And once in the night, if they live in town,
And if they are poor, to take no pay. 
Having faithfully promised these,
His head is crowned with a laurel crown;
A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand,
The Magister Artium et Physices
Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. 
And now, as we have the whole morning before us
Let us go in, if you make no objection,
And listen awhile to a learned prelection
On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus.

          (They go in.  Enter LUCIFER as a Doctor.)

Lucifer.  This is the great School of Salern! 
A land of wrangling and of quarrels,
Of brains that seethe, and hearts that burn,
Where every emulous scholar hears,
In every breath that comes to his ears,
The rustling of another’s laurels! 
The air of the place is called salubrious;
The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it
An odor volcanic, that rather mends it,
And the buildings have an aspect lugubrious,
That inspires a feeling of awe and terror
Into the heart of the beholder,
And befits such an ancient homestead of error,
Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder,
And yearly by many hundred hands
Are carried away, in the zeal of youth,
And sown like tares in the field of truth,
To blossom and ripen in other lands. 
What have we here, affixed to the gate? 
The challenge of some scholastic wight,
Who wishes to hold a public debate
On sundry questions wrong or right! 
Ah, now this is my great delight! 
For I have often observed of late
That such discussions end in a fight. 
Let us see what the learned wag maintains
With such a prodigal waste of brains.

          (Reads.)

“Whether angels in moving from place to place
Pass through the intermediate space. 
Whether God himself is the author of evil,
Or whether that is the work of the Devil. 
When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell,
And whether he now is chained in hell.”

I think I can answer that question well! 
So long as the boastful human mind
Consents in such mills as this to grind,
I sit very firmly upon my throne! 
Of a truth it almost makes me laugh,
To see men leaving the golden grain
To gather in piles the pitiful chaff
That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain,
To have it caught up and tossed again
On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne!

But my guests approach! there is in the air
A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful Garden
Of Paradise, in the days that were! 
An odor of innocence, and of prayer,
And of love, and faith that never fails,
Which as the fresh-young heart exhales
Before it begins to wither and harden! 
I cannot breathe such an atmosphere! 
My soul is filled with a nameless fear,
That, after all my trouble and pain,
After all my restless endeavor,