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To him seemed meaningless as cymbals' tinkling
- those words that to the heart should ring like steel.
- His race, his fatherland, all things high and shining,
- stood ever, to his vision, veiled in mist.
- But he was humble, humble, was this man;
- and since that sessions-day his doom oppressed him,
- as surely as his cheeks were flushed with shame,
- and his four fingers hidden in his pocket.-
- Offender 'gainst his country's laws? Ay, true!
- But there is one thing that the law outshineth
- sure as the snow-white tent of Glittertind
- has clouds, like higher rows of peaks, above it.
- No patriot was he. Both for church and state
- a fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge,
- in the small circle where he saw his calling,
- there he was great, because he was himself.
- His inborn note rang true unto the end.
- His days were as a lute with muted strings.
- And therefore, peace be with thee, silent warrior,
- that fought the peasant's little fight, and fell!
- It is not ours to search the heart and reins;-
- that is no task for dust, but for its ruler;-
- yet dare I freely, firmly, speak my hope:
- he scarce stands crippled now before his God!
- [The gathering disperses. PEER GYNT remains behind, alone.]
PEER
- Now that is what I call Christianity!
- Nothing to seize on one's mind unpleasantly.-
- And the topic-immovably being oneself,-