Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/169



I never saw it full, I know.

Even a single soul is scanted, And has not room therein to soar

[Shaking his head in amazement.]

(Which single soul but proves the more How sorely my Asylum's wanted.)

[Changing his tone.]

Let the Church be, is my advice. One may regard it, in some wise, As a rich heirloom of our age; In fact, a noble heritage, Which we not lightly may remove. Nay, if my building project crashes, I, like a Phoenix from the ashes, Will live again in public love, As one chivalrously intent To save our ancient monument! Here stood a heathen fane of old,— 'Twas in King Belë's reign, no doubt; Then, later heroes more devout Founded the Church with looted gold. All-sacred in its antique dress, Grand in its simple stateliness, Till our own days it tower'd sublime

But all these glories of old time Lie long since buried deep in mould, Of all surviving sign bereft.