Watchers of the Sky by Noyes, Alfred, 1880-1958

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 noble 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.