The Observatory

At noon, upon the mountain's purple height,     Above the pine-woods and the clouds it shone     No larger than the small white dome of shell     Left by the fledgling wren when wings are born.     By night it joined the company of heaven,     And, with its constant light, became a star.     A needle-point of light, minute, remote,     It sent a subtler message through the abyss,     Held more significance for the seeing eye     Than all the darkness that would blot it out,     Yet could not dwarf it.                             High in heaven it shone,     Alive with all the thoughts, and hopes, and dreams     Of man's adventurous mind.                                  Up there, I knew     The explorers of the sky, the pioneers     Of science, now made ready to attack     That darkness once again, and win new worlds.     To-morrow night they hoped to crown the toil     Of twenty years, and turn upon the sky     The noblest weapon ever made by man.     War had delayed them. They had been drawn away     Designing darker weapons. But no gun     Could outrange this.     "To-morrow night"--so wrote their chief--"we try     Our great new telescope, the hundred-inch.     Your Milton's 'optic tube' has grown in power     Since Galileo, famous, blind, and old,     Talked with him, in that prison, of the sky.     We creep to power by inches. Europe trusts     Her 'giant forty' still. Even to-night     Our own old sixty has its work to do;     And now our hundred-inch . . . I hardly dare     To think what this new muzzle of ours may find.     Come up, and spend that night among the stars     Here, on our mountain-top. If all goes well,     Then, at the least, my friend, you'll see a moon     Stranger, but nearer, many a thousand mile     Than earth has ever seen her, even in dreams.     As for the stars, if seeing them were all,     Three thousand million new-found points of light     Is our rough guess. But never speak of this.     You know our press. They'd miss the one result     To flash 'three thousand millions' round the world."     To-morrow night! For more than twenty years,     They had thought and planned and worked. Ten years had gone,     One-fourth, or more, of man's brief working life,     Before they made those solid tons of glass,     Their hundred-inch reflector, the clear pool,     The polished flawless pool that it must be     To hold the perfect image of a star.     And, even now, some secret flaw--none knew     Until to-morrow's test--might waste it all.     Where was the gambler that would stake so much,--     Time, patience, treasure, on a single throw?     The cost of it,--they'd not find that again,     Either in gold or life-stuff! All their youth     Was fuel to the flame of this one work.     Once in a lifetime to the man of science,     Despite what fools believe his ice-cooled blood,     There comes this drama.                             If he fails, he fails     Utterly. He at least will have no time     For fresh beginnings. Other men, no doubt,     Years hence, will use the footholes that he cut     In those precipitous cliffs, and reach the height,     But he will never see it."             So for me,     The light words of that letter seemed to hide     The passion of a lifetime, and I shared     The crowning moment of its hope and fear.     Next day, through whispering aisles of palm we rode     Up to the foot-hills, dreaming desert-hills     That to assuage their own delicious drought     Had set each tawny sun-kissed slope ablaze     With peach and orange orchards.                     Up and up,     Along the thin white trail that wound and climbed     And zig-zagged through the grey-green mountain sage,     The car went crawling, till the shining plain     Below it, like an airman's map, unrolled.     Houses and orchards dwindled to white specks     In midget cubes and squares of tufted green.     Once, as we rounded one steep curve, that made     The head swim at the canyoned gulf below,     We saw through thirty miles of lucid air     Elvishly small, sharp as a crumpled petal     Blown from the stem, a yard away, a sail     Lazily drifting on the warm blue sea.     Up for nine miles along that spiral trail     Slowly we wound to reach the lucid height     Above the clouds, where that white dome of shell,     No wren's now, but an eagle's, took the flush     Of dying day. The sage-brush all died out,     And all the southern growths, and round us now,     Firs of the north, and strong, storm-rooted pines     Exhaled a keener fragrance; till, at last,     Reversing all the laws of lesser hills,     They towered like giants round us. Darkness fell     Before we reached the mountain's naked height.     Over us, like some great cathedral dome,     The observatory loomed against the sky;     And the dark mountain with its headlong gulfs     Had lost all memory of the world below;     For all those cloudless throngs of glittering stars     And all those glimmerings where the abyss of space     Is powdered with a milky dust, each grain     A burning sun, and every sun the lord     Of its own darkling planets,--all those lights     Met, in a darker deep, the lights of earth,     Lights on the sea, lights of invisible towns,     Trembling and indistinguishable from stars,     In those black gulfs around the mountain's feet.     Then, into the glimmering dome, with bated breath,     We entered, and, above us, in the gloom     Saw that majestic weapon of the light     Uptowering like the shaft of some huge gun     Through one arched rift of sky.                     Dark at its base     With naked arms, the crew that all day long     Had sweated to make ready for this night     Waited their captain's word.              The switchboard shone     With elfin lamps of white and red, and keys     Whence, at a finger's touch, that monstrous tube     Moved like a creature dowered with life and will,     To peer from deep to deep.                                  Below it pulsed     The clock-machine that slowly, throb by throb,     Timed to the pace of the revolving earth,     Drove the titanic muzzle on and on,     Fixed to the chosen star that else would glide     Out of its field of vision.             So, set free     Balanced against the wheel of time, it swung,     Or rested, while, to find new realms of sky     The dome that housed it, like a moon revolved,     So smoothly that the watchers hardly knew     They moved within; till, through the glimmering doors,     They saw the dark procession of the pines     Like Indian warriors, quietly stealing by.     Then, at a word, the mighty weapon dipped     Its muzzle and aimed at one small point of light     One seeming insignificant star.                     The chief,     Mounting the ladder, while we held our breath,     Looked through the eye-piece.                 Then we heard him laugh     His thanks to God, and hide it in a jest.     "A prominence on Jupiter!"--              They laughed,     "What do you mean?"--"It's moving," cried the chief,     They laughed again, and watched his glimmering face     High overhead against that moving tower.     "Come up and see, then!"                              One by one they went,     And, though each laughed as he returned to earth,     Their souls were in their eyes.                     Then I, too, looked,     And saw that insignificant spark of light     Touched with new meaning, beautifully reborn,     A swimming world, a perfect rounded pearl,     Poised in the violet sky; and, as I gazed,     I saw a miracle,--right on its upmost edge     A tiny mound of white that slowly rose,     Then, like an exquisite seed-pearl, swung quite clear     And swam in heaven above its parent world     To greet its three bright sister-moons.                                     A moon,     Of Jupiter, no more, but clearer far     Than mortal eyes had seen before from earth,     O, beautiful and clear beyond all dreams     Was that one silver phrase of the starry tune     Which Galileo's "old discoverer" first     Dimly revealed, dissolving into clouds     The imagined fabric of our universe.     "Jupiter stands in heaven and will stand     Though all the sycophants bark at him," he cried,     Hailing the truth before he, too, went down,     Whelmed in the cloudy wreckage of that dream.     So one by one we looked, the men who served     Urania, and the men from Vulcan's forge.     A beautiful eagerness in the darkness lit     The swarthy faces that too long had missed     A meaning in the dull mechanic maze     Of labour on this blind earth, but found it now.     Though only a moment's wandering melody     Hopelessly far above, it gave their toil     Its only consecration and its joy.     There, with dark-smouldering eyes and naked throats,     Blue-dungareed, red-shirted, grimed and smeared     With engine-grease and sweat, they gathered round     The foot of that dim ladder; each muttering low     As he came down, his wonder at what he saw     To those who waited,--a picture for the brush     Of Rembrandt, lighted only by the rift     Above them, where the giant muzzle thrust     Out through the dim arched roof, and slowly throbbed,     Against the slowly moving wheel of the earth,     Holding their chosen star.                                  There, like an elf,     Perched on the side of that dark slanting tower     The Italian mechanician watched the moons,     That Italy discovered.                          One by one,     American, English, French, and Dutch, they climbed     To see the wonder that their own blind hands     Had helped to achieve.                          At midnight while they paused     To adjust the clock-machine, I wandered out     Alone, into the silence of the night.     The silence? On that lonely height I heard     Eternal voices;     For, as I looked into the gulf beneath,     Whence almost all the lights had vanished now,     The whole dark mountain seemed to have lost its earth     And to be sailing like a ship through heaven.     All round it surged the mighty sea-like sound     Of soughing pine-woods, one vast ebb and flow     Of absolute peace, aloof from all earth's pain,     So calm, so quiet, it seemed the cradle-song,     The deep soft breathing of the universe     Over its youngest child, the soul of man.     And, as I listened, that Aeolian voice     Became an invocation and a prayer:     O you, that on your loftier mountain dwell     And move like light in light among the thoughts     Of heaven, translating our mortality     Into immortal song, is there not one     Among you that can turn to music now     This long dark fight for truth? Not one to touch     With beauty this long battle for the light,     This little victory of the spirit of man     Doomed to defeat--for what was all we saw     To that which neither eyes nor soul could see?--     Doomed to defeat and yet unconquerable,     Climbing its nine miles nearer to the stars.     Wars we have sung. The blind, blood-boltered kings     Move with an epic music to their thrones.     Have you no song, then, of that nobler war?     Of those who strove for light, but could not dream     Even of this victory that they helped to win,     Silent discoverers, lonely pioneers,     Prisoners and exiles, martyrs of the truth     Who handed on the fire, from age to age;     Of those who, step by step, drove back the night     And struggled, year on year, for one more glimpse     Among the stars, of sovran law, their guide;     Of those who searching inward, saw the rocks     Dissolving into a new abyss, and saw     Those planetary systems far within,     Atoms, electrons, whirling on their way     To build and to unbuild our solid world;     Of those who conquered, inch by difficult inch,     The freedom of this realm of law for man;     Dreamers of dreams, the builders of our hope,     The healers and the binders up of wounds,     Who, while the dynasts drenched the world with blood,     Would in the still small circle of a lamp     Wrestle with death like Heracles of old     To save one stricken child.             Is there no song     To touch this moving universe of law     With ultimate light, the glimmer of that great dawn     Which over our ruined altars yet shall break     In purer splendour, and restore mankind     From darker dreams than even Lucretius knew     To vision of that one Power which guides the world.     How should men find it? Only through those doors     Which, opening inward, in each separate soul     Give each man access to that Soul of all     Living within each life, not to be found     Or known, till, looking inward, each alone     Meets the unknowable and eternal God.     And there was one that moved like light in light     Before me there,--Love, human and divine,     That can exalt all weakness into power,--     Whispering, Take this deathless torch of song...     Whispering, but with such faith, that even I     Was humbled into thinking this might be     Through love, though all the wisdom of the world     Account it folly.                 Let my breast be bared     To every shaft, then, so that Love be still     My one celestial guide the while I sing     Of those who caught the pure Promethean fire     One from another, each crying as he went down     To one that waited, crowned with youth and joy,--     Take thou the splendour, carry it out of sight     Into the great new age I must not know,     Into the great new realm I must not tread.