Charles Mackay (Чарльз Маккей)
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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