Classic Poem

Licentiate of the schools, with knowledge hot,
A stranger hither came—our dames to frighten—
Who talked to us of Christ, the Sybil's grot,
Glanced at Copernick, though he knew him not,
And showed us hell and where the blest abide.
“The stars,” he said, “that round the North-star glide—
For there is heaven—tell nightly as they brighten.”
“But do they move?” I said. “Or is it so?”
He answered tranquilly, “We see they do.”
It was enough. The crowd was satisfied,
And I was hushed—yet felt my color heighten.
Was he a knave, a coxcomb, or a clown,
Who stooping thus, our ignorance to enlighten,
Ended by so illuminating his own?