their ethereal horns +With sun-fire. Many a pure immortal phrase +In his own work, as I have pondered it, +Lived first upon the lips of him whose eyes +Were darkened first,--in whom, too, Milton found +That Samson Agonistes, not himself, +As many have thought, but my dear master dead. +These are a part of England's memories now, +The music blown upon her sea-bright air +When, in the year of Galileo's death, +Newton, the mightiest of the sons of light, +Was born to lift the splendour of this torch +And carry it, as I heard that Tycho said +Long since to Kepler, "carry it out of sight, +Into the great new age I must not know, +Into the great new realm I must not tread." + + + + +V + +NEWTON + + +I + + +If I saw farther, 'twas because I stood +On giant shoulders," wrote the king of thought, +Too proud of his great line to slight the toils +Of his forebears. He turned to their dim past, +Their fading victories and their fond defeats, +And knelt as at an altar, drawing all +Their strengths into his own; and so went forth +With all their glory shining in his face, +To win new victories for the age to come. +So, where Copernicus had destroyed the dream +We called our world; where Galileo watched +Those ancient firmaments melt, a thin blue smoke +Into a vaster night; where Kepler heard +Only stray fragments, isolated chords +Of that tremendous music which should bind +All things anew in one, Newton arose +And carried on their fire. + Around him reeled +Through lingering fumes of hate and clouds of doubt, +Lit by the afterglow of the Civil War, +The dissolute throngs of that Walpurgis night +Where all the cynical spirits that deny +Danced with the vicious lusts that drown the soul +In flesh too gross for Circe or her swine. +But, in his heart, he heard one instant voice. +_"On with the torch once more, make all things new, +Build the new heaven and earth, and save the world."_ + +Ah, but the infinite patience, the long months +Lavished on tasks that, to the common eye, +Were insignificant, never to be crowned +With great results, or even with earth's rewards. +Could Rembrandt but have painted him, in those hours +Making his first analysis of light +Alone, there, in his darkened Cambridge room +At Trinity! Could he have painted, too, +The secret glow, the mystery, and the power, +The sense of all the thoughts and unseen spires +That soared to heaven around him! + He stood there, +Obscure, unknown, the shadow of a man +In darkness, like a grey dishevelled ghost, +--Bare-throated, down at heel, his last night's supper +Littering his desk, untouched; his glimmering face, +Under his tangled hair, intent and still,-- +Preparing our new universe. + He caught +The sunbeam striking through that bullet-hole +In his closed shutter--a round white spot of light +Upon a small dark screen. + He interposed +A prism of glass. He saw the sunbeam break +And spread upon the screen its rainbow band +Of disentangled colours, all in scale +Like notes in music; first, the violet ray, +Then indigo, trembling softly into blue; +Then green and yellow, quivering side by side; +Then orange, mellowing richly into red. +Then, in the screen, he made a small, round hole +Like to the first; and through it passed once more +Each separate coloured ray. He let it strike +Another prism of glass, and saw each hue +Bent at a different angle from its path, +The red the least, the violet ray the most; +But all in scale and order, all precise +As notes in music. Last, he took a lens, +And, passing through it all those coloured rays, +Drew them together again, remerging all +On that dark screen, in one white spot of light. + +So, watching, testing, proving, he resolved +The seeming random glories of our day +Into a constant harmony, and found +How in the whiteness of the sunlight sleep +Compounded, all the colours of the world. +He saw how raindrops in the clouds of heaven +Breaking the light, revealed that sevenfold arch +Of colours, ranged as on his own dark screen, +Though now they spanned the mountains and wild seas. +Then, where that old-world order had gone down +Beneath a darker deluge, he beheld +Gleams of the great new order and recalled +--Fraught with new meaning and a deeper hope-- +That covenant which God made with all mankind +Throughout all generations: _I will set +My bow in the cloud, that henceforth ye may know +How deeper than the wreckage of your dreams +Abides My law, in beauty and in power. _ + + + + +II + + +Yet for that exquisite balance of the mind, +He, too, must pay the price. He stood alone +Bewildered, at the sudden assault of fools +On this, his first discovery. + "I have lost +The most substantial blessing of my quiet +To follow a vain shadow. + I would fain +Attempt no more. So few can understand, +Or read one thought. So many are ready at once +To swoop and sting. Indeed I would withdraw +For ever from philosophy." So he wrote +In grief, the mightiest mind of that new age. +Let those who'd stone the Roman Curia +For all the griefs that Galileo knew +Remember the dark hours that well-nigh quenched +The splendour of that spirit. He could not sleep. +Yet, with that patience of the God in man +That still must seek the Splendour whence it came, +Through midnight hours of mockery and defeat, +In loneliness and hopelessness and tears, +He laboured on. He had no power to see +How, after many years, when he was dead, +Out of this new discovery men should make +An instrument to explore the farthest stars +And, delicately dividing their white rays, +Divine what metals in their beauty burned, +Extort red secrets from the heart of Mars, +Or measure the molten iron in the sun. +He bent himself to nearer, lowlier, tasks; +And seeing, first, that those deflected rays, +Though it were only by the faintest bloom +Of colour, imperceptible to our eyes, +Must dim the vision of Galileo's glass, +He made his own new weapon of the sky,-- +That first reflecting telescope which should hold +In its deep mirror, as in a breathless pool +The undistorted image of a star. + + + + +III + + +In that deep night where Galileo groped +Like a blind giant in dreams to find what power +Held moons and planets to their constant road +Through vastness, ordered like a moving fleet; +What law so married them that they could not clash +Or sunder, but still kept their rhythmic pace +As if those ancient tales indeed were true +And some great angel helmed each gliding sphere; +Many had sought an answer. Many had caught +Gleams of the truth; and yet, as when a torch +Is waved above a multitude at night, +And shows wild streams of faces, all confused, +But not the single law that knits them all +Into an ordered nation, so our skies +For all those fragmentary glimpses, whirled +In chaos, till one eagle-spirit soared, +Found the one law that bound them all in one, +And through that awful unity upraised +The soul to That which made and guides them all. + +Did Newton, dreaming in his orchard there +Beside the dreaming Witham, see the moon +Burn like a huge gold apple in the boughs +And wonder why should moons not fall like fruit? +Or did he see as those old tales declare +(Those fairy-tales that gather form and fire +Till, in one jewel, they pack the whole bright world) +A ripe fruit fall from some immortal tree +Of knowledge, while he wondered at what height +Would this earth-magnet lose its darkling power? +Would not the fruit fall earthward, though it grew +High o'er the hills as yonder brightening cloud? +Would not the selfsame power that plucked the fruit +Draw the white moon, then, sailing in the blue? +Then, in one flash, as light and song are born, +And the soul wakes, he saw it--this dark earth +Holding the moon that else would fly through space +To her sure orbit, as a stone is held +In a whirled sling; and, by the selfsame power, +Her sister planets guiding all their moons; +While, exquisitely balanced and controlled +In one vast system, moons and planets wheeled +Around one sovran majesty, the sun. + + + + +IV + + +Light and more light! The spark from heaven was there, +The flash of that reintegrating fire +Flung from heaven's altars, where all light is born, +To feed the imagination of mankind +With vision, and reveal all worlds in one. +But let no dreamer dream that his great work +Sprang, armed, like Pallas from the Thunderer's brain. +With infinite patience he must test and prove +His vision now, in those clear courts of Truth +Whose absolute laws (bemocked by shallower minds +As less than dreams, less than the faithless faith +That fears the Truth, lest Truth should slay the dream) +Are man's one guide to his transcendent heaven; +For there's no wandering splendour in the soul, +But in the highest heaven of all is one +With absolute reality. None can climb +Back to that Fount of Beauty but through pain. +Long, long he toiled, comparing first the curves +Traced by the cannon-ball as it soared and fell +With that great curving road across the sky +Traced by the sailing moon. + Was earth a loadstone +Holding them to their paths by that dark force +Whose mystery men have cloaked beneath a name? +Yet, when he came to test and prove, he found +That all the great deflections of the moon, +Her shining cadences from the path direct, +Were utterly inharmonious with the law +Of that dark force, at such a distance acting, +Measured from earth's own centre.... +For three long years, Newton withheld his hope +Until that day when light was brought from France, +New light, new hope, in one small glistening fact, +Clear-cut as any diamond; and to him +Loaded with all significance, like the point +Of light that shows where constellations burn. +Picard in France--all glory to her name +Who is herself a light among all lands-- +Had measured earth's diameter once more +With exquisite precision. + To the throng, +Those few corrected ciphers, his results, +Were less than nothing; yet they changed the world. +For Newton seized them and, with trembling hands, +Began to work his problem out anew. +Then, then, as on the page those figures turned +To hieroglyphs of heaven, and he beheld +The moving moon, with awful cadences +Falling into the path his law ordained, +Even to the foot and second, his hand shook +And dropped the pencil. + "Work it out for me," +He cried to those around him; for the weight +Of that celestial music overwhelmed him; +And, on his page, those burning hieroglyphs +Were Thrones and Principalities and Powers... +For far beyond, immeasurably far +Beyond our sun, he saw that river of suns +We call the Milky Way, that glittering host +Powdering the night, each grain of solar blaze +Divided from its neighbour by a gulf +Too wide for thought to measure; each a sun +Huger than ours, with its own fleet of worlds, +Visible and invisible. Those bright throngs +That seemed dispersed like a defeated host +Through blindly wandering skies, now, at the word +Of one great dreamer, height o'er height revealed +Hints of a vaster order, and moved on +In boundless intricacies of harmony +Around one centre, deeper than all suns, +The burning throne of God. + + + + + +V + + +He could not sleep. That intellect, whose wings +Dared the cold ultimate heights of Space and Time +Sank, like a wounded eagle, with dazed eyes +Back, headlong through the clouds to throb on earth. +What shaft had pierced him? That which also pierced +His great forebears--the hate of little men. +They flocked around him, and they flung their dust +Into the sensitive eyes and laughed to see +How dust could blind them. + If one prickling grain +Could so put out his vision and so torment +That delicate brain, what weakness! How the mind +That seemed to dwarf us, dwindles! Is he mad? +So buzzed the fools, whose ponderous mental wheels +Nor dust, nor grit, nor stones, nor rocks could irk +Even for an instant. + Newton could not sleep, +But all that careful malice could design +Was blindly fostered by well-meaning folly, +And great sane folk like Mr. Samuel Pepys +Canvassed his weakness and slept sound all night. +For little Samuel with his rosy face +Came chirping into a coffee-house one day +Like a plump robin, "Sir, the unhappy state +Of Mr. Isaac Newton grieves me much. +Last week I had a letter from him, filled +With strange complainings, very curious hints, +Such as, I grieve to say, are common signs +--I have observed it often--of worse to come. +He said that he could neither eat nor sleep +Because of all the embroilments he was in, +Hinting at nameless enemies. Then he begged +My pardon, very strangely. I believe +Physicians would confirm me in my fears. +'Tis very sad.... Only last night, I found +Among my papers certain lines composed +By--whom d'you think?--My lord of Halifax +(Or so dear Mrs. Porterhouse assured me) +Expressing, sir, the uttermost satisfaction +In Mr. Newton's talent. Sir, he wrote +Answering the charge that science would put out +The light of beauty, these very handsome lines: + + 'When Newton walked by Witham stream + There fell no chilling shade + To blight the drifting naiad's dream + Or make her garland fade. + + The mist of sun was not less bright + That crowned Urania's hair. + He robbed it of its colder light, + But left the rainbow there.' + +They are very neat and handsome, you'll agree. +Solid in sense as Dryden at his best, +And smooth as Waller, but with something more,-- +That touch of grace, that airier elegance +Which only rank can give. + 'Tis very sad +That one so nobly praised should--well, no matter!-- +I am told, sir, that these troubles all began +At Cambridge, when his manuscripts were burned. +He had been working, in his curious way, +All through the night; and, in the morning greyness +Went down to chapel, leaving on his desk +A lighted candle. You can imagine it,-- +A sadly sloven altar to his Muse, +Littered with papers, cups, and greasy plates +Of untouched food. I am told that he would eat +His Monday's breakfast, sir, on Tuesday morning, +Such was his absent way! + When he returned, +He found that Diamond (his little dog +Named Diamond, for a black patch near his tail) +Had overturned the candle. All his work +Was burned to ashes. + It struck him to the quick, +Though, when his terrier fawned about his feet, +He showed no anger. He was heard to say, +'O Diamond, Diamond, little do you know...' +But, from that hour, ah well, we'll say no more." + +Halley was there that day, and spoke up sharply, +"Sir, there are hints and hints! Do you _mean_ more?" +--"I do, sir," chirruped Samuel, mightily pleased +To find all eyes, for once, on his fat face. +"I fear his intellects are disordered, sir." +--"Good! That's an answer! I can deal with that. +But tell me first," quoth Halley, "why he wrote +That letter, a week ago, to Mr. Pepys." +--"Why, sir," piped Samuel, innocent of the trap, +"I had an argument in this coffee-house +Last week, with certain gentlemen, on the laws +Of chance, and what fair hopes a man might have +Of throwing six at dice. I happened to say +That Mr. Isaac Newton was my friend, +And promised I would sound him." + "Sir," said Halley, +"You'll pardon me, but I forgot to tell you +I heard, a minute since, outside these doors, +A very modish woman of the town, +Or else a most delicious lady of fashion, +A melting creature with a bold black eye, +A bosom like twin doves; and, sir, a mouth +Like a Turk's dream of Paradise. She cooed, +'Is Mr. Pepys within?' I greatly fear +That they denied you to her!" + Off ran Pepys! +"A hint's a hint," laughed Halley, "and so to bed. +But, as for Isaac Newton, let me say, +Whatever his embroilments were, he solved +With just one hour of thought, not long ago +The problem set by Leibnitz as a challenge +To all of Europe. He published his result +Anonymously, but Leibnitz, when he saw it, +Cried out, at once, old enemy as he was, +'That's Newton, none but Newton! From this claw +I know the old lion, in his midnight lair.'" + + + + +VI + + +(_Sir Isaac Newton writes to Mrs. Vincent at Woolthorpe._) + + +Your letter, on my eightieth birthday, wakes +Memories, like violets, in this London gloom. +You have never failed, for more than three-score years +To send these annual greetings from the haunts +Where you and I were boy and girl together. +A day must come-it cannot now be far-- +When I shall have no power to thank you for them, +So let me tell you now that, all my life, +They have come to me with healing in their wings +Like birds from home, birds from the happy woods +Above the Witham, where you walked with me +When you and I were young. + Do you remember +Old Barley--how he tried to teach us drawing? +He found some promise, I believe, in you, +But quite despaired of me. + I treasure all +Those little sketches that you sent to me +Each Christmas, carrying each some glimpse of home. +There's one I love that shows the narrow lane +Behind the schoolhouse, where I had that bout +Of schoolboy fisticuffs. I have never known +More pleasure, I believe, than when I beat +That black-haired bully and won, for my reward, +Those April smiles from you. + I see you still +Standing among the fox-gloves in the hedge; +And just behind you, in the field, I know +There was a patch of aromatic flowers,-- +Rest-harrow, was it? Yes; their tangled roots +Pluck at the harrow; halt the sharp harrow of thought, +Even in old age. I never breathe their scent +But I am back in boyhood, dreaming there +Over some book, among the diligent bees, +Until you join me, and we dream together. +They called me lazy, then. Oddly enough +It was that fight that stirred my mind to beat +My bully at his books, and head the school; +Blind rivalry, at first. By such fond tricks +The invisible Power that shapes us--not ourselves-- +Punishes, teaches, leads us gently on +Like children, all our lives, until we grasp +A sudden meaning and are born, through death +Into full knowledge that our Guide was Love. +Another picture shows those woods of ours, +Around whose warm dark edges in the spring +Primroses, knots of living sunlight, woke; +And, always, you, their radiant shepherdess +From Elfland, lead them rambling back for me, +The dew still clinging to their golden fleece, +Through these grey memory-mists. + Another shows +My old sun-dial. You say that it is known +As "Isaac's dial" still. I took great pains +To set it rightly. If it has not shifted +'Twill mark the time long after I am gone; +Not like those curious water-clocks I made. +Do you remember? They worked well at first; +But the least particles in the water clogged +The holes through which it dripped; and so, one day, +We two came home so late that we were sent +Supperless to our beds; and suffered much +From the world's harshness, as we thought it then. +Would God that we might taste that harshness now. + +I cannot send you what you've sent to me; +And so I wish you'll never thank me more +For those poor gifts I have sent from year to year. +I send another, and hope that you can use it +To buy yourself those comforts which you need +This Christmas-time. + How strange it is to wake +And find that half a century has gone by, +With all our endless youth. + They talk to me +Of my discoveries, prate of undying fame +Too late to help me. Anything I achieved +Was done through work and patience; and the men +Who sought quick roads to glory for themselves +Were capable of neither. So I won +Their hatred, and it often hampered me, +Because it vexed my mind. + This world of ours +Would give me all, now I have ceased to want it; +For I sit here, alone, a sad old man, +Sipping his orange-water, nodding to sleep, +Not caring any more for aught they say, +Not caring any more for praise or blame; +But dreaming-things we dreamed of, long ago, +In childhood. + You and I had laughed away +That boy and girl affair. We were too poor +For anything but laughter. + I am old; +And you, twice wedded and twice widowed, still +Retain, through all your nearer joys and griefs, +The old affection. Vaguely our blind old hands +Grope for each other in this growing dark +And deepening loneliness,--to say "good-bye." +Would that my words could tell you all my heart; +But even my words grow old. + Perhaps these lines, +Written not long ago, may tell you more. +I have no skill in verse, despite the praise +Your kindness gave me, once; but since I wrote +Thinking of you, among the woods of home, +My heart was in them. Let them turn to yours: + + _Give me, for friends, my own true folk + Who kept the very word they spoke; + Whose quiet prayers, from day to day, + Have brought the heavens about my way. + + Not those whose intellectual pride + Would quench the only lights that guide; + Confuse the lines 'twixt good and ill + Then throne their own capricious will; + + Not those whose eyes in mockery scan + The simpler hopes and dreams of man; + Not those keen wits, so quick to hurt, + So swift to trip you in the dirt. + + Not those who'd pluck your mystery out, + Yet never saw your last redoubt; + Whose cleverness would kill the song + Dead at your heart, then prove you wrong. + + Give me those eyes I used to know + Where thoughts like angels come and go; + --Not glittering eyes, nor dimmed by books, + But eyes through which the deep soul looks. + + Give me the quiet hands and face + That never strove for fame and place; + The soul whose love, so many a day + Has brought the heavens about my way._ + + + + +VII + + +_Was it a dream, that low dim-lighted room +With that dark periwigged phantom of Dean Swift +Writing, beside a fire, to one he loved,-- +Beautiful Catherine Barton, once the light +Of Newton's house, and his half-sister's child?_ +Yes, Catherine Barton, I am brave enough +To face this pale, unhappy, wistful ghost +Of our departed friendship. + It was I +Savage and mad, a snarling kennel of sins, +"Your Holiness," as you called me, with that smile +Which even your ghost would quietly turn on me-- +Who raised it up. It has no terrors, dear. +And I shall never lay it while I live. +You write to me. You think I have the power +To shield the fame of Newton from a lie. +Poor little ghost! You think I hold the keys +Not only of Parnassus, then, but hell. + +There is a tale abroad that Newton owed +His public office to Lord Halifax, +Your secret lover. Coarseness, as you know, +Is my peculiar privilege. I'll be plain, +And let them wince who are whispering in the dark. +They are hinting that he gained his public post +Through you, his flesh and blood; and that he knew +You were his patron's mistress! + Yes, I know +The coffee-house that hatched it--to be scotched, +Nay, killed, before one snuff-box could say "snap," +Had not one cold malevolent face been there +Listening,--that crystal-minded lover of truth, +That lucid enemy of all lies,--Voltaire. +I am told he is doing much to spread the light +Of Newton's great discoveries, there, in France. +There's little fear that France, whose clear keen eyes +Have missed no morning in the realm of thought, +Would fail to see it; and smaller need to lift +A brand from hell to illume the light from heaven. +You fear he'll print his lie. No doubt of that. +I can foresee the phrase, as Halley saw +The advent of his comet,--_jolie niece, +Assez amiable,_ ... then he'll give your name +As _Madame Conduit_, adding just that spice +Of infidelity that the dates admit +To none but these truth-lovers. It will be best +Not to enlighten him, or he'll change his tale +And make an answer difficult. Let him print +This truth as he conceives it, and you'll need +No more defence. +All history then shall damn his death-cold lie +And show you for the laughing child you were +When Newton won his office. + For yourself +You say you have no fear. Your only thought +Is that they'll soil his fame. Ah yes, they'll try, +But they'll not hurt it. For all time to come +It stands there, firm as marble and as pure. +They can do nothing that the sun and rain +Will not erase at last. Not even Voltaire +Can hurt that noble memory. Think of him +As of a viper writhing at the base +Of some great statue. Let the venomous tongue +Flicker against that marble as it may +It cannot wound it. + I am far more grieved +For you, who sit there wondering now, too late, +If it were some suspicion, some dark hint +Newton had heard that robbed him of his sleep, +And almost broke his mind up. I recall +How the town buzzed that Newton had gone mad. +You copy me that sad letter which he wrote +To Locke, wherein he begs him to forgive +The hard words he had spoken, thinking Locke +Had tried to embroil him, as he says, with women; +A piteous, humble letter. + Had he heard +Some hint of scandal that he could not breathe +To you, because he honoured you too well? +I cannot tell. His mind was greatly troubled +With other things. At least, you need not fear +That Newton thought it true. He walked aloof, +Treading a deeper stranger world than ours. +Have you not told me how he would forget +Even to eat and drink, when he was wrapt +In those miraculous new discoveries +And, under this wild maze of shadow and sun +Beheld--though not the Master Player's hand-- +The keys from which His organ music rolls, +Those visible symphonies of wild cloud and light +Which clothe the invisible world for mortal eyes. +I have heard that Leibnitz whispered to the court +That Newton was an "atheist." Leibnitz knew +His audience. He could stoop to it. + Fools have said +That knowledge drives out wonder from the world; +They'll say it still, though all the dust's ablaze +With miracles at their feet; while Newton's laws +Foretell that knowledge one day shall be song, +And those whom Truth has taken to her heart +Find that it beats in music. + Even this age +Has glimmerings of it. Newton never saw +His own full victory; but at least he knew +That all the world was linked in one again; +And, if men found new worlds in years to come, +These too must join the universal song. +That's why true poets love him; and you'll find +Their love will cancel all that hate can do. +They are the sentinels of the House of Fame; +And that quick challenging couplet from the pen +Of Alexander Pope is answer enough +To all those whisperers round the outer doors. +There's Addison, too. The very spirit and thought +Of Newton moved to music when he wrote +_The Spacious Firmament_. Some keen-eyed age to come +Will say, though Newton seldom wrote a verse, +That music was his own and speaks his faith. + +And, last, for those who doubt his faith in God +And man's immortal destiny, there remains +The granite monument of his own great work, +That dark cathedral of man's intellect, +The vast "Principia," pointing to the skies, +Wherein our intellectual king proclaimed +The task of science,--through this wilderness +Of Time and Space and false appearances, +To make the path straight from effect to cause, +Until we come to that First Cause of all, +The Power, above, beyond the blind machine, +The Primal Power, the originating Power, +Which cannot be mechanical. He affirmed it +With absolute certainty. Whence arises all +This order, this unbroken chain of law, +This human will, this death-defying love? +Whence, but from some divine transcendent Power, +Not less, but infinitely more than these, +Because it is their Fountain and their Guide. +Fools in their hearts have said, "Whence comes this Power, +Why throw the riddle back this one stage more?" +And Newton, from a height above all worlds +Answered and answers still: + "This universe +Exists, and by that one impossible fact +Declares itself a miracle; postulates +An infinite Power within itself, a Whole +Greater than any part, a Unity +Sustaining all, binding all worlds in one. +This is the mystery, palpable here and now. +'Tis not the lack of links within the chain +From cause to cause, but that the chain exists. +That's the unfathomable mystery, +The one unquestioned miracle that we _know_, +Implying every attribute of God, +The ultimate, absolute, omnipresent Power, +In its own being, deep and high as heaven. +But men still trace the greater to the less, +Account for soul with flesh and dreams with dust, +Forgetting in their manifold world the One, +In whom for every splendour shining here +Abides an equal power behind the veil. +Was the eye contrived by blindly moving atoms, +Or the still-listening ear fulfilled with music +By forces without knowledge of sweet sounds? +Are nerves and brain so sensitively fashioned +That they convey these pictures of the world +Into the very substance of our life, +While That from which we came, the Power that made us, +Is drowned in blank unconsciousness of all? +Does it not from the things we know appear +That there exists a Being, incorporeal, +Living, intelligent, who in infinite space, +As in His infinite sensory, perceives +Things in themselves, by His immediate presence +Everywhere? Of which things, we see no more +Than images only, flashed through nerves and brain +To our small sensories? + What is all science then +But pure religion, seeking everywhere +The true commandments, and through many forms +The eternal power that binds all worlds in one? +It is man's age-long struggle to draw near +His Maker, learn His thoughts, discern His law,-- +A boundless task, in whose infinitude, +As in the unfolding light and law of love. +Abides our hope, and our eternal joy. +I know not how my work may seem to others--" +So wrote our mightiest mind--"But to myself +I seem a child that wandering all day long +Upon the sea-shore, gathers here a shell, +And there a pebble, coloured by the wave, +While the great ocean of truth, from sky to sky +Stretches before him, boundless, unexplored." + +He has explored it now, and needs of me +Neither defence nor tribute. His own work +Remains his monument He rose at last so near +The Power divine that none can nearer go; +None in this age! To carry on his fire +We must await a mightier age to come. + + + + +VI + +WILLIAM HERSCHEL CONDUCTS + + +_Was it a dream?--that crowded concert-room +In Bath; that sea of ruffles and laced coats; +And William Herschel, in his powdered wig, +Waiting upon the platform, to conduct +His choir and Linley's orchestra? He stood +Tapping his music-rest, lost in his own thoughts +And (did I hear or dream them?) all were mine:_ + +My periwig's askew, my ruffle stained +With grease from my new telescope! + Ach, to-morrow +How Caroline will be vexed, although she grows +Almost as bad as I, who cannot leave +My work-shop for one evening. + I must give +One last recital at St. Margaret's, +And then--farewell to music. + Who can lead +Two lives at once? + Yet--it has taught me much, +Thrown curious lights upon our world, to pass +From one life to another. Much that I took +For substance turns to shadow. I shall see +No throngs like this again; wring no more praise +Out of their hearts; forego that instant joy +--Let those who have not known it count it vain-- +When human souls at once respond to yours. +Here, on the brink of fortune and of fame, +As men account these things, the moment comes +When I must choose between them and the stars; +And I have chosen. + Handel, good old friend, +We part to-night. Hereafter, I must watch +That other wand, to which the worlds keep time. + +What has decided me? That marvelous night +When--ah, how difficult it will be to guide, +With all these wonders whirling through my brain!-- +After a Pump-room concert I came home +Hot-foot, out of the fluttering sea of fans, +Coquelicot-ribboned belles and periwigged beaux, +To my Newtonian telescope. + The design +Was his; but more than half the joy my own, +Because it was the work of my own hand, +A new one, with an eye six inches wide, +Better than even the best that Newton made. +Then, as I turned it on the _Gemini_, +And the deep stillness of those constant lights, +Castor and Pollux, lucid pilot-stars, +Began to calm the fever of my blood, +I saw, O, first of all mankind I saw +The disk of my new planet gliding there +Beyond our tumults, in that realm of peace. + +What will they christen it? Ach--not _Herschel_, no! +Nor _Georgium Sidus_, as I once proposed; +Although he scarce could lose it, as he lost +That world in 'seventy-six. + Indeed, so far +From trying to tax it, he has granted me +How much?--two hundred golden pounds a year, +In the great name of science,--half the cost +Of one state-coach, with all those worlds to win! +Well--well--we must be grateful. This mad king +Has done far more than all the worldly-wise, +Who'll charge even this to madness. + I believe +One day he'll have me pardoned for that...crime, +When I escaped--deserted, some would say-- +From those drill-sergeants in my native land; +Deserted drill for music, as I now +Desert my music for the orchestral spheres. +No. This new planet is only new to man. +His majesty has done much. Yet, as my friend +Declared last night, "Never did monarch buy +Honour so cheaply"; and--he has not bought it. +I think that it should bear some ancient name, +And wear it like a crown; some deep, dark name, +Like _Uranus_, known to remoter gods. + +How strange it seems--this buzzing concert-room! +There's Doctor Burney bowing and, behind him, +His fox-eyed daughter Fanny. + Is it a dream, +These crowding midgets, dense as clustering bees +In some great bee-skep? + Now, as I lift my wand, +A silence grips them, and the strings begin, +Throbbing. The faint lights flicker in gusts of sound. +Before me, glimmering like a crescent moon, +The dim half circle of the choir awaits +Its own appointed time. + Beside me now, +Watching my wand, plump and immaculate +From buckled shoes to that white bunch of lace +Under his chin, the midget tenor rises, +Music in hand, a linnet and a king. +The bullfinch bass, that other emperor, +Leans back indifferently, and clears his throat +As if to say, "This prelude leads to _Me_!" +While, on their own proud thrones, on either hand, +The sumptuously bosomed midget queens, +Contralto and soprano, jealously eye +Each other's plumage. + Round me the music throbs +With an immortal passion. I grow aware +Of an appalling mystery.... We, this throng +Of midgets, playing, listening, tense and still, +Are sailing on a midget ball of dust +We call our planet; will have sailed through space +Ten thousand leagues before this music ends. +What does it mean? Oh, God, what _can_ it mean?-- +This weird hushed ant-hill with a thousand eyes; +These midget periwigs; all those little blurs, +Tier over tier, of faces, masks of flesh, +Corruptible, hiding each its hopes and dreams, +Its tragi-comic dreams. + And all this throng +Will be forgotten, mixed with dust, crushed out, +Before this book of music is outworn +Or that tall organ crumbles. Violins +Outlast their players. Other hands may touch +That harpsichord; but ere this planet makes +Another threescore journeys round its sun, +These breathing listeners will have vanished. Whither? +I watch my moving hands, and they grow strange! +What is it moves this body? What am I? +How came I here, a ghost, to hear that voice +Of infinite compassion, far away, +Above the throbbing strings, hark! _Comfort ye_... + +If music lead us to a cry like this, +I think I shall not lose it in the skies. +I do but follow its own secret law +As long ago I sought to understand +Its golden mathematics; taught myself +The way to lay one stone upon another, +Before I dared to dream that I might build +My Holy City of Song. I gave myself +To all its branches. How they stared at me, +Those men of "sensibility," when I said +That algebra, conic sections, fluxions, all +Pertained to music. Let them stare again. +Old Kepler knew, by instinct, what I now +Desire to learn. I have resolved to leave +No tract of heaven unvisited. + To-night +--The music carries me back to it again!-- +I see beyond this island universe, +Beyond our sun, and all those other suns +That throng the Milky Way, far, far beyond, +A thousand little wisps, faint nebulae, +Luminous fans and milky streaks of fire; +Some like soft brushes of electric mist +Streaming from one bright point; others that spread +And branch, like growing systems; others discrete, +Keen, ripe, with stars in clusters; others drawn back +By central forces into one dense death, +Thence to be kindled into fire, reborn, +And scattered abroad once more in a delicate spray +Faint as the mist by one bright dewdrop breathed +At dawn, and yet a universe like our own; +Each wisp a universe, a vast galaxy +Wide as our night of stars. + The Milky Way +In which our sun is drowned, to these would seem +Less than to us their faintest drift of haze; +Yet we, who are borne on one dark grain of dust +Around one indistinguishable spark +Of star-mist, lost in one lost feather of light, +Can by the strength of our own thought, ascend +Through universe after universe; trace their growth +Through boundless time, their glory, their decay; +And, on the invisible road of law, more firm +Than granite, range through all their length and breadth, +Their height and depth, past, present and to come. +So, those who follow the great Work-master's law +From small things up to great, may one day learn +The structure of the heavens, discern the whole +Within the part, as men through Love see God. +Oh, holy night, deep night of stars, whose peace +Descends upon the troubled mind like dew, +Healing it with the sense of that pure reign +Of constant law, enduring through all change; +Shall I not, one day, after faithful years, +Find that thy heavens are built on music, too, +And hear, once more, above thy throbbing worlds +This voice of all compassion, _Comfort ye,--_ +Yes--_comfort ye, my people, saith your God?_ + + + + +VII + +SIR JOHN HERSCHEL REMEMBERS + + +True type of all, from his own father's hand +He caught the fire; and, though he carried it far +Into new regions; and, from southern fields +Of yellow lupin, added host on host +To those bright armies which his father knew, +Surely the crowning hour of all his life +Was when, his task accomplished, he returned +A lonely pilgrim to the twilit shrine +Of first beginnings and his father's youth. +There, in the Octagon Chapel, with bared head +Grey, honoured for his father and himself, +He touched the glimmering keyboard, touched the books +Those dear lost hands had touched so long ago. + +"Strange that these poor inanimate things outlast +The life that used them. + Yes. I should like to try +This good old friend of his. You'll leave me here +An hour or so?" + His hands explored the stops; +And, while the music breathed what else were mute, +His mind through many thoughts and memories ranged. +Picture on picture passed before him there +In living colours, painted on the gloom: +Not what the world acclaimed, the great work crowned, +But all that went before, the years of toil; +The years of infinite patience, hope, despair. +He saw the little house where all began, +His father's first resolve to explore the sky, +His first defeat, when telescopes were found +Too costly for a music-master's purse; +And then that dogged and all-conquering will +Declaring, "Be it so. I'll make my own, +A better than even the best that Newton made." +He saw his first rude telescope--a tube +Of pasteboard, with a lens at either end; +And then,--that arduous growth to size and power +With each new instrument, as his knowledge grew; +And, to reward each growth, a deeper heaven. +He saw the good Aunt Caroline's dismay +When her trim drawing-room, as by wizardry, turned +Into a workshop, where her brother's hands +Cut, ground and burnished, hour on aching hour, +Month after month, new mirrors of the sky. + +Yet, while from dawn to dark her brother moved +Around some new-cut mirror, burnishing it, +Knowing that if he once removed his hands +The surface would be dimmed and must forego +Its heaven for ever, her quiet hands would raise +Food to his lips; or, with that musical voice +Which once--for she, too, offered her sacrifice-- +Had promised her fame, she whiled away the hours +Reading how, long ago, Aladdin raised +The djinns, by burnishing that old battered lamp; +Or, from Cervantes, how one crazy soul +Tilting at windmills, challenged a purblind world. + +He saw her seized at last by that same fire, +Burning to help, a sleepless Vestal, dowered +With lightning-quickness, rushing from desk to clock, +Or measuring distances at dead of night +Between the lamp-micrometer and his eyes. + +He saw her in mid-winter, hurrying out, +A slim shawled figure through the drifted snow, +To help him; saw her fall with a stifled cry, +Gashing herself upon that buried hook, +And struggling up, out of the blood-stained drift, +To greet him with a smile. + "For any soldier, +This wound," the surgeon muttered, "would have meant +Six weeks in hospital." + Not six days for her! +"I am glad these nights were cloudy, and we lost +So little," was all she said. + Sir John pulled out +Another stop. A little ironical march +Of flutes began to goose-step through the gloom. +He saw that first "success"! Ay, call it so! +The royal command,--the court desires to see +The planet Saturn and his marvellous rings +On Friday night. The skies, on Friday night, +Were black with clouds. "Canute me no Canutes," +Muttered their new magician, and unpacked +His telescope. "You shall see what you can see." +He levelled it through a window; and they saw +"Wonderful! Marvellous! Glorious! Eh, what, what!" +A planet of paper, with a paper ring, +Lit by a lamp, in a hollow of Windsor Park, +Among the ferns, where Herne the Hunter walks, +And Falstaff found that fairies live on cheese. +Thus all were satisfied; while, above the clouds-- +The thunder of the pedals reaffirmed-- +The Titan planet, every minute, rolled +Three hundred leagues upon his awful way. +Then, through that night, the _vox humana_spoke +With deeper longing than Lucretius knew +When, in his great third book, the somber chant +Kindled and soared on those exultant wings, +Praising the master's hand from which he, too, +--Father, discoverer, hero--caught the fire. +It spoke of those vast labours, incomplete, +But, through their incompletion, infinite +In beauty, and in hope; the task bequeathed +From dying hand to hand. + Close to his grave +Like a _memento mori_ stood the hulk +Of that great weapon rusted and outworn, +Which once broke down the barriers of the sky. +_"Perrupit claustra"_; yes, and bridged their gulfs; +For, far beyond our solar scheme, it showed +The law that bound our planets binding still +Those coupled suns which year by year he watched +Around each other circling. + Had our own +Some distant comrade, lost among the stars? +Should we not, one day, just as Kepler drew +His planetary music and its laws +From all those faithful records Tycho made, +Discern at last what vaster music rules +The vaster drift of stars from deep to deep; +Around what awful Poles, those wisps of light +Those fifteen hundred universes move? +One signal, even now, across the dark, +Declared their worlds confederate with our own; +For, carrying many secrets, which we now +Slowly decipher, one swift messenger comes +Across the abyss... +The light that, flashing through the immeasurable, +From universe to universe proclaims +The single reign of law that binds them all. +We shall break up those rays and, in their lines +And colours, read the history of their stars. +Year after year, the slow sure records grow. +Awaiting their interpreter. They shall see it, +Our sons, in that far day, the swift, the strong, +The triumphing young-eyed runners with the torch. + +No deep-set boundary-mark in Space or Time +Shall halt or daunt them. Who that once has seen +How truth leads on to truth, shall ever dare +To set a bound to knowledge? + "Would that he knew" +--So thought the visitant at that shadowy shrine-- +"Even as the maker of a song can hear +With the soul's ear, far off, the unstricken chords +To which, by its own inner law, it climbs, +Would that my father knew how younger hands +Completed his own planetary tune; +How from the planet that his own eyes found +The mind of man would plunge into the dark, +And, blindfold, find without the help of eyes +A mightier planet, in the depths beyond." + +Then, while the reeds, with quiet melodious pace +Followed the dream, as in a picture passed, +Adams, the boy at Cambridge, making his vow +By that still lamp, alone in that deep night, +Beneath the crumbling battlements of St. John's, +To know why Uranus, uttermost planet known, +Moved in a rhythm delicately astray +From all the golden harmonies ordained +By those known measures of its sister-worlds. +Was there an unknown planet, far beyond, +Sailing through unimaginable deeps +And drawing it from its path? + Then challenging chords +Echoed the prophecy that Sir John had made, +Guided by his own faith in Newton's law: +_We have not found it, but we feel it trembling +Along the lines of our analysis now +As once Columbus, from the shores of Spain, +Felt the new continent._ + Then, in swift fugues, began +A race between two nations for the prize +Of that new world. + Le Verrier in France, +Adams in England, each of them unaware +Of his own rival, at the selfsame hour +Resolved to find it. + Not by the telescope now! +Skies might be swept for aeons ere one spark +Among those myriads were both found and seen +To move, at that vast distance round our sun. +They worked by faith in law alone. They knew +The wanderings of great Uranus, and they knew +The law of Newton. + By the midnight lamp, +Pencil in hand, shut in a four-walled room, +Each by pure thought must work his problem out,-- +Given that law, to find the mass and place +Of that which drew their planet from his course. + +There were no throngs to applaud them. Each alone, +Without the heat of conflict laboured on, +Consuming brain and nerve; for throngs applaud +Only the flash and tinsel of their day, +Never the quiet runners with the torch. +Night after night they laboured. Line on line +Of intricate figures, moving all in law, +They marshalled. Their long columns formed and marched +From battle to battle, and no sound was heard +Of victory or defeat. They marched through snows +Bleak as the drifts that broke Napoleon's pride +And through a vaster desert. They drilled their hosts +With that divine precision of the mind +To which one second's error in a year +Were anarchy, that precision which is felt +Throbbing through music. + Month on month they toiled, +With worlds for ciphers. One rich autumn night +Brooding over his figures there alone +In Cambridge, Adams found them moving all +To one solution. To the unseeing eye +His long neat pages had no more to tell +Than any merchant's ledger, yet they shone +With epic splendour, and like trumpets pealed; +_Three hundred million leagues beyond the path +Of our remotest planet, drowned in night +Another and a mightier planet rolls; +In volume, fifty times more vast than earth, +And of so huge an orbit that its year +Wellnigh outlasts our nations. Though it moves +A thousand leagues an hour, it has not ranged +Thrice through its seasons since Columbus sailed, +Or more than once since Galileo died._ + +He took his proofs to Greenwich. "Sweep the skies +Within this limited region now," he said. +"You'll find your moving planet. I'm not more +Than one degree in error." + He left his proofs; +But Airy, king of Greenwich, looked askance +At unofficial genius in the young, +And pigeon-holed that music of the spheres. +Nine months he waited till Le Verrier, too, +Pointed to that same region of the sky. +Then Airy, opening his big sleepy lids, +Bade Challis use his telescope,--too late, +To make that honour all his country's own; +For all Le Verrier's proofs were now with Galle +Who, being German, had his star-charts ready +And, in that region, found one needlepoint +Had moved. A monster planet! + Honour to France! +Honour to England, too, the cry began, +Who found it also, though she drowsed at Greenwich. +So--as the French said, with some sting in it-- +"We gave the name of Neptune to our prize +Because our neighbour England rules the sea." +"Honour to all," say we; for, in these wars, +Whoever wins a battle wins for all. +But, most of all, honour to him who found +The law that was a lantern to their feet,-- +Newton, the first whose thought could soar beyond +The bounds of human vision and declare, +"Thus saith the law of Nature and of God +Concerning things invisible." + This new world +What was it but one harmony the more +In that great music which himself had heard,-- +The chant of those reintegrated spheres +Moving around their sun, while all things moved +Around one deeper Light, revealed by law, +Beyond all vision, past all understanding. +Yet darkly shadowed forth for dreaming men +On earth in music... + Music, all comes back +To music in the end. + Then, in the gloom +Of the Octagon Chapel, the dreamer lifted up +His face, as if to all those great forebears. +The quivering organ rolled upon the dusk +His dream of that new symphony,--the sun +Chanting to all his planets on their way +While, stop to stop replying, height o'er height, +His planets answered, voices of a dream: + +THE SUN + + Light, on the far faint planets that attend me! + Light! But for me-the fury and the fire. + My white-hot maelstroms, the red storms that rend me + Can yield them still the harvest they desire, + + I kiss with light their sunward-lifted faces. + With dew-drenched flowers I crown their dusky brows. + They praise me, lightly, from their pleasant places. + Their birds belaud me, lightly, from their boughs. + + And men, on lute and lyre, have breathed their pleasure. + They have watched Apollo's golden chariot roll; + Hymned his bright wheels, but never mine that measure + A million leagues of flame from Pole to Pole. + + Like harbour-lights the stars grow wide before me, + I draw my worlds ten thousand leagues a day. + Their far blue seas like April eyes adore me. + They follow, dreaming, on my soundless way. + + How should they know, who wheel around my burning, + What torments bore them, or what power am I, + I, that with all those worlds around me turning, + Sail, every hour, from sky to unplumbed sky? + + My planets, these live embers of my passion, + These children of my hurricanes of flame, + Flung thro' the night, for midnight to refashion, + Praise, and forget, the splendour whence they came. + + +THE EARTH + + _Was it a dream that, in those bright dominions, + Are other worlds that sing, with lives like mine, + Lives that with beating hearts and broken pinions + Aspire and fall, half-mortal, half-divine? + + A grain of dust among those glittering legions-- + Am I, I only, touched with joy and tears? + 0, silver sisters, from your azure regions, + Breathe, once again, your music of the spheres:--_ + + +VENUS + + A nearer sun, a rose of light arises, + To clothe my glens with richer clouds of flowers, + To paint my clouds with ever new surprises + And wreathe with mist my rosier domes and towers; + + Where now, to praise their gods, a throng assembles + Whose hopes and dreams no sphere but mine has known. + On other worlds the same warm sunlight trembles; + But life, love, worship, these are mine alone. + + +MARS + + And now, as dewdrops in the dawn-light glisten, + Remote and cold--see--Earth and Venus roll. + We signalled them--in music! Did they listen? + Could they not hear those whispers of the soul? + + May not their flesh have sealed that fount of glory, + That pure ninth sense which told us of mankind? + Can some deep sleep bereave them of our story + As darkness hides all colours from the blind? + + +JUPITER + + I that am sailing deeper skies and dimmer, + Twelve million leagues beyond the path of Mars, + Salute the sun, that cloudy pearl, whose glimmer + Renews my spring and steers me through the stars. + + Think not that I by distances am darkened. + My months are years; yet light is in mine eyes. + Mine eyes are not as yours. Mine ears have hearkened + To sounds from earth. Five moons enchant my skies. + + +SATURN + + And deeper yet, like molten opal shining + My belt of rainbow glory softly streams. + And seven white moons around me intertwining + Hide my vast beauty in a mist of dreams. + + Huge is my orbit; and your flickering planet + A mote that flecks your sun, that faint white star; + Yet, in my magic pools, I still can scan it; + For I have ways to look on worlds afar. + + +URANUS + + And deeper yet--twelve million leagues of twilight + Divide mine empire even from Saturn's ken. + Is there a world whose light is not as my light, + A midget world of light-imprisoned men? + + Shut from this inner vision that hath found me, + They hunt bright shadows, painted to betray; + And know not that, because their night hath drowned me, + My giants walk with gods in boundless day. + + +NEPTUNE + + Plunge through immensity anew and find me. + Though scarce I see your sun,--that dying spark-- + Across a myriad leagues it still can bind me + To my sure path, and steer me through the dark. + + I sail through vastness, and its rhythms hold me, + Though threescore earths could in my volume sleep! + Whose are the might and music that enfold me? + Whose is the law that guides me thro' the Deep? + + +THE SUN + + _I hear their song. They wheel around my burning! + I know their orbits; but what path have I? + I that with all those worlds around me turning + Sail, every hour, ten thousand leagues of sky?_ + + _My planets, these live embers of my passion, + And I, too, filled with music and with flame. + Flung thro' the night, for midnight to refashion, + Praise and forget the Splendour whence we came._ + + + + +EPILOGUE + + +Once more upon the mountain's lonely height +I woke, and round me heard the sea-like sound +Of pine-woods, as the solemn night-wind washed +Through the long canyons and precipitous gorges +Where coyotes moaned and eagles made their nest. +Once more, far, far below, I saw the lights +Of distant cities, at the mountain's feet, +Clustered like constellations.. . +Over me, like the dome of some strange shrine, +Housing our great new weapon of the sky, +And moving on its axis like a moon +Glimmered the new Uraniborg. + Shadows passed +Like monks, between it and the low grey walls +That lodged them, like a fortress in the rocks, +Their monastery of thought. + A shadow neared me. +I heard, once more, an eager living voice: + +"Year after year, the slow sure records grow. +I wish that old Copernicus could see +How, through his truth, that once dispelled a dream, +Broke the false axle-trees of heaven, destroyed +All central certainty in the universe, +And seemed to dwarf mankind, the spirit of man +Laid hold on law, that Jacob's-ladder of light, +And mounting, slowly, surely, step by step, +Entered into its kingdom and its power. +For just as Tycho's tables of the stars +Within the bound of our own galaxy +Led Kepler to the music of his laws, +So, father and son, the Herschels, with their charts +Of all those fire-mists, those faint nebulae, +Those hosts of drifting universes, led +Our new discoverers to yet mightier laws +Enthroned above all worlds. + We have not found them, +And yet--only the intellectual fool +Dreams in his heart that even his brain can tick +In isolated measure, a centre of law, +Amidst the whirl of universal chaos. +For law descends from law. Though all the spheres +Through all the abysmal depths of Space were blown +Like dust before a colder darker wind +Than even Lucretius dreamed, yet if one thought, +One gleam of law within the mind of man, +Lighten our darkness, there's a law beyond; +And even that tempest of destruction moves +To a lighter music, shatters its myriad worlds +Only to gather them up, as a shattered wave +Is gathered again into a rhythmic sea, +Whose ebb and flow are but the pulse of Life, +In its creative passion. + The records grow +Unceasingly, and each new grain of truth +Is packed, like radium, with whole worlds of light. +The eclipses timed in Babylon help us now +To clock that gradual quickening of the moon, +Ten seconds in a century. + Who that wrote +On those clay tablets could foresee his gift +To future ages; dreamed that the groping mind, +Dowered with so brief a life, could ever range +With that divine precision through the abyss? +Who, when that good Dutch spectacle-maker set +Two lenses in a tube, to read the time +Upon the distant clock-tower of his church, +Could dream of this, our hundred-inch, that shows +The snow upon the polar caps of Mars +Whitening and darkening as the seasons change? +Or who could dream when Galileo watched +His moons of Jupiter, that from their eclipses +And from that change in their appointed times, +Now late, now early, as the watching earth +Farther or nearer on its orbit rolled, +The immeasurable speed of light at last +Should be reduced to measure? + Could Newton dream +When, through his prism, he broke the pure white shaft +Into that rainbow band, how men should gather +And disentangle ray by delicate ray +The colours of the stars,--not only those +That burn in heaven, but those that long since perished, +Those vanished suns that eyes can still behold, +The strange lost stars whose light still reaches earth +Although they died ten thousand years ago. +Here, night by night, the innumerable heavens +Speak to an eye more sensitive than man's, +Write on the camera's delicate retina +A thousand messages, lines of dark and bright +That speak of elements unknown on earth. +How shall men doubt, who thus can read the Book +Of Judgment, and transcend both Space and Time, +Analyse worlds that long since passed away, +And scan the future, how shall they doubt His power +From whom their power and all creation came?" + +I think that, when the second Herschel tried +Those great hexameters in our English tongue, +A nobler shield than ever Achilles knew +Shone through the song and made his +echoes live: + +_"There he depicted the earth, and the canopied sky, and the + sea-waves, +There the unwearied sun, and the full-orbed moon in their courses, +All the configured stars that gem the circuit of heaven, +Pleiads and Hyads were there and the giant force of Orion, +There the revolving Bear, which the Wain they call, was ensculptured, +Circling on high, and in all his courses regarding Orion, +Sole of the starry train that descends not to bathe in the ocean!"_ + +A nobler shield for us, a deeper sky; +But even to us who know how far away +Those constellations burn, the wonder bides +That each vast sun can speed through the abyss +Age after age more swiftly than an eagle, +Each on its different road, alone like ours +With its own satellites; yet, since Homer sang, +Their aspect has not altered! All their flight +Has not yet changed the old pattern of the Wain. +The sword-belt of Orion is not sundered. +Nor has one fugitive splendour broken yet +From Cassiopeia's throne. + A thousand years +Are but as yesterday, even unto these. +How shall men doubt His empery over time +Whose dwelling is a deep so absolute +That we can only find Him in our souls. +For there, despite Copernicus, each may find +The centre of all things. There He lives and reigns. +There infinite distance into nearness grows, +And infinite majesty stoops to dust again; +All things in little, infinite love in man . . . +Oh, beating wings, descend to earth once more, +And hear, reborn, the desert singer's cry: +_When I consider the heavens, the work of Thy fingers, +The sun and the moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained, +Though man be as dust I know Thou art mindful of him; +And, through Thy law, Thy light still visiteth him._ + + + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Watchers of the Sky, by Alfred Noyes + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WATCHERS OF THE SKY *** + +This file should be named 6574.txt or 6574.zip + +Produced by Beth L. Constantine, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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