Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/228

 I ask you quietly to swallow That which your people can't digest. Keep it intact, if you're disposed,— But yet hermetically closed; At home, in God's name, soar and swell, Not as a public spectacle; Trust me, the will that won't be bent Brings its unfailing punishment.

Ay, fear of torment, hope of gain, Are on thy brow the brand of Cain, Which cries that thou by worldly art Hast slain the Abel in thy heart!

[To himself.]

Upon my word he calls me "Thou"; That is too much!—

[Aloud.]

I will not now Prolong our strife, but, to conclude, Would have it clearly understood, That if you'd prosper, you must weigh What land you live in, and what day. For no man wins the fight with fortune, But in alliance with his time. Which of the men who paint and rhyme Dare fail when social claims importune? Look at our soldiers! Why, the gleam Of sabres is become a dream! And wherefore? Since a law commands: Postpone thy own need to the Land's! Let each his own excrescence pare, Neither uplift him, nor protrude, But vanish in the multitude.