Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/208



And where may that be?

Where, I wonder, But in the good Mayors' Paradise.

My learned friend!

What now?

A token Of our fermenting age I hear, Methinks, in every word you've spoken; For that it does ferment is clear. Witness the reverence all refuse To old-established Wont and Use.

What moulders, in the mould's its doom, What rots must nourish what is fresh; Their vitals canker and consume, Let them cough up the imposthume, Or to the grave with their dead flesh! There's ferment, yes; past fear or hope, That's plain without a telescope. The day our ancient Church lay low, Everything with it seem'd to go Wherein our life struck root and found Its home-soil and its native-ground.

Then on the throng a stillness came.