Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/192

 To us, to us is he come, O'er the sand-ocean riding! The Prophet, the Lord, the Unerring One, To us, to us is he come, O'er the sand-ocean sailing! Wake the flute and the drum! The Prophet, the Prophet is come!

His courser is white as the milk is That streams in the rivers of Paradise. Bend every knee! Bow every head! His eyes are as bright-gleaming, mild-beaming stars. Yet none earth-born endureth The rays of those stars in their blinding splendour! Through the desert he came. Gold and pearl-drops sprang forth on his breast. Where he rode there was light. Behind him was darkness; Behind him raged drought and the simoom. He, the glorious one, came! Through the desert he came, Like a mortal apparelled. Kaaba, Kaaba stands void;— He himself hath proclaimed it!

Wake the flute and the drum! The Prophet, the Prophet is come!

[They continue the dance, to soft music.

I have read it in print—and the saying is true— That no one's a prophet in his native land.— This position is very much more to my mind