Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/44

 Another when a year is gone; Be what you are with all your heart, And not by pieces and in part. The Bacchant's clear, defined, complete, The sot, his sordid counterfeit; Silenus charms; but all his graces The drunkard's parody debases. Traverse the land from beach to beach, Try every man in heart and soul, You'll find he has no virtue whole, But just a little grain of each. A little pious in the pew, A little grave,—his fathers' way,— Over the cup a little gay,— It was his father's fashion too! A little warm when glasses clash, And stormy cheer and song go round For the small Folk, rock-will'd, rock-bound, That never stood the scourge and lash. A little free in promise-making; And then, when vows in liquor will'd Must be in mortal stress fulfill'd, A little fine in promise-breaking. Yet, as I say, all fragments still His faults, his merits, fragments all, Partial in good, partial in ill, Partial in great things and in small;— But here's the grief—that, worst or best, Each fragment of him wrecks the rest!

Scoffing's an easy task: it were A nobler policy to spare

Perhaps, if it were wholesome too.