Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/177



[After a meditative silence.]

O expiation without end!— So wildly mingle, strangely blend The threads that human fortune spin,— Sin tangled with the fruit of sin, Pouring its own pollution in,— That he who eyes their mazy flight Sees foulest Wrong grow one with Right.

[Goes to the window, and after a long look out.]

My little child, lamb without stain, Thou for my mother's deed wast slain; A shatter'd spirit bore His voice Whose throne the crested heavens sustain, And bade me cast the die of choice. And this distracted soul had birth Because my mother's clave to earth. Thus the Lord, sowing fruit of crime, Reaps retribution in His time, And, reaching down from His high dome, Strikes the third generation home.

[Starts back in horror from the window.]

Yes, God is above all things just, And retribution is His goal; Only by sacrifice the soul Achieves redemption from the dust; Hard truth, our age appall'd descries, And, therefore, stubbornly denies.

[Walks up and down the room.]

To pray? Ah, pray—a word that slips Easily over all men's lips; A coin by all men lightly paid. What's prayer? In storm and stress to shout Unto the vague Unknown for aid. Upon Christ's shoulders beg a place,