Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/141



[Coming into the garden.]

Idols, idols? What are they? Oho! That is what you mean: Giant or pigmy, large or lean, Always gilded, always gay. Idols! Look you where she stands! See you 'neath her mantle stray Baby-feet and baby-hands? See you how those robes are gay, That close-folded something keep Like a little child asleep? Back she shudders! Hides her son! Idols?—Man, I show you one!

Have you tears, Brand? Can you pray? Terror scorches mine away!

Woe's me, Agnes—I forbode In her words the voice of God.

Hark; now all the bells are loud, Clanging down the savage fells! See, what moving masses crowd Upwards to those bidding bells! See the thousand trolls uprisen From the ocean-caves, their prison; See the thousand dwarfs up-leaping From the graves where they were sleeping With the priest's seal on them set: Grave and ocean cannot bind them, Out they're swarming, chill and wet;— Troll-babes that but shammed to die,