Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/258

 To him seemed meaningless as cymbals' tinkling Those words that to the heart should ring like steel. His race, his fatherland, all things high and shining, Stood ever, to his vision, veiled in mist. But he was humble, humble, was this man; And since that sessions-day his doom oppressed him, As surely as his cheeks were flushed with shame, And his four fingers hidden in his pocket.— Offender 'gainst his country's laws? Ay, true! But there is one thing that the law outshineth Sure as the snow-white tent of Glittertind Has clouds, like higher rows of peaks, above it. No patriot was he. Both for church and state A fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge, In the small circle where he saw his calling, There he was great, because he was himself. His inborn note rang true unto the end. His days were as a lute with muted strings. And therefore, peace be with thee, silent warrior, That fought the peasant's little fight, and fell! It is not ours to search the heart and reins;— That is no task for dust, but for its ruler;— Yet dare I freely, firmly, speak my hope: He scarce stands crippled now before his God!

[''The gathering disperses. remains behind, alone.''

Now that is what I call Christianity! Nothing to seize on one's mind unpleasantly.— And the topic—immovably being oneself,—