PAUL AT ATHENS.
Come to the hill of Mars, for he is there,
That wondrous man, whose eloquence doth touch
The heart like living flame. With brow unblanched,
And eye of fearless ardour he confronts
That high tribunal with its pen of flint,
Whose irreversible decree made pale
The Gentile world. All Athens gathers near,
Fickle, and warm of heart, and fond of change,
And full of strangers, and of those who pass
Life in the idle toil to hear or tell
Of some new thing. See, thither throng the bands
Of Epicurus, wrapt in gorgeous robe,
Who seem with bright and eager eyes to ask—
"What will this babbler say?" With front austere
Stand a dark group of Stoics, sternly proud,
And pre-determined to confute, yet still
'Neath the[1] deep wrinkles of the settled brow
Lurks some unwonted gathering of their powers,
As for no common foe. With angry frown
Stalk the fierce Cynics, anxious to condemn,
And prompt to punish, while the patient sons
Of gentle Plato bind the listening soul
To search for wisdom, and with reason's art
Build the fair argument. Behold the throngs
Press on the speaker, drawing still more close
In denser circles, as his thrilling tones
Speak of the God who "warneth every where
Men to repent," and of that fearful day
When he shall judge the world. Loud tumult wakes,
The tide of strong emotion hoarsely swells,
And that blest voice is silent. They have mocked
At heaven's high messenger, and he departs
From the wild circle. But his graceful hand
Points to an altar, with its mystic scroll—
"The unknown God."—Oh Athens! is it so?
Thou who hast crowned thyself with woven rays
As a divinity, and called the world
Thy pilgrim-worshipper, dost thou confess
Such ignorance and shame? The unknown God.
Why all thy hillocks and resounding streams
Do boast their diety, and every house,
Yea, every beating heart within thy walls
May choose its temple and its priestly train,
Victim and garland, and appointed rite;
Thou makest the gods of every realm thine own,
Fostering with maddened hospitality
All forms of idol worship. Can it be
That still thou foundst not Him who is so near
To every one of us, in "whom we live,
And move, and have a being?" Found not Him
Of whom thy poets spake with childlike awe ?
And thou, Philosophy, whose art refined
Did aim to pierce the labyrinth of Fate,
And compass with a finespun sophist web
This mighty universe—didst thou fall short
Of the Upholding Cause? The Unknown God.
Thou, who didst smile to find the admiring world
Crouch as a pupil to thee, wert thou blind?
Blinder than he, who in his humble cot,
With hardened hand, his daily labour done,
Turneth the page of Jesus, and doth read,
With toil, perchance, that the trim schoolboy scorns,
Counting him, in his arrogance, a fool,
Yet shall that poor, wayfaring man lie down
With such a hope as thou couldst never teach
Thy king-like sages—yea, a hope that plucks
The sting from death, the victory from the grave.