Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.
Tycho Brahe, or the Ruins of Uranienborg
By Peter Andreas Heiberg (1758–1841)T
Yet here, O stranger, stay!
Turn towards the island yonder,
And listen to my lay:
Thy every meditation
Bid thither, thither haste;
A castle had its station
On yon banks ages past.
It stood, and grandeur sheen;
Now—’t was so transitory—
Its ruins scarce are seen.
But it in ancient tide was
For height and size renowned,
It seen from every side was
Uprising from the ground.
I ween, was yonder hold;
Urania! it ascended
In praise of thee so bold.
Close by the ocean roaring,
Far, far from mortal jars,
It stood towards heaven soaring,
And towards the little stars.
Showed like a mighty mouth;
There was another westward,
And spires stood north and south.
The castle dome, high rearing
Itself, a spirelet bore,
Where stood, ’fore the wind veering,
A Pegasus, gilt o’er.
In north and south were placed,
Upon strong pillars founded,
And both with galleries graced.
And there they caught attention
Of all, who thither strolled,
Quadrants of large dimension,
And spheres in flames that rolled.
Across the island spied
The woods, green foliage bearing,
And ocean’s bluey tide.
The halls the sight enchanted,
With colors bright of blee;
The gardens they were planted
With many a flower and tree.
And vanished was the sun,
The stars were seen appearing
All heaven’s arch upon.
Far, far was heard the yelling
(When one thereto gave heed)
Of those who watched the dwelling,
Four hounds of mastiff breed.
The fields of war and gore;
His helm and sword the balk on
He hung, to use no more.
From earth, its woe and riot,
His mind had taken flight,
When in his chamber quiet
He sat at depth of night.
Into the night so far,
And keen the course inspected
Of every twinkling star;
The stars his fame transported
Wide over sea and land;
And kings his friendship courted,
And sought his islet’s strand.
To other countries’ track;
His fate called him imperious;
He went, and came not back.
The haughty walls, through sorrow,
Have long since sunken low;
The heavy ploughshares furrow
Thy house, Urania! now.
It friendly looks on Hveen;
Its rays there linger, thinking
On what that place has been.
The moon hastes, melancholy,
Past, past her coast so dear;
And in love’s pleasure holy
Shines Freya’s starlet clear:
Of that same ruin old
The basis deep, believing,
Some evening,—’t is oft told,—
For many moments, gladly,
’T would rise up from the mould;—
It may not; so it sadly
Sinks in Death’s slumber cold.