Mahatma Holden, Autocrat of Stars,
Fixed to the telescope his curious eye
And waited for some great phenomenon
To seek his field of vision. Years and years,
Retiring early, rising with the sun,
With patience proof against defeat, he still
Had sought some grand discovery; and still,
Dogging the footsteps of endeavor, came
Grim disappointment and in mockery
Derided him. But now, even as he gazed,
A great white light crept up the sky, and lo!
Into the telescope’s illumined ken
Swam with a stately grace a noble orb,
And paused in mid-field of the mighty tube!
Mahatma Holden, Autocrat of Stars,
Was found next morn beneath the instrument,
Senseless and motionless as one that’s dead.
“By some emotion overcome,” said one
(Sometime physician to the Ghug of Smat)
Who with sharp stimulants and kindly words
Strove to revive him. Scarcely had the fresh
And wholesome air saluted both his lungs
Than, “Paper!” cried he—“paper, pen and ink!
Quick, ere the glorious memory fades! Ah, friends,
Not all in vain my vigils and my skill
To read the secrets of the upper deep:
At last I’m famous and my name shall ring
Adown the centuries unlinked with theirs,
My menials, Burnham, Bar—” he faltered then,
Yet with a mighty effort peaced himself,
Mastered his spirit, calmly gazed about
And, with angelic dignity, explained:
“I’ve found the Moon!” And it was even so.