University of Virginia Library

Some children, of their lessons grown quite tired,
As well might be, a holiday desired.
‘Were but the master sometimes ill,’ they say,
‘We might perchance obtain such holiday;
But he is sturdier than a rock, and so
Our lessons never interruption know.
Oh, if we only could devise some trick,
By which we might persuade him he was sick!’
A roguish urchin then stood up and said,
‘Hear a device which comes into my head.
When school-time comes to-morrow, I will say,—
“What is it, master? are you well to-day?”
Then you, my brother, entering presently,
“Oh, master, what has happened to you?” cry.
Then all exclaim, “The master what can ail?
He looks so flushed, then presently so pale.”
You'll see a man will credit any stuff,
If only it is told him oft enough.’
The next day so they did; the first went in,
And did with serious face the game begin.
‘Dear master, you are very ill to-day.’
“Peace, fool,” he answered, “I am well, I say.”
Yet though the lie had not its end attained,
Some slight misgiving in his soul remained;
And when the next the same tale did repeat,
‘Oh, Sir, you look as in a fever heat,’
And third and fourth chimed in with them, at last
The error in his soul was rooted fast.
Snatching his cloak, he hurried home in fear;
“To-day at home your lessons I will hear.”
Entering his house he chid his wife, and said
She cared not if he were alive or dead.
Wrapt in a blanket on the bed he sate,
And crying oh! and ah! bemoaned his fate:
While the sad urchins, listening to his sighs,
With all his pains appeared to sympathize.
Yet since from toil they had not yet escaped,
Upon the nonce a new device they shaped:
No sooner one to say his task drew nigh,
And oped his mouth, than all the rest did cry,
‘Oh, not so loud; your shrieking, prithee, cease,
See how you make his fever to increase.’
“In truth, the fever rises higher still,”
The master answered—“I am very ill.
Go, children, go, and leave me here alone.”
They make their bows, and in a trice are gone:
Like birds, when one their cage doth open leave,
They darted forth, each laughing in his sleeve.

What thou of God and of thyself dost know,
So know that none can force thee to forego;
For ah! his knowledge is a worthless art,
Which forming of himself no vital part,
The foremost man he meets with readier skill
In sleight of words, can rob him of at will.
Faith feels not of her lore more sure nor less,
If all the world deny it or confess:
Did the whole world exclaim, ‘Like Solomon,
Thou sittest high on Wisdom's noblest throne,’
She would not, than before, be surer then,
Nor draw more courage from the assent of men.
Or did the whole world cry, ‘O fond and vain!
What idle dream is this which haunts thy brain?’
To the whole world Faith boldly would reply,
‘The whole world can, but I can never, lie.’