  By JOHN STUART BLACKIE. There is a sort of men whose faith is all In their five fingers, and what fingering brings, With all beyond of wondrous great and small, Unnamed, uncounted in their tale of things; A race of blinkards, who peruse the case And shell of life, but feel no soul behind, And in the marshaled world can find a place For all things, only not the marshaling Mind. ’Tis strange, ’tis sad; and yet why blame the mole For channelling earth?—such earthy things are they; E’en let them muster forth in blank array, Frames with no pictures, pictures with no soul. I, while this dÆdal dome o’erspans the sod, Will own the builder’s hand, and worship God. decorative line “My friend, whoever has experienced misfortunes knows that when a mountain-wave of ills comes upon mortals, they are wont to fear all things; but when the gale of fortune blows smoothly, they are confident that the same deity will constantly propel their bark with a favorable breeze.”—Æschylus. decorative line
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