Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/42



But I am to a burial bound.

A burial.

You? Why, who is dead?

The God who was your God, you said.

[Shrinking back.]

Come, Einar!

Brand!

With cerements wound The God of each mechanic slave, Of each dull drudger, shall be laid By broad day in his open grave. End of the matter must be made; And high time is it you should know He ail'd a thousand years ago.

Brand, you are ill!

No, sound and fresh As juniper and mountain-pine! It is our age whose pining flesh Craves burial at these hands of mine. Ye will but laugh and love and play, A little doctrine take on trust, And all the bitter burden thrust