Perhaps, for scorn of a pious slave.

Or, stay—there were saints in ancient days,

Who had such terror of human praise

That, but to gain the contempt they prized,

They did such things as are most despised;

Feigned even madness; and more than one,

Accused of sins he had never done,

Had willingly borne disgrace and blame,

Nor said a word for his own good name!

In thoughts like these had the day gone by;

The sun was now in the western sky:

The road, grown level and hot and wide,

With dusty hedges on either side,

Had led him close to the city gate,

Where he must enter to learn his fate.

Now fear did over his hope prevail:

He almost wished in his search to fail,

And find no mountebank there at all!

For then his vision he well might call

A dream that came of its own accord,

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