THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH
WHERE the bright lances of the sunlight quiver,
Where the green shadows thickest fall and float,
Under the trees that fringe the quiet river
Dolly and I together in a boat.
I in the stern, composed and nearly napping
Over Lord Bacon propped against my knees,
Lulled by the lazy water's liquid lapping,
Calmed into cool contentment by the breeze.
She in the bow, with eager pencil scribbling,
Frowns on her brow—much reference to a book;
There floats her line, the little fishes nibbling
Round the limp bait on her forgotten hook.
"Are you at work?" "A teasing composition."
(Well, there are ills which age shall feel no more!)
"It's for a prize, but I've not much ambition—"
(Dolly's fifteen and I am thirty-four.)
"What is the subject?" "Truth." A pause. We waited.
I looked amused and Dolly seemed perplexed.
Truth—by a schoolgirl pen elucidated.
Shade of Lord Bacon! What shall we have next?
"I have an essay here," I made petition,
"Written by one whom men accounted wise,
On the same subject as your composition—
Though I recall no mention of a prize.
"Well, shall I read it?" Dolly's looks were pleading.
Bacon was barred before a word was said.
"Must we improve these pleasant hours by reading?
Tell me a story—" coaxingly—"instead."
"Students of Truth, who much prefer a story,
Cannot expect the praise of fellow-man;
Not yours the prize," said I, "not yours the glory."
She laughed defiance, and I thus began:
Long, long ago—the years need not be numbered—
Far in the East, where learning brings reward,
Once, on a night, the King Darius slumbered,
Watched by three youthful captains of his guard.
