Yet are we not quite city-less,
Not wholly left in our distress--
Is it not said by One of old,
"Sheep have I of another fold?"
Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will,
For us there is a city still!

"Dear city of Zeus," the Stoic says, {2}
The Voice from Rome's imperial days,
In Thee meet all things, and disperse,
In Thee, for Thee, O Universe!
To me all's fruit thy seasons bring,
Alike thy summer and thy spring;
The winds that wail, the suns that burn,
From Thee proceed, to Thee return.

"Dear city of Zeus," shall WE not say,
Home to which none can lose the way!
Born in that city's flaming bound,
We do not find her, but are found.
Within her wide and viewless wall
The Universe is girdled all.
All joys and pains, all wealth and dearth,
All things that travail on the earth,
God's will they work, if God there be,
If not, what is my life to me?

Seek we no further, but abide
Within this city great and wide,
In her and for her living, we