The Old Astronomer

By Sarah Williams¹

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé,—I would
know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his
feet ;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of
how
We are working to completion, working on from then
till now.

Pray, remember, that I leave you all my theory com-
plete,
Lacking only certain data, for your adding, as is
meet ;
And remember, men will scorn it, ‘tis original and
true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learnt the worth
of scorn ;
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to
be forlorn ;
What, for us, are all distractions of men’s fellowship
and smiles ?
What, for us, the goddess Pleasure, with her meretri-
cious wiles ?

You may tell that German college that their honour
comes too late.
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly
savant’s fate ;
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in
perfect light ;
I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should
save your eyes for sight ;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many
another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans
are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave
you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me,—since my mother left her blessing
on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature
until now ;
I can dimly comprehend it,—that I might have been
more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I
leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too
high for strife,—
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into
our life ;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science : you will further it ? you
will !

There are certain calculations I should like to make
with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and
true ;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watch-
word of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect
age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man
may reap ;
But if none should do my reaping, ‘twill disturb me in
my sleep.
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you
leave no name ;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit
of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer
speak ;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows
too weak :
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery
Mars,—
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the
stars.