What woman's this, that, like an ap- Corey in prison?
Here's a seafaring man, one Richard Gardner,
A friend of yours, who asks to speak with you.
COREY rises. They embrace.
I've thought of him upon his pleasant I'm glad to see you, ay, right glad to
Which is not life, but only death in life. Quick, or we shall be late!
He's obstinate enough and tough enough THE Ages come and go, For anything on earth.
The Centuries pass as Years; My hair is white as the snow, My feet are weary and slow,
What is that? The earth is wet with my tears!
The kingdoms crumble, and fall Apart, like a ruined wall,
Or a bank that is undermined By a river's ceaseless flow, And leave no trace behind! The world itself is old; The portals of Time unfold On hinges of iron, that grate And groan with the rust and the weight Like the hinges of a gate That hath fallen to decay; But the evil doth not cease; There is war instead of peace, Instead of Love there is hate; And still I must wander and wait, Still I must watch and pray, Not forgetting in whose sight, A thousand years in their flight Are as a single day.
The life of man is a gleam Of light, that comes and goes Like the course of the Holy Stream, The city less river, that flows From fountains no one knows, Through the Lake of Galilee, Through forests and level lands, Over rocks, and shallows, and sands Of a wilderness wild and vast, Till it findeth its rest at last In the desolate Dead Sea! But alas! alas for me Not yet this rest shall be!
What, then! doth Charity fail? Is Faith of no avail ?
Is Hope blown out like a light By a gust of wind in the night? The clashing of creeds, and the strife Of the many beliefs, that in vain Perplex man's heart and brain, Are naught but the rustle of leaves, When the breath of God upheaves The boughs of the Tree of Life,
And they subside again! And I remember still
The words, and from whom they came, Not he that repeateth the name, But he that doeth the will!
And Him evermore I behold Walking in Galilee,
Through the cornfield's waving gold, In hamlet, in wood, and in wold, By the shores of the Beautiful Sea. He toucheth the sightless eyes; Before Him the demons flee; To the dead He sayeth: Arise! To the living: Follow me! And that voice still soundeth on From the centuries that are gone, To the centuries that shall be !
From all vain pomps and shows, From the pride that overflows, And the false conceits of men; From all the narrow rules And subtleties of Schools, And the craft of tongue and pen; Bewildered in its search, Bewildered with the cry,
Lo, here! lo, there, the Church! Poor, sad Humanity
Through all the dust and heat Turns back with bleeding feet, By the weary road it came, Unto the simple thought By the great Master taught, And that remaineth still: Not he that repeateth the name, But he that doeth the will!
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