Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/265

 Through all souls subduing strode The alarum-call of God. But the sacrifice they dread! Will, the weakling, hides his head;— One man died for them of yore,— Cowardice is crime no more!

[''Sinks down on a stone, and looks with shrinking gaze around.'']

Oft I shudder'd at their doom; And I walk'd, with horror quivering, As a little child walks shivering Amid shrieking shapes that loom In a dim and haunted room. But I check'd my bosom's quaking, And bethought me, and consoled it: Out of doors the day is breaking, Not of night it is, this gloom, But the shutters barr'd enfold it; And I thought, the day inwelling, Rich with summer's golden bloom, Shall anon prevail, expelling All the darkness that is dwelling In the dim and haunted room. O how bitter my dismay! Pitchy darkness on me broke,— And, without, a nerveless folk Sat forlorn by fjord and bay, Dim traditions treasuring While their sotted souls decay. Even as, year by year, the king Treasured up his Snefrid dead, Loosed the linen shroud o'erspread By her mute heart listening low, Still upon hope's fragments fed, Thinking, "Now the roses red In her pallid ashes blow!"