On One who came, ye have been told,
And from your shoulders took away
Your great transgressions manifold.
He bore for you the cross, the lance—
Ye therefore have full leave to dance;
Dance then,—but where your dancing ends
Is quite another thing, my friends!
Einar.
Ah, I perceive, the latest cry,
That folks are so much taken by.
You come of the new brood, who hold
That life is only gilded mould,
And with God's penal fires and flashes
Hound all the world to sack and ashes.
Brand.
No, I am no "Evangelist,"
I speak not as the Church's priest;
That I'm a Christian, even, I doubt;
That I'm a man, though, I know well,
And that I see the cancer fell
That eats our country's marrow out.
Einar.
[Smiling.]
I never heard, I must confess,
Our country taxed with being given
To worldly pleasure in excess!
Brand.
No, by delight no breast is riven;—
Were it but so, the ill were less!
Be passion's slave, be pleasure's thrall,—
But be it utterly, all in all!
Be not to-day, to-morrow, one,
