Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/129



If you lose, Your life's irreparably marr'd. All this world's bounties you possess, You, a rich Mother's only heir, With wife and child to be your care,— It was a kindly hand, confess, That dealt your terms of happiness!

And what if I should, all the same, Reject these terms? and must?

Your game Is over, if you've once unfurl'd In this last cranny of the world The standard of your world-wide war. Turn southward, to yon prosperous shore Where a man dares lift up his head; There you may perorate of right And bid them bleed and bid them fight; Our bloodshed is the sweat we pour In daily wringing rocks for bread.

Here I remain. My home is here! And here the battle-flag I'll rear.

Think what you lose, if overthrown, And, chiefly, think of what you quit!

Myself I lose, if I submit.