Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/111



[Clinging closely to him.]

If at the terrible call I cower, Speak, strong-soul'd husband, in that hour!

If Will has conquer'd in that strife, Then comes at length the hour of Love; Then it descends like a white dove, Bearing the olive-leaf of life: But in this nerveless, slothful state, The true, the sovereign Love is—Hate!

[In horror.]

Hate! Hate! O Titan's toil, to will That one brief easy syllable!

[Goes hurriedly into the house.

[Looking through the open door.]

He kneels beside his little son, And heaves as if with bursts of tears; He clutches close the bed, like one That knows no refuge from his fears.— O what a wealth of tender ruth Lies hidden in this breast of steel! Alf he dares love: the baby-heel Has not yet felt Earth's serpent-tooth.

[Cries out in terror.]

Ha! he leaps up with ashy brow! Wringing his hands! what sees he now

[Coming out.]

A summons came?