Is the Maker's spirit fled
[Listening.]
Ha, what song breaks overhead?
Invisible Choir.
[In the sough of the storm.]
Never shalt thou win His spirit;
Thou in mortal flesh wast born:
Spurn his bidding or revere it;
Equally thou art forlorn.
Brand.
[Repeats the words, and says softly.]
Woe's me, woe; I well may fear it!
Stood He not, and saw me pray,
Sternly smote my prayer away?
All I loved He has demanded,
All the ways of light seal'd fast,
Made me battle single-handed,
And be overthrown at last!
The Choir.
[Louder, above him.]
Worm, thou mayst not win His spirit,—
For Death's cup thou hast consumed;
Fear His Will, or do not fear it,
Equally thy work is doom'd.
Brand.
[Softly.]
Agnes, Alf, the gladsome life
When unrest and pain I knew not—
I exchanged for tears and strife,
In my own heart plunged the knife,—
But the fiend of evil slew not.
