Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 4).djvu/257

 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. PEER GYNT remains behind, alone.]

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