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
