Frederick George Scott (7 April 1861 – 19 January 1944 / Montreal)
HAST thou not seen the tints unfold,
From earth, sky, sea, and setting sun,
When all the glare of day was done,
And melt in one long stream of gold?
So down the dim-lit glades of time,
Age after age, things divers blend,
Each working for the same great end,
And in its working each sublime.
Was it in vain that Buddha taught,
Or that Mohammed lived and died?
Have they not, working side by side
In differing climes, God's purpose wrought?
O Christian sage, who lov'st thy creeds!
Think not the ropes that bind thee fast,
Like storm-tossed sailor, to the mast,
Can answer yet each brother's needs.
And rail not thou at those half-known,
Who, groping thro' a darker night,
Have found perhaps a dimmer light
Than that thou sternly call'st thine own.
Wouldst thou have spent, like them, thy youth,
Thy manhood, and thy weak old age,
In one long search thro' nature's page,
An unassisted search, for truth?
Oh, dream not the Almighty's powers
Must ever work in one known way;
Nor think those planets have no day
Whose suns are other suns than ours.
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