Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/241

 As it lisps and lilts and prattles, As it rolls and roars and rattles, By the strictest rules of Art!

[To himself.]

The Mayor's chatter, he must mean.

[Likewise.]

That's the twaddle of the Dean!

Nothing but the altar-glow Of the Festival you know. Get you home then to your sloth, Get you home to toil and stress, Soul as well as body clothe In its common work-day dress,— And the Bible slumber sound Till the next Saint's day comes round. O, it was not to this end That the Offering-cup I drain'd! I the Greater Church ordain'd, That its shadow might descend, Not alone on Faith and Creed But on everything in life That by God's leave lives indeed;— On our daily strain and strife, Midnight weeping, evening rest, Youth's impetuous delight, All that harbours of good right, Mean or precious, in the breast. Yonder foss's hidden thunder, And the beck that sparkles under, And the bellow of wild weather,