Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/218



[Comes down over the open ground.]

So desolate on the upland drear I never stood as I stand here; My impotent questionings evoke Echoes that cackle and that croak.

[Looks towards the .]

For him, I would my heel might bruise His head! Each time I make emprise To loose him from the bond of lies, With shameless wantonness he spews His rotten soul before my eyes!— O Agnes, why wast thou so frail? Would that this hollow game were done, Where none give in, and none prevail;— Yes, hopeless he that fights alone!

[Coming up.]

O, my beloved! O, my sheep—! Nay, I beg pardon,—would have said My reverend brother!—cannot keep My predication from my head; I got it yesterday by rote, The taste still lingers in my throat. Enough of that.—To you I offer My thanks, whose energy began, Whose firmness carried through, the plan, Despite the babbler and the scoffer; Fell'd that which was about to fall, And worthily restored it all!

Far from that yet.