When days in drowsy calm go by,
Like funerals, at walking pace,
You well may fear that the Most High
Has struck you from His Book of Grace.
But unto you He was more good,
He scatter'd terror in your blood,
He scourged you with the rods that slay,
The gifts He gave, He took away
Voices.
[Fiercely interrupting him.]
He mocks us in our bitter need!
The Mayor.
He rails at us who tend and feed!
Brand.
[Shaking his head.]
Oh, if the blood of all my heart
Could heal you from the hunger-smart,
In welling streams it should be shed,
Till every vein was a dry bed.
But here it were a sin to give!
God seeks to pluck you from your bane;—
Nations, though poor and sparse, that <g>live</g>,
Suck might and marrow from their pain.
The purblind sight takes falcon-wing,
Sees clear into the heart of things,
The faltering will stands stout at bay,
And sees the triumph through the fray.
But men whom misery has not mann'd
Are worthless of the saving hand!
A Woman.
Yonder a storm breaks on the fjord,
As if awaken'd by his word!
