Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/130



Hopeless is he that fights alone.

The best are with me.

[Smiling.]

That may be, But they're the most, who follow me.

[Goes.

[Looking after him.]

A people's champion, thorough-bred! Active, with fair and open hand, Honest of heart and sound of head, But yet a scourge upon the land! No avalanche, no winter-blast, No flood, nor frost, nor famine-fast Leaves half the ruin in its rear That such a man does, year by year. Life only by a plague is reft; But he! How many a thought is cleft, How many an eager will made numb, How many a valiant song struck dumb By such a narrow soul as this! What smiles on simple faces breaking, What fires in lowly bosoms waking, What pangs of joy and anger, seed That might have ripened into deed, Die by that bloodless blade of his!

[Suddenly, in anxiety.]

But O the summons! the summons—No! It is the Doctor!