Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/208

The Sexton.

And where may that be?

The Schoolmaster.

                       Where, I wonder,
But in the good Mayors' Paradise.

The Sexton.

My learned friend!

The Schoolmaster.

                   What now?

The Sexton.

                             A token
Of our fermenting age I hear,
Methinks, in every word you've spoken;
For that it <g>does</g> ferment is clear.
Witness the reverence all refuse
To old-established Wont and Use.

The Schoolmaster.

What moulders, in the mould's its doom,
What rots must nourish what is fresh;
Their vitals canker and consume,
Let them cough up the imposthume,
Or to the grave with their dead flesh!
There's ferment, yes; past fear or hope,
That's plain without a telescope.
The day our ancient Church lay low,
Everything with it seem'd to go
Wherein our life struck root and found
Its home-soil and its native-ground.

The Sexton.

Then on the throng a stillness came.