Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/212

 All my piteous prayer repell'd!— Great shall be the House of God; In my confidence I swore it; Fearless, smote and wreck'd and tore it, Swept it level with the sod. Now the finish'd work stands fast. As the people throng before it, Still they cry: "How vast! how vast!" Is it they see true or I, Who no vastness can descry? Is it great? The thing I will'd, Is it in this House fulfill'd? Can the rushing fire of passion That begot it, here be still'd? Was the Temple of this fashion That I dream'd should overspan All the misery of Man? Ah, had Agnes stay'd with me, Not thus vainly had I striven! Small things greatly she could see, From doubt's anguish set me free, Clasp together Earth and Heaven Like the green roof of the tree.

[He observes the preparations for the festival.]

All with wreaths and banners hung; Children practising their song; So the Manse they surge and throng,— Festal greetings they would bring me;— Yonder gleams my name in gold!— Give me light, O God, or fling me Fathom-deep beneath this mould! In an hour begins the Feast Every thought and every tongue Will be ringing with "the priest All their thoughts I can discern; All their words I feel them burn;