Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/47

 Down o'er glaciers, landslips, screes, Down the toppling grey moraines, You can see, both right and left, Straight into the tarns that slumber, Black and sluggish, more than seven Hundred fathoms deep below you. Right along the Edge we two Clove our passage through the air. Never rode I such a colt! Straight before us as we rushed 'Twas as though there glittered suns. Brown-backed eagles that were sailing In the wide and dizzy void Half-way 'twixt us and the tarns, Dropped behind, like motes in air. On the shores crashed hurtling ice-floes, But no echo reached my ears. Only sprites of dizziness sprang, Dancing, round;—they sang, they swung, Circle-wise, past sight and hearing!

[Dizzy.]

Oh, God save me!

All at once, At a desperate, break-neck spot, Rose a great cock-ptarmigan, Flapping, cackling, terrified, From the crack where he lay hidden At the buck's feet on the Edge. Then the buck shied half around,