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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.signed.

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 d.a.m.ns it too, Susannah mine, we may be forced to choose Between the truth and exile. When he comes, He'll tell me more. Amba.s.sadors, 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 amba.s.sador 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 h.e.l.l beneath, but goes to swell His personal p.r.o.noun. Bring him some dreadful news His dearest friend is burned to death,--You'll see The monstrous insect strike an att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sionate gra.s.shoppers, 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 ill.u.s.trious 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 G.o.d gave the young a spice Of devilry. They'll go look, while elders gasp; And, when the Devil and Truth go hand in hand, G.o.d 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, sc.r.a.ps 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 pa.s.sionate 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?