Of those three systems of the universe, The Ptolemaic, held by all the schools, May yet be proven false. We yet may find This earth of ours is not the sovran lord Of all those wheeling spheres. Ourselves have marked Movements among the planets that forbid Acceptance of it wholly. Some of these Are moving round the sun, if we can trust Our years of watching. There are stranger dreams. This radical, Copernicus, the priest, Of whom I often talked with you, declares Ail of these movements can be reconciled, If--a hypothesis only--we should take The sun itself for centre, and assume That this huge earth, so 'stablished, so secure In its foundations, is a planet also, And moves around the sun. I cannot think it. This leap of thought is yet too great for me. I have no doubt that Ptolemy was wrong. Some of his planets move around the sun. Copernicus is nearer to the truth In some things. But the planets we have watched Still wander from the course that he assigned. Therefore, my system, which includes the best Of both, I hold may yet be proven true. This earth of ours, as Jeppe declared one day, So simply that we laughed, is 'much too big To move,' so let it be the centre still, And let the planets move around their sun; But let the sun with all its planets move Around our central earth. This at the least Accords with all we know, and saves mankind From that enormous plunge into the night; Saves them from voyaging for ten thousand years Through boundless darkness without sight of land; Saves them from all that agony of loss, As one by one the beacon-fires of faith Are drowned in blackness. I beseech you, then, Let me be proven wrong, before you take That darkness lightly. If at last you find The proven facts against me, take the plunge. Launch out into that darkness. Let the lamps Of heaven, the glowing hearth-fires that we knew Die out behind you, while the freshening wind Blows on your brows, and overhead you see The stars of truth that lead you from your home. I love this island,--every little glen, Hazel-wood, brook, and fish-pond; every bough And blossom in that garden; and I hoped To die here. But it is not chance, I know, That sends me wandering through the world again. My use perhaps is ended; and the power That made me, breaks me." As he spoke, they saw The tears upon his face. He bowed his head And left them silent in the darkened room. They saw his face no more. The self-same hour, Tycho, Christine, and all their children, left Their island-home for even In their ship They took a few of the smaller instruments, And that most precious record of the stars, His legacy to the future. Into the night They vanished, leaving on the ghostly cliffs Only one dark, distorted, dog-like shape To watch them, sobbing, under its matted hair, "Master, have you forgotten Jeppe, your dwarf?" IX