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 Ca.s.siopeia'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 Amba.s.sador, 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, br.i.m.m.i.n.g--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 n.o.ble, 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.bility. Pray forget your rank."

His n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 bra.s.s His armouries for the a.s.sault of heaven,-- Circles in azimuth, armillary spheres, Revolving zodiacs with great brazen rings; Quadrants of solid bra.s.s, ten cubits broad, Bra.s.s 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 Ign.o.ble, 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 G.o.d'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.