Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/116



[With tears in his voice.]

Does not the world face me no less With swordless sheath upon its thigh? Am I not torn and baffled by Its dull defiant stubbornness?

A hard condition you demand.

Dare you impose a lighter?

Lay That stern demand on whom you may, And see who, tested so, will stand.

Nay, you have reason for that fear. So base, distorted, barren, sere, The aspiring soul in men is grown. 'Tis thought a marvel,—by bequest To give away one's wealth unknown. And be anonymously bless'd. The hero, bid him blot his name, Content him with the service wrought, Kings, Kaisers, bid him do the same— And see how many fields are fought! The poet, bid him unbeholden Loose his bright fledglings from the cage, So that none dream he gave that golden Plumage, and he that vocal rage; Try the green bough, or try the bare, Sacrifice is not anywhere. Earth has enslaved all earthly things;—