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 s.h.a.ggy 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 n.o.bler 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 d.a.m.ning 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.