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(From Athens)
HERE, where wild Fancy wondrous fictions drew, | |
| And knelt to worship, till she thought them true, | |
| Here, in the paths which beauteous Error trod, | |
| The great Apostle preached the Unknown God! | |
| Silent the crowd were hushed; for his the eye | 5 |
| Which power controls not, sin cannot defy; | |
| His the tall stature, and the lifted hand, | |
| And the fixed countenance of grave command; | |
| And his the voice which, heard but once, will sink | |
| So deep into the hearts of those that think, | 10 |
| That they may live till years and years are gone, | |
| And never lose one echo of its tone. | |
| Yet when the voice had ceased, a clamor rose, | |
| And mingled tumult rang from friends and foes; | |
| The threat was muttered, and the galling gibe, | 15 |
| By each pale sophist and his paltry tribe; | |
| The haughty stoic passed in gloomy state, | |
| The heartless cynic scowled his grovelling hate, | |
| And the soft garden’s rose-encircled child | |
| Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled. | 20 |
| Tranquil he stood; for he had heard,—could hear | |
| Blame and reproach with an untroubled ear; | |
| O’er his broad forehead visibly were wrought | |
| The dark deep lines of courage and of thought; | |
| And if the color from his cheek was fled, | 25 |
| Its paleness spoke no passion and no dread. | |
| The meek endurance and the steadfast will, | |
| The patient nerve, that suffers and is still, | |
| The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod, | |
| And the strong hope, that turns from man to God,— | 30 |
| All these were his; and his firm heart was set, | |
| And knew the hour must come,—but was not yet. | |
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