Volume 3 — ATHEISTIC SCIENTISTS.

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.