Agnes.
[Clinging closely to him.]
If at the terrible call I cower,
Speak, strong-soul'd husband, in that hour!
Brand.
If Will has conquer'd in that strife,
<g>Then</g> comes at length the hour of Love;
Then it descends like a white dove,
Bearing the olive-leaf of life:
But in this nerveless, slothful state,
The true, the sovereign Love is—Hate!
[In horror.]
Hate! Hate! O Titan's toil, to will
That one brief easy syllable!
[Goes hurriedly into the house.
Agnes.
[Looking through the open door.]
He kneels beside his little son,
And heaves as if with bursts of tears;
He clutches close the bed, like one
That knows no refuge from his fears.—
O what a wealth of tender ruth
Lies hidden in this breast of steel!
Alf he <g>dares</g> love: the baby-heel
Has not yet felt Earth's serpent-tooth.
[Cries out in terror.]
Ha! he leaps up with ashy brow!
Wringing his hands! what sees he now
Brand.
[Coming out.]
A summons came?
