Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/122

The Mayor.

Pretty much that. All parties' good
Were so best answered. If you would
But eye attentively the herd
To whom you minister God's word,
You'd find you're no more of a piece
With them than foxes are with geese.
Pray, understand me! You have gifts,
Good where the social field is wide,
But dangerous for folk whose pride
Is to be Lords of rocky rifts
And Freemen of the ravine-side.

Brand.

To a man's feet his native haunt
Is as unto the tree the root.
If there his labour fill no want
His deeds are doomed, his music mute.

The Mayor.

Success means just: Self-adaptation
To the requirements of the nation.

Brand.

Which from the heights you best o'erlook,
Not from the crag-encompass'd nook.

The Mayor.

That talk is fit for citizens,
Not for poor peasants of the glens.

Brand.

O, still your limitation vain
Between the mountain and the plain!
World-citizens you'd be of right,
While every civic claim you slight;
And think, like dastards, to go free
By whining: "We're a small folk, we!"