“It is only the base of a pillar, they’ll tell you,
That came to us
From a far old hill men used to name
Areopagus.”
—“I know no art, and I only view
A stone from a wall,
But I am thinking that stone has echoed
The voice of Paul,
“Paul as he stood and preached beside it
Facing the crowd,
A small gaunt figure with wasted features,
Calling out loud
“Words that in all their intimate accents
Pattered upon
That marble front, and were far reflected,
And then were gone.
“I’m a labouring man, and know but little,
Or nothing at all;
But I can’t help thinking that stone once echoed
The voice of Paul.”
IN THE SERVANTS’ QUARTERS
“Man, you too, aren’t you, one of these rough followers of the criminal?
All hanging hereabout to gather how he’s going to bear
Examination in the hall.” She flung disdainful glances on
The shabby figure standing at the fire with others there,
Who warmed them by its flare.
“No indeed, my skipping maiden: I know nothing of the trial here,
Or criminal, if so he be.—I chanced to come this way,
And the fire shone out into the dawn, and morning airs are cold now;
I, too, was drawn in part by charms I see before me play,
That I see not every day.”
“Ha, ha!” then laughed the constables who also stood to warm themselves,
The while another maiden scrutinized his features hard,
As the blaze threw into contrast every line and knot that wrinkled them,
Exclaiming, “Why, last night when he was brought in by the guard,
You were with him in the yard!”
“Nay, nay, you teasing wench, I say! You know you speak mistakenly.
Cannot a tired pedestrian who has footed it afar
Here on his way from northern parts, engrossed in humble marketings,
Come in and rest awhile, although judicial doings are
Afoot by morning star?”