Still the everlasting hills,
Changeless watch the changeless heaven.

See the rivers, how they run,
Changeless toward the changeless sea;
All around is forethought sure,
Fixed will and stern decree.

Can the sailor move the main?
Will the potter heed the clay?
Mortal! where the spirit drives,
Thither must the wheels obey.

Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive:
Where thy path is, thou shall go.
He who made the streams of time
Wafts thee down to weal or woe.

Eliz. That's a sweet song, and yet it does not chime
With my heart's inner voice. Where had you it, Guta?

Guta. From a nun who was a shepherdess in her youth--sadly plagued
she was by a cruel stepmother, till she fled to a convent and found
rest to her soul.

Fool. No doubt; nothing so pleasant as giving up one's will in
one's own way. But she might have learnt all that without taking
cold on the hill-tops.

Eliz. Where then, Fool?