Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/95

 Sternly stemming seas that rage. Church-processions, banners streaming Anthems rolling, incense steaming Golden goblets, victor-songs, Rapt applause of surging throngs, Made a glory where I fought. All in dazzling hues was wrought;— Yet it was an empty dream, A brief mountain-vision, caught Half in glare and half in gleam. Now I stand where twilight gray Long forestalls the ebb of day, 'Twixt the water and the wild, From the busy world exiled, Just a strip of heaven's blue dome Visible;—but this is Home. Now my Sabbath dream is dark; To the stall my winged steed; But I see a higher Mark. Than to wield the knightly sabre,— Daily duty, daily labour, Hallow'd to a Sabbath-deed.

And that God, who was to fall?

He shall, none the less, be fell'd,— But in secret, unbeheld, Not before the eyes of all. Now I see, I judged astray Where the Folk's salvation lay. Not by high heroic charges Can you make the People whole; That which faculty enlarges Does not heal the fissured soul.