Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/173

 And really I must share his view. And then that roof with moss-tufts blowing,— Bless me, they're none of Belë's growing. No, we may overmuch assert The reverence for ancient glories! One fact, at least, there's no o'erthrowing, That this old rotten hut no more is But just a very heap of dirt!

But if the people's voice should storm At those who seek to lay it low—?

I will it though they all cry No. This Christmas with the least delay I'll put the thing in proper form, And launch it smoothly on its way. I'll write, I'll agitate, I'll sway! Ay, ay—you know the stuff I'm made of! And if I cannot hire or hound The foolish flock to help to end it, With my own hands I'll rive and rend it, Timber by timber, to the ground. Nay, though I had to call the aid of My wife and all my girls as well, Down it should come, by death and hell

This language has another sound Than that which earlier from you fell.

To be humane is to repress All manner of One-sidedness. And sure, if truth the poet utters, Precisely what is to be sought