Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/90

 A child's a steward, you suppose, Of the parental cast-off clothes; A glimpse of the Eternal flits At times across your wandering wits; You snatch at it, and dream you spring Into the essence of the thing By grafting Riches upon Race;— That Death with Life you can displace, That years, if steadily amass'd, Will yield Eternity at last.

Don't rummage in your Mother's mind, But take what she will leave behind.

The debt as well?

The debt? What debt? There is none.

Very good; but yet Suppose there were,—I should be bound To settle every claim I found. The son must satisfy each call Before the mother's burial. Though but four empty walls I took, I still should own your debit-book.

No law commands it.

Not the kind That ink on parchment ever writ; But deep in every honest mind