Poem by Charles Mackay

The Astronomer

Upon thy lofty tower,
   O lonely sage,
Reading at midnight hour
   Heaven's awful page.
Thine art can poise the sun
   In balance true,
And countless worlds that run
   Beyond our view.
Thou scannest with clear eyes
   The azure cope;
To thee the galaxies
   Their secrets ope;
Thou know'st the track sublime
   Of every star;
Space infinite, and Time,
   Thy problems are.
O sage, whose mental span
   Thus grasps the sky,
How great the soul of man,
   That soars so high!

But yet thou canst not guess,
   With all thy skill,
What seas of happiness
   My bosom fill.
Thou canst not track the woe,
   The hope, the faith,
That prompt the ebb and flow
   Of my poor breath.
Outspeeding with thy thought
   The solar ray,
Thou canst not, knowledge-fraught,
   Discern my way.
My love—its depth and height,
   Thou canst not sound;
Nor of my guilt's dark night
   Pierce the profound.
O student of the sky,
   My pride departs;
Worlds undiscover'd lie
   In both our hearts!

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