Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/242

And the murmurous ocean's tongue
Should have melted, soul-possess'd,
With the organ's roll together,
And the gather'd people's song.
Sweep this lying Labour hence!
Mighty only in pretence!
Stricken inly with decay
On its consecration day,—
Symbol of your impotence.
All the germs of soul you aim
By divided toil to maim;
For the week's six days ye drag
To the deepest deep God's flag,
For one only of the seven,
Let it flutter forth to heaven!

Voices from the Throng.

Lead us, lead us! Tempest lowers!
Lead us, and the day is ours!

The Dean.

Do not hear him! Nought he knows
Of the Faith a Christian owes!

Brand.

Ay, thou nam'st the flaw whereby
Both the throng, and thou and I,
Are beset! To souls alone
Faith is possible,—show me one!
Show me one that his best treasure
Has not inly flung to waste
In his fumbling, or his haste!
First, the reeling plunge for pleasure
To the tabor's juggling strain
Till the zest of pleasure's slain;
Then, soul-ruins, charr'd and stark,