Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/52

 To my very self grow strange— Wake, as baffled Samson woke, Shorn and fetter'd, tamed and broke.

[Looks again down into the valley.]

What is stirring down below? Out of every garth they flow, Troops of children, wives and men, And in long lines meet and mingle, Now among the rocks and shingle Vanish, now emerge again;— To the ancient Church they go.

[Rises.]

Oh, I know you, through and through! Sluggard spirits, souls of lead! All the Lord's Prayer, said by you, Is not with such anguish sped, By such passion borne on high, That one tittle thrills the sky As a ringing human cry, Save the prayer for daily bread! That's this people's battle-call, That's the blazon of them all! From its context pluck'd apart, Branded deep in every heart— There it lies, the tempest-tost Wreckage of the Faith you've lost. Forth! out of this stifling pit! Vault-like is the air of it! Not a Flag may float unfurl'd In this dead and windless world!

[''He is going; a stone is thrown from above and rolls down the slope close by him.''

[Calling upward.]

Ha! who throws stones there?