Galileo

I     (Celeste, in the Convent at Arcetri, writes to her old lover at Rome.)     My friend, my dearest friend, my own dear love,     I, who am dead to love, and see around me     The funeral tapers lighted, send this cry     Out of my heart to yours, before the end.     You told me once you would endure the rack     To save my heart one pang. O, save it now!     Last night there came a dreadful word from Rome     For my dear lord and father, summoning him     Before the inquisitors there, to take his trial     At threescore years and ten. There is a threat     Of torture, if his lips will not deny     The truth his eyes have seen.                 You know my father,     You know me, too. You never will believe     That he and I are enemies of the faith.     Could I, who put away all earthly love,     Deny the Cross to which I nailed this flesh?     Could he, who, on the night when all those heavens     Opened above us, with their circling worlds,     Knelt with me, crushed beneath that weight of glory,     Forget the Maker of that glory now?     You'll not believe it. Neither would the Church,     Had not his enemies poisoned all the springs     And fountain-heads of truth. It is not Rome     That summons him, but Magini, Sizy, Scheiner,     Lorini, all the blind, pedantic crew     That envy him his fame, and hate his works     For dwarfing theirs.                      Must such things always be     When truth is born?     Only five nights ago we walked together,     My father and I, here in the Convent garden;     And, as the dusk turned everything to dreams,     We dreamed together of his work well done     And happiness to be. We did not dream     That even then, muttering above his book,     His enemies, those enemies whom the truth     Stings into hate, were plotting to destroy him.     Yet something shadowed him. I recall his words--     "The grapes are ripening. See, Celeste, how black     And heavy. We shall have good wine this year,"--     "Yes, all grows ripe," I said, "your life-work, too,     Dear father. Are you happy now to know     Your book is printed, and the new world born?"     He shook his head, a little sadly, I thought.     "Autumn's too full of endings. Fruits grow ripe     And fall, and then comes winter."                         "Not for you!     Never," I said, "for those who write their names     In heaven. Think, father, through all ages now     No one can ever watch that starry sky     Without remembering you. Your fame ..."                                      And there     He stopped me, laid his hand upon my arm,     And standing in the darkness with dead leaves     Drifting around him, and his bare grey head     Bowed in complete humility, his voice     Shaken and low, he said like one in prayer,     "Celeste, beware of that. Say truth, not fame.     If there be any happiness on earth,     It springs from truth alone, the truth we live     In act and thought. I have looked up there and seen     Too many worlds to talk of fame on earth.     Fame, on this grain of dust among the stars,     The trumpet of a gnat that thinks to halt     The great sun-clusters moving on their way     In silence! Yes, that's fame, but truth, Celeste,     Truth and its laws are constant, even up there;     That's where one man may face and fight the world.     His weakness turns to strength. He is made one     With universal forces, and he holds     The password to eternity.     Gate after gate swings back through all the heavens.     No sentry halts him, and no flaming sword.     Say truth, Celeste, not fame."                  "No, for I'll say     A better word," I told him. "I'll say love."     He took my face between his hands and said--     His face all dark between me and the stars--     "What's love, Celeste, but this dear face of truth     Upturned to heaven."                      He left me, and I heard,     Some twelve hours later, that this man whose soul     Was dedicate to Truth, was threatened now     With torture, if his lips did not deny     The truth he loved.                     I tell you all these things     Because to help him, you must understand him;     And even you may doubt him, if you hear     Only those plausible outside witnesses     Who never heard his heart-beats as have I.     So let me tell you all--his quest for truth,     And how this hate began.                              Even from the first,     He made his enemies of those almost-minds     Who chanced upon some new thing in the dark     And could not see its meaning, for he saw,     Always, the law illumining it within.     So when he heard of that strange optic-glass     Which brought the distance near, he thought it out     By reason, where that other hit upon it     Only by chance. He made his telescope;     And O, how vividly that day comes back,     When in their gorgeous robes the Senate stood     Beside him on that high Venetian tower,     Scanning the bare blue sea that showed no speck     Of sail. Then, one by one, he bade them look;     And one by one they gasped, "a miracle."     Brown sails and red, a fleet of fishing boats,     See how the bright foam bursts around their bows!     See how the bare-legged sailors walk the decks!     Then, quickly looking up, as if to catch     The vision, ere it tricked them, all they saw     Was empty sea again.                      Many believed     That all was trickery, but he bade them note     The colours of the boats, and count their sails.     Then, in a little while, the naked eye     Saw on the sky-line certain specks that grew,     Took form and colour; and, within an hour,     Their magic fleet came foaming into port.     Whereat old senators, wagging their white beards,     And plucking at golden chains with stiff old claws     Too feeble for the sword-hilt, squeaked at once:     "This glass will give us great advantages     In time of war."              War, war, O God of love,     Even amidst their wonder at Thy world,     Dazed with new beauty, gifted with new powers,     These old men dreamed of blood. This was the thought     To which all else must pander, if he hoped     Even for one hour to see those dull eyes blaze     At his discoveries.                     "Wolves," he called them, "wolves";     And yet he humoured them. He stooped to them.     Promised them more advantages, and talked     As elders do to children. You may call it     Weakness, and yet could any man do more,     Alone, against a world, with such a trust     To guard for future ages? All his life     He has had some weanling truth to guard, has fought     Desperately to defend it, taking cover     Wherever he could, behind old fallen trees     Of superstition, or ruins of old thought.     He has read horoscopes to keep his work     Among the stars in favour with his prince,     I tell you this that you may understand     What seems inconstant in him. It may be     That he was wrong in these things, and must pay     A dreadful penalty. But you must explore     His mind's great ranges, plains and lonely peaks     Before you know him, as I know him now.     How could he talk to children, but in words     That children understand? Have not some said     That God Himself has made His glory dark     For men to bear it. In his human sphere     My father has done this.                              War was the dream     That filmed those old men's eyes. They did not hear     My father, when he hinted at his hope     Of opening up the heavens for mankind     With that new power of bringing far things near.     My heart burned as I heard him; but they blinked     Like owls at noonday. Then I saw him turn,     Desperately, to humour them, from thoughts     Of heaven to thoughts of warfare.                         Late that night     My own dear lord and father came to me     And whispered, with a glory in his face     As one who has looked on things too beautiful     To breathe aloud, "Come out, Celeste, and see     A miracle."                             I followed him. He showed me,     Looking along his outstretched hand, a star,     A point of light above our olive-trees.     It was the star called Jupiter. And then     He bade me look again, but through his glass.     I feared to look at first, lest I should see     Some wonder never meant for mortal eyes.     He too, had felt the same, not fear, but awe,     As if his hand were laid upon the veil     Between this world and heaven.                  Then . . . I, too, saw,     Small as the smallest bead of mist that clings     To a spider's thread at dawn, the floating disk     Of what had been a star, a planet now,     And near it, with no disk that eyes could see,     Four needle-points of light, unseen before.     "The moons of Jupiter," he whispered low,     "I have watched them as they moved, from night to night;     A system like our own, although the world     Their fourfold lights and shadows make so strange     Must--as I think--be mightier than we dreamed,     A Titan planet. Earth begins to fade     And dwindle; yes, the heavens are opening now.     Perhaps up there, this night, some lonely soul     Gazes at earth, watches our dawning moon,     And wonders, as we wonder."             In that dark     We knelt together . . .                             Very strange to see     The vanity and fickleness of princes.     Before his enemies had provoked the wrath     Of Rome against him, he had given the name     Of Medicean stars to those four moons     In honour of Prince Cosmo. This aroused     The court of France to seek a lasting place     Upon the map of heaven. A letter came     Beseeching him to find another star     Even more brilliant, and to call it Henri     After the reigning and most brilliant prince     Of France. They did not wish the family name     Of Bourbon. This would dissipate the glory.     No, they preferred his proper name of Henri.     We read it together in the garden here,     Weeping with laughter, never dreaming then     That this, this, this, could stir the little hearts     Of men to envy.             O, but afterwards,     The blindness of the men who thought themselves     His enemies. The men who never knew him,     The men that had set up a thing of straw     And called it by his name, and wished to burn     Their image and himself in one wild fire.     Men? Were they men or children? They refused     Even to look through Galileo's glass,     Lest seeing might persuade them. Even that sage,     That great Aristotelian, Julius Libri,     Holding his breath there, like a fractious child     Until his cheeks grew purple, and the veins     Were bursting on his brow, swore he would die     Sooner than look.                 And that poor monstrous babe     Not long thereafter, kept his word and died,     Died of his own pent rage, as I have heard.     Whereat my lord and father shook his head     And, smiling, somewhat sadly--oh, you know     That smile of his, more deadly to the false     Than even his reasoning--murmured, "Libri, dead,     Who called the moons of Jupiter absurd!     He swore he would not look at them from earth,     I hope he saw them on his way to heaven."     Welser in Augsburg, Clavius at Rome,     Scoffed at the fabled moons of Jupiter,     It was a trick, they said. He had made a glass     To fool the world with false appearances.     Perhaps the lens was flawed. Perhaps his wits     Were wandering. Anything rather than the truth     Which might disturb the mighty in their seat.     "Let Galileo hold his own opinions.     I, Clavius, will hold mine."              He wrote to Kepler;     "You, Kepler, are the first, whose open mind     And lofty genius could accept for truth     The things which I have seen. With you for friend,     The abuse of the multitude will not trouble me.     Jupiter stands in heaven and will stand,     Though all the sycophants bark at him.                                  In Pisa,     Florence, Bologna, Venice, Padua,     Many have seen the moons. These witnesses     Are silent and uncertain. Do you wonder?     Most of them could not, even when they saw them,     Distinguish Mars from Jupiter. Shall we side     With Heraclitus or Democritus?     I think, my Kepler, we will only laugh     At this immeasurable stupidity.     Picture the leaders of our college here.     A thousand times I have offered them the proof     Of their own eyes. They sleep here, like gorged snakes,     Refusing even to look at planets, moons,     Or telescope. They think philosophy     Is all in books, and that the truth is found     Neither in nature, nor the Universe,     But in comparing texts. How you would laugh     Had you but heard our first philosopher     Before the Grand Duke, trying to tear down     And argue the new planets out of heaven,     Now by his own weird logic and closed eyes     And now by magic spells."                                 How could he help     Despising them a little? It's an error     Even for a giant to despise a midge;     For, when the giant reels beneath some stroke     Of fate, the buzzing clouds will swoop upon him,     Cluster and feed upon his bleeding wounds,     And do what midges can to sting him blind.     These human midges have not missed their chance.     They have missed no smallest spot upon that sun.     My mother was not married--they have found--     To my dear father. All his children, then,     And doubtless all their thoughts are evil, too;     But who that judged him ever sought to know     Whether, as evil sometimes wears the cloak     Of virtue, nobler virtue in this man     Might wear that outward semblance of a sin?     Yes, even you who love me, may believe     These thoughts are born of my own tainted heart;     And yet I write them, kneeling in my cell     And whisper them to One who blesses me     Here, from His Cross, upon the bare grey wall.     So, if you love me, bless me also, you,     By helping him. Make plain to all you meet     What part his enemies have played in this.     How some one, somehow, altered the command     Laid on him all those years ago, by Rome,     So that it reads to-day as if he vowed     Never to think or breathe that this round earth     Moves with its sister-planets round the sun.     'Tis true he promised not to write or speak     As if this truth were 'stablished equally     With God's eternal laws; and so he wrote     His Dialogues, reasoning for it, and against,     And gave the last word to Simplicio,     Saying that human reason must bow down     Before the power of God.                              And even this     His enemies have twisted to a sneer     Against the Pope, and cunningly declared     Simplicio to be Urban.                          Why, my friend,     There were three dolphins on the titlepage,     Each with the tail of another in its mouth.     The censor had not seen this, and they swore     It held some hidden meaning. Then they found     The same three dolphins sprawled on all the books     Landini printed at his Florence press.     They tried another charge.                                  I am not afraid     Of any truth that they can bring against him;     But, O, my friend, I more than fear their lies.     I do not fear the justice of our God;     But I do fear the vanity of men;     Even of Urban; not His Holiness,     But Urban, the weak man, who may resent,     And in resentment rush half-way to meet     This cunning lie with credence. Vanity!     O, half the wrongs on earth arise from that!     Greed, and war's pomp, all envy, and most hate,     Are born of that; while one dear humble heart,     Beating with love for man, between two thieves,     Proves more than all His wounds and miracles     Our Crucified to be the Son of God.     Say that I long to see him; that my prayers     Knock at the gates of mercy, night and day.     Urge him to leave the judgment now with God     And strive no more.                     If he be right, the stars     Fight for him in their courses. Let him bow     His poor, dishonoured, glorious, old grey head     Before this storm, and then come home to me.     O, quickly, or I fear 'twill be too late;     For I am dying. Do not tell him this;     But I must live to hold his hands again,     And know that he is safe.     I dare not leave him, helpless and half blind,     Half father and half child, to rack and cord.     By all the Christ within you, save him, you;     And, though you may have ceased to love me now,     One faithful shadow in your own last hour     Shall watch beside you till all shadows die,     And heaven unfold to bless you where I failed.     II     (Scheiner writes to Castelli, after the Trial.)     What think you of your Galileo now,     Your hero that like Ajax should defy     The lightning? Yesterday I saw him stand     Trembling before our court of Cardinals,     Trembling before the colour of their robes     As sheep, before the slaughter, at the sight     And smell of blood. His lips could hardly speak,     And--mark you--neither rack, nor cord had touched him.     Out of the Inquisition's five degrees     Of rigor: first, the public threat of torture;     Second, the repetition of the threat     Within the torture-chamber, where we show     The instruments of torture to the accused;     Third, the undressing and the binding; fourth,     Laying him on the rack; then, fifth and last,     Torture, territio realis; out of these,     Your Galileo reached the second only,     When, clapping both his hands against his sides,     He whined about a rupture that forbade     These extreme courses. Great heroic soul     Dropped like a cur into a sea of terror,     He sank right under. Then he came up gasping,     Ready to swear, deny, abjure, recant,     Anything, everything! Foolish, weak, old man,     Who had been so proud of his discoveries,     And dared to teach his betters. How we grinned     To see him kneeling there and whispering, thus,     Through his white lips, bending his old grey head:     "I, Galileo Galilei, born     A Florentine, now seventy years of age,     Kneeling before you, having before mine eyes,     And touching with my hands the Holy Gospels,     Swear that I always have believed, do now,     And always will believe what Holy Church     Has held and preached and taught me to believe;     And now, whereas I rightly am accused,     Of heresy, having falsely held the sun     To be the centre of our Universe,     And also that this earth is not the centre,     But moves;     I most illogically desire     Completely to expunge this dark suspicion,     So reasonably conceived. I now abjure,     Detest and curse these errors; and I swear     That should I know another, friend or foe,     Holding the selfsame heresy as myself,     I will denounce him to the Inquisitor     In whatsoever place I chance to be.     So help me God, and these His Holy Gospels,     Which with my hands I touch!"                         You will observe     His promise to denounce. Beware, Castelli!     What think you of your Galileo now?     III     (Castelli writes, enclosing Schemer's letter, to Campanella.)     What think I? This,--that he has laid his hands     Like Samson on the pillars of our world,     And one more trembling utterance such as this     Will overwhelm us all.                          O, Campanella,     You know that I am loyal to our faith,     As Galileo too has always been.     You know that I believe, as he believes,     In the one Catholic Apostolic Church;     Yet there are many times when I could wish     That some blind Samson would indeed tear down     All this proud temporal fabric, made with hands,     And that, once more, we suffered with our Lord,     Were persecuted, crucified with Him.     I tell you, Campanella, on that day     When Galileo faced our Cardinals,     A veil was rent for me. There, in one flash,     I saw the eternal tragedy, transformed     Into new terms. I saw the Christ once more,     Before the court of Pilate. Peter there     Denied Him once again; and, as for me,     Never has all my soul so humbly knelt     To God in Christ, as when that sad old man     Bowed his grey head, and knelt--at seventy years--     To acquiesce, and shake the world with shame.     He shall not strive or cry! Strange, is it not,     How nearly Scheiner--even amidst his hate--     Quoted the Prophets? Do we think this world     So greatly bettered, that the ancient cry,     "Despised, rejected," hails our God no more?     IV     (Celeste writes to her father in his imprisonment at Siena.)     Dear father, it will seem a thousand years     Until I see you home again and well.     I would not have you doubt that all this time     I have prayed for you continually. I saw     A copy of your sentence. I was grieved;     And yet it gladdened me, for I found a way     To be of use, by taking on myself     Your penance. Therefore, if you fail in this,     If you forget it--and indeed, to save you     The trouble of remembering it--your child     Will do it for you.                     Ah, could she do more!     How willingly would your Celeste endure     A straiter prison than she lives in now     To set you free.              "A prison," I have said;     And yet, if you were here, 'twould not be so.     When you were pent in Rome, I used to say,     "Would he were at Siena!" God fulfilled     That wish. You are at Siena; and I now say     Would he were at Arcctri.                                 So perhaps     Little by little, angels can be wooed     Each day, by some new prayer of mine or yours,     To bring you wholly back to me, and save     Some few of the flying days that yet remain.     You see, these other Nuns have each their friend,     Their patron Saint, their ever near devoto,     To whom they tell their joys and griefs; but I     Have only you, dear father, and if you     Were only near me, I could want no more.     Your garden looks as if it missed your love.     The unpruned branches lean against the wall     To look for you. The walks run wild with flowers.     Even your watch-tower seems to wait for you;     And, though the fruit is not so good this year     (The vines were hurt by hail, I think, and thieves     Have climbed the wall too often for the pears),     The crop of peas is good, and only waits     Your hand to gather it.                             In the dovecote, too,     You'll find some plump young pigeons. We must make     A feast for your return.                              In my small plot,     Here at the Convent, better watched than yours,     I raised a little harvest. With the price     I got for it, I had three Masses said     For my dear father's sake.     V     (Galileo writes to his friend Castelli, after his return to     Arcetri.)     Castelli, O Castelli, she is dead.     I found her driving death back with her soul     Till I should come.                     I could not even see     Her face.--These useless eyes had spent their power     On distant worlds, and lost that last faint look     Of love on earth.                 I am in the dark, Castelli,     Utterly and irreparably blind.     The Universe which once these outworn eyes     Enlarged so far beyond its ancient bounds     Is henceforth shrunk into that narrow space     Which I myself inhabit.                             Yet I found     Even in the dark, her tears against my face,     Her thin soft childish arms around my neck,     And her voice whispering ... love, undying love;     Asking me, at this last, to tell her true,     If we should meet again.                              Her trust in me     Had shaken her faith in what my judges held;     And, as I felt her fingers clutch my hand,     Like a child drowning, "Tell me the truth," she said,     "Before I lose the light of your dear face"--     It seemed so strange that dying she could see me     While I had lost her,--"tell me, before I go."     "Believe in Love," was all my soul could breathe.     I heard no answer. Only I felt her hand     Clasp mine and hold it tighter. Then she died,     And left me to my darkness. Could I guess     At unseen glories, in this deeper night,     Make new discoveries of profounder realms,     Within the soul? O, could I find Him there,     Rise to Him through His harmonies of law     And make His will my own!                                 This much, at least,     I know already, that--in some strange way--     His law implies His love; for, failing that     All grows discordant, and the primal Power     Ignobler than His children.             So I trust     One day to find her, waiting for me still,     When all things are made new.                 I raise this torch     Of knowledge. It is one with my right hand,     And the dark sap that keeps it burning flows     Out of my heart; and yet, for all my faith,     It shows me only darkness.                                  Was I wrong?     Did I forget the subtler truth of Rome     And, in my pride, obscure the world's one light?     Did I subordinate to this moving earth     Our swiftlier-moving God?                                 O, my Celeste,     Once, once at least, you knew far more than I;     And she is dead, Castelli, she is dead.     VI     (Viviani, many years later, writes to a friend in England)     I was his last disciple, as you say     I went to him, at seventeen years of age,     And offered him my hands and eyes to use,     When, voicing the true mind and heart of Rome,     Father Castelli, his most faithful friend,     Wrote, for my master, that compassionate plea;     The noblest eye that Nature ever made     Is darkened; one so exquisitely dowered,     So delicate in power that it beheld     More than all other eyes in ages gone     And opened the eyes of all that are to come.     But, out of England, even then, there shone     The first ethereal promise of light     That crowns my master dead. Well I recall     That day of days. There was no faintest breath     Among his garden cypress-trees. They dreamed     Dark, on a sky too beautiful for tears,     And the first star was trembling overhead,     When, quietly as a messenger from heaven,     Moving unseen, through his own purer realm,     Amongst the shadows of our mortal world,     A young man, with a strange light on his face     Knocked at the door of Galileo's house.     His name was Milton.                      By the hand of God,     He, the one living soul on earth with power     To read the starry soul of this blind man,     Was led through Italy to his prison door.     He looked on Galileo, touched his hand ...     O, dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,     Irrecoverably dark ....              In after days,     He wrote it; but it pulsed within him then;     And Galileo rising to his feet     And turning on him those unseeing eyes     That had searched heaven and seen so many worlds,     Said to him, "You have found me."     Often he told me in those last sad months     Of how your grave young island poet brought     Peace to him, with the knowledge that, far off,     In other lands, the truth he had proclaimed     Was gathering power.                      Soon after, death unlocked     His prison, and the city that he loved,     Florence, his town of flowers, whose gates in life     He was forbid to pass, received him dead.     You write to me from England, that his name     Is now among the mightiest in the world,     And in his name I thank you.              I am old;     And I was very young when, long ago,     I stood beside his poor dishonoured grave     Where hate denied him even an epitaph;     And I have seen, slowly and silently,     His purer fame arising, like a moon     In marble on the twilight of those aisles     At Santa Croce, where the dread decree     Was read against him.                         Now, against two wrongs,     Let me defend two victims: first, the Church     Whom many have vilified for my master's doom;     And second, Galileo, whom they reproach     Because they think that in his blind old age     He might with one great eagle's glance have cowed     His judges, played the hero, raised his hands     Above his head, and posturing like a mummer     Cried (as one empty rumour now declares)     After his recantation--yet, it moves!     Out of this wild confusion, fourfold wrongs     Are heaped on both sides.--I would fain bring peace,     The peace of truth to both before I die;     And, as I hope, rest at my master's feet.     It was not Rome that tried to murder truth;     But the blind hate and vanity of man.     Had Galileo but concealed the smile     With which, like Socrates, he answered fools,     They would not, in the name of Christ, have mixed     This hemlock in his chalice.              O pitiful     Pitiful human hearts that must deny     Their own unfolding heavens, for one light word     Twisted by whispering malice.                 Did he mean     Simplicio, in his dialogues, for the Pope?     Doubtful enough--the name was borrowed straight     From older dialogues.                         If he gave one thought     Of Urban's to Simplicio--you know well     How composite are all characters in books,     How authors find their colours here and there,     And paint both saints and villains from themselves.     No matter. This was Urban. Make it clear.     Simplicio means a simpleton. The saints     Are aroused by ridicule to most human wrath.     Urban was once his friend. This hint of ours     Kills all of that. And so we mortals close     The doors of Love and Knowledge on the world.     And so, for many an age, the name of Christ     Has been misused by man to mask man's hate.     How should the Church escape, then? I who loved     My master, know he had no truer friend     Than many of those true servants of the Church,     Fathers and priests who, in their lowlier sphere,     Moved nearer than her cardinals to the Christ.     These were the very Rome, and held her keys.     Those who charge Rome with hatred of the light     Would charge the sun with darkness, and accuse     This dome of sky for all the blood-red wrongs     That men commit beneath it. Art and song     That found her once in Europe their sole shrine     And sanctuary absolve her from that stain.     But there's this other charge against my friend,     And master, Galileo. It is brought     By friends, made sharper by their pity and grief,     The charge that he refused his martyrdom     And so denied his own high faith.                         Whose faith,--     His friends', his Protestant followers', or his own?     Faced by the torture, that sublime old man     Was still a faithful Catholic, and his thought     Plunged deeper than his Protestant followers knew.     His aim was not to strike a blow at Rome     But to confound his enemies. He believed     As humbly as Castelli or Celeste     That there is nothing absolute but that Power     With which his Church confronted him. To this     He bowed his head, acknowledging that his light     Was darkness; but affirming, all the more,     That Ptolemy's light was even darker yet.     Read your own Protestant Milton, who derived     His mighty argument from my master's lips:     "Whether the sun predominant in heaven     Rise on the earth, or earth rise on the sun;     Leave them to God above; Him serve and fear."     Just as in boyhood, when my master watched     The swinging lamp in the cathedral there     At Pisa; and, by one finger on his pulse,     Found that, although the great bronze miracle swung     Through ever-shortening spaces, yet it moved     More slowly, and so still swung in equal times;     He straight devised another boon to man,     Those pulse-clocks which by many a fevered bed     Our doctors use; dreamed of that timepiece, too,     Whose punctual swinging pendulum on earth     Measures the starry periods, and to-day     Talks peacefully to children by the fire     Like an old grandad full of ancient tales,     Remembering endless ages, and foretelling     Eternities to come; but, all the while     There, in the dim cathedral, he knew well,     That dreaming youngster, with his tawny mane     Of red-gold hair, and deep ethereal eyes,     What odorous clouds of incense round him rose;     Was conscious in the dimness, of great throngs     Kneeling around him; shared in his own heart     The music and the silence and the cry,     O, salutaris hostia!--so now,     There was no mortal conflict in his mind     Between his dream-clocks and things absolute,     And one far voice, most absolute of all,     Feeble with suffering, calling night and day     "Return, return;" the voice of his Celeste.     All these things co-existed, and the less     Were comprehended, like the swinging lamp,     Within that great cathedral of his soul.     Often he bade me, in that desolate house     Il Giojello, of old a jewel of light,     Read to him one sad letter, till he knew     The most of it by heart, and while he walked     His garden, leaning on my arm, at times     I think he quite forgot that I was there;     For he would quietly murmur it to himself,     As if she had sent it, half an hour ago:     "Now, with this little winter's gift of fruit     I send you, father, from our southward wall,     Our convent's rarest flower, a Christmas rose.     At this cold season, it should please you much,     Seeing how rare it is; but, with the rose,     You must accept its thorns, which bring to mind     Our Lord's own bitter Passion. Its green leaves     Image the hope that through His Passion we,     After this winter of our mortal life,     May find the beauty of an eternal spring     In heaven."     Praise me the martyr, out of whose agonies     Some great new hope is born, but not the fool     Who starves his heart to prove what eyes can see     And intellect confirm throughout the world.     Why must he follow the idiot schoolboy code,     Torture his soul to reinforce the sight     Of those that closed their eyes and would not see.     To your own men of science, fifty turns     Of the thumbscrew would not prove that earth revolved.     Call it Italian subtlety if you will,     I say his intricate cause could not be won     By blind heroics. Much that his enemies challenged     Was not yet wholly proven, though his mind     Had leapt to a certainty. He must leave the rest     To those that should come after, swift and young,--     Those runners with the torch for whom he longed     As his deliverers. Had he chosen death     Before his hour, his proofs had been obscured     For many a year. His respite gave him time     To push new pawns out, in the blindfold play     Of those last months, and checkmate, not the Church     But those that hid behind her. He believed     His truth was all harmonious with her own.     How could he choose between them? Must he die     To affirm a discord that himself denied?     On many a point, he was less sure than we:     But surer far of much that we forget     The movements that he saw he could but judge     By some fixed point in space. He chose the sun.     Could this be absolute? Could he then be sure     That this great sun did not with all its worlds     Move round a deeper centre? What became     Of your Copernicus then? Could he be sure     Of any unchanging centre, whence to judge     This myriad-marching universe, but one--     The absolute throne of God.             Affirming this     Eternal Rock, his own uncertainties     Became more certain, and although his lips     Breathed not a syllable of it, though he stood     Silent as earth that also seemed so still,     The very silence thundered, yet it moves!     He held to what he knew, secured his work     Through feeble hands like mine, in other lands,     Not least in England, as I think you know.     For, partly through your poet, as I believe,     When his great music rolled upon your skies,     New thoughts were kindled in the general mind.     'Twas at Arcetri that your Milton gained     The first great glimpse of his celestial realm.     Picture him,--still a prisoner of our light,     Closing his glorious eyes--that in the dark,     He might behold this wheeling universe,--     The planets gilding their ethereal horns     With sun-fire. Many a pure immortal phrase     In his own work, as I have pondered it,     Lived first upon the lips of him whose eyes     Were darkened first,--in whom, too, Milton found     That Samson Agonistes, not himself,     As many have thought, but my dear master dead.     These are a part of England's memories now,     The music blown upon her sea-bright air     When, in the year of Galileo's death,     Newton, the mightiest of the sons of light,     Was born to lift the splendour of this torch     And carry it, as I heard that Tycho said     Long since to Kepler, "carry it out of sight,     Into the great new age I must not know,     Into the great new realm I must not tread."