Astronomers in the Poetry of Sarah Williams and Francis Thompson

The astronomer's studies of the heavens feature prominently in poems by Sarah Williams and Francis Thompson. “The Astronomer,” 1668, by Johannes Vermeer. Public Domain

During the recent appearance of the northern lights, multitudes of people drove out into the countryside, far from the city lights, to get a better view of the skies. In seeking out the dark, they were afforded a better view of the beautiful ribbons of lights spanning the sky.

The idea of braving the dark for the sake of starry splendor is illustrated in the poetry of two English poets from the 19th century. Both “The Old Astronomer to His Pupil” by Sarah Williams (1837–68) and “A Dead Astronomer” by Francis Thompson (1859–1907) use the image of the astronomer as someone whose death unites him with the object of his life’s studies. While in Williams’s poem, the dying astronomer addresses his pupil, Thompson’s poem is a eulogy for an astronomer who has already died.

Both poems indicate that death will lead them to something beyond the object of their astronomical studies. Stars evoke the eternal, far above the fleeting beauty of earth, and lead the astronomer to the mover of these celestial bodies—the Creator, whom Dante calls, “the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.”

As the night sky recalls our eventual eternal rest, so the stars uplift the immortal soul and whisper hope amid the darkness. In their poems, Thompson and Williams draw from this popular view of night as an image of death, and starlight as a representation of life after death.

Throughout the ages, astronomers have looked at the stars in the night sky. AstroStar/Shutterstock

Science and History

The poems share not only similar insights of the cosmos, but also on the poet’s place in human history. No poet exists as an isolated individual in a vacuum, free from outside influences. Just so with men of science: Each scientist who makes a great discovery builds upon the work of those who came before.

Isaac Newton, in a letter to Robert Hooke, wrote, “If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants” (a paraphrase of a quote originally said to have been by Bernard of Chartres). The astronomer of Williams’s poem shows this idea with the opening lines of the poem that display a humility and reverential view for a scientist from the past:

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe,—I would know him when we meet, When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet; He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how We are working to completion, working on from then till now.

Brahe’s (1546–1601) scientific studies paved the way for those who came after him. The speaker in the poem continues: “I have sown, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap,” for though Brahe collaborated for a time with Johannes Kepler, Brahe’s death allowed Kepler to use Brahe’s data to make further discoveries.

A portrait of Tycho Brahe, 1596, by an unknown artist. Skokloster Castle, on the peninsula of Lake Mälaren between Stockholm and Uppsala, Sweden. Public Domain

However tempting it may be to pursue knowledge for the sake of achieving a prominent place in history, the astronomer in Williams’s poem warns his pupil that he cannot pursue his studies in search of fame. The men of the past draw the scorn of later ages for their ignorance; the visionaries of the present draw scorn for veering from what is common knowledge. The astronomer counsels the pupil to be driven by the nobler pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. After all, too often for such pioneers, “honor comes too late.”

Putting knowledge over honor is admirable, but even good things pursued to excess can be detrimental. As the astronomer notes, he has pursued knowledge at the expense of human relationships. The regrets that creep into the speech of Williams’s astronomer are those of having failed in human warmth and love: “No, we lived too high for strife/ Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life.”

Even after expressing this regret, the astronomer is overtaken by the concern that he will not have time to make “certain calculations” with his pupil. The possibility of not having someone to carry on his work concerns him and disturbs him in his sleep.

Not of the World

The astronomer and his pupil are in the world, but not of the world in Williams’s verse. Recognizing the emptiness of a life spent chasing fleeting pleasures, the astronomer and his pupil reject such a path and embrace a life of research and study. The astronomer counsels the pupil that hardship and the world’s scorn causes the stargazers to rejoice as they progress along the road to virtue and intellectual achievement:

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn, You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn, What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and wiles; What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

For the pupil, such knowledge as they’ve achieved is both a blessing and a curse. To have new realms of unexplored truth and beauty opened to him is an invaluable gift, and yet, turning from base quests and pursuing his vocation leaves him “quite alone.” However, both the astronomer and his pupil know the worth of wisdom. They forfeit what the world values, knowing that it does not profit a man to gain the world and lose his soul.

“Astronomer by Candlelight,” circa 1650s, by Gerrit Dou. Getty Center. Public Domain

The astronomer is fully aware that, as wonderful as it is to have his eyes opened to the beauty that lies far beyond himself, others’ acclaim will always seem a tempting escape from isolation. His last words of advice confirm this: At death, the esteem of others does not comfort:

So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name; See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

The honors of the German College are inconsequential because others’ praise and accolades lead to nothing beyond that moment’s pleasure. Even then, the stars console the astronomer because they point to something beyond themselves, to a mystery not yet fully comprehended, and a joy that is never exhausted.

Williams compares the stars and the human soul with the line, “Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light”; just so, Thompson’s astronomer also becomes what he long beheld, for as Thompson writes, “Thou art—what thou didst gaze upon!”

There is a further similarity in that, as his vision starts to fade, Williams’s astronomer concludes with an act of simple trust, saying, “God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.” In Thompson’s poem, we again see that the stars are not in themselves the final object. Instead, the final achievement of the astronomer is not to behold the stars but rather to encounter the “Gardener of the Stars”:

Starry amorist, starward gone, Thou art — what thou didst gaze upon! Passed through thy golden garden’s bars, Thou seest the Gardener of the Stars.

Star of Heaven

The astronomer achieves a union with the stars, not in the sense of attaining them, but in the sense of passing through them and becoming like them. For Thompson, the clearest example of the star-like quality of the human soul is seen in the Virgin Mary. Mary is the fairest star of all because she is exactly what she was created to be: a light in the darkness, showing the right way to others just as the stars would often guide ships on the sea. One of her ancient titles is “Star of the Sea” for her role in guiding storm-tossed souls on their way to Christ.

Thompson also refers to the seven sorrows of Mary, represented by her crown of seven stars, “Seven lights for seven woes.”

What gave her sorrow during her earthly life is now transformed into heavenly splendor, for in bearing her sorrow for God’s glory, that suffering now becomes her own crowning glory. Without thought of the cost to herself, she said yes to God’s plan for her and lived in perfect accord with his will. Thompson writes, “When thy hand its tube let fall/ Thou foundst the fairest Star of all!”

Mary is the greatest star in the heavens in Francis Thompson's poem. The miraculous statue of Our Lady, Star of the Sea in Basilica of Our Lady, Maastricht, the most important Marian shrine of the Netherlands. Public Domain

In Williams’s poem, too, the patient suffering on earth leads to heavenly joy. The astronomer urges his pupil: “And remember, Patience, Patience, is the watchword of a sage.” On earth, we sow “that a greater man may reap.” While we enjoy the fruits of our toil here on earth, we wait to achieve our reward in the life to come.

As the astronomer’s earthly studies in Williams’s poem draw to a close, he no longer sees indistinctly through a telescope. In joining the ranks of the souls in heaven, the astronomer realizes that science reaches its perfect conclusion. His studies of the stars have led him to the beatific vision—the eternal beholding of the Creator.

There is a haunting, melancholy beauty in the fact that the astronomer’s physical inability to continue his studies is what grants success to his work. While the astronomer spends his days in a fervent and energetic pursuit of his studies, it is through his weakness and physical decline that he perfectly achieves that object. When his hand finally drops the telescope, he passes through the stars and into the heavens.

In sweet irony, both poems show how honor is achieved through the endurance of scorn, joy springs from sorrow, and knowledge arises from not seeking it. The poets unite these paradoxes in a simple image: It’s in the darkness of night that we see the stars.

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