Chapter 5 No.5

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."