276 PAUL AT ATHENS.
To every one of us, in " whom we live,
And move, and have our 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 fine-spun 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 could 'st never teach Thy king-like sages yea, a hope that plucks The sting from death, the victory from the grave.
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