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-n.o.ble 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 gla.s.s 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, Ca.s.siopeia'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 n.o.ble, 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 compa.s.ses, 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, compa.s.ses 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 compa.s.s, 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 d.a.m.n 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 n.o.ble 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 s.p.a.ce 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 compa.s.s, through a bedroom window, That half the glittering Almagest is wrong, Think you, what n.o.ble conquests might be ours, Had we but n.o.bler 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 bra.s.s.

Its beams were fourteen cubits, solid oak, Banded with iron. Its arch was polished bra.s.s 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.