In a hundred hearts I find
Self-begotten this one word;
Even in hers, whose frantic call
From the mountain-side I heard:
“It is ugly, for ’tis small!”
So she said; and like the rest
Left her meaning half-express’d.
Then of women came a score,
“Yes, it is too small,” they cried;
They would have it spread and soar,
Like a palace in its pride.
Agnes—ah! I see it clear;
Thou the woman art whom God
Gave me for His angel-guide.
Safe alike from doubt and fear
Through the darkness thou hast trod,
Keeping still the even way,
Where I blindly went astray.
Thee no glamour captivated—
Once thy finger show’d the fated
Region where my life-work waited,
Check’d me, as I sought sublime,
To the vault of heaven to climb,
Turn’d my soaring glance within,
And that kingdom bade me win.
Now, a second time, thy word
Penetrates my soul like day,
Guides me where I vainly err’d,
Glorifies my weary way.
Small the Church is? Be it so:
Then a greater Church shall grow.
Never, never did I wot
All God gave me, giving thee;
Now that cry of thine’s for me:
Leave me not! Oh leave me not!
AGNES.
All my sorrow I will quell,
I will dry the tears that well,
Seal in still sepulchral sleep
Memory’s lone castle-keep;
Lay oblivion like a sea
Open between it and me,
I will blot the joyous gleams
From my little world of dreams,
Live, thy wife, alone for thee!
BRAND.
Steep the path is, high the goal.
AGNES.
Lead, nor sternly spur, my soul!
BRAND.
In a greater name I call.
AGNES.
One of whom thou saidst that still
He accepts the steadfast will,
Though the flesh be weak withal!
[_Going._
BRAND.
Whither, Agnes?
AGNES.
[_Smiles._]
Ah, to-day
Home must have its feast array
Thou my lavishness didst chide,
Mindest thou, last Christmastide?
All the chamber flash’d with lights,
From the Christmas-tree there hung
Toys and wreaths and quaint delights;
There was laughter, there was song.
Brand, for us this year also
Shall the Christmas-candles glow,
Here shall all be deck’d and dight
For the great, still Feast to-night!
Here, if haply God should peep,
He of meek and lowly mind
Shall His stricken children find,
Babes, that humbly understand,
To have felt their Father’s hand
Gives them not a right to weep.—
Seest thou now of tears a sign?
BRAND.
[_Presses her to him a moment._]
Child, make light: that work is thine.
AGNES.
[_Smiles sadly._]
Thou thy greater Church shalt rear:
Oh—but end ere Spring is here!
[_Goes._
BRAND.
Willing in her torments still,
Willing at the martyr’s stake;
Flesh may flag and spirit break,
But unbroken is her Will.
Lord, to her poor strength add Thine;—
Be the cruel task not mine
At Thy bidding to unchain
Angry vultures of the Law,
Swift to swoop with ravening maw
And her heart’s warm blood to drain!
I have strength to stand the strain.
Twofold agony let me bear,—
But be merciful to her!
_A knock at the outer door. THE MAYOR enters._
THE MAYOR.
A beaten man, I seek your door.
BRAND.
A beaten man?
THE MAYOR.
As such I stand
Before you. When I open’d war,
And sought to drive you from the land,
The end I augur’d, I confess,
For you, was not just—well—success.
BRAND.
Indeed——?
THE MAYOR.
But though my cause I boast
The better, I’ll contend no more.
BRAND.
And why?
THE MAYOR.
Because you have the _most_.
BRAND.
Have I?
THE MAYOR.
Oh, that you can’t ignore:
Folks flock to you by sea and shore;
And in the whole of my confine
A spirit has of late been rife,
Which, God’s my witness, is not mine;
Whence to conclude is only due,
That it originates with you.
Here is my hand: we’ll end the strife!
BRAND.
War such as we wage does not cease,
Howe’er the vanquished cry “No more!”
THE MAYOR.
Why, what should be the end of war
But reasonable terms of peace?
To kick at pricks is not my way,
I’m made of common human clay;
When at your breast the lance you feel
It is but reason to give place;—
With but a switch to parry steel,
’Tis just to make a volte-face;
Left of your cause the sole defender,
It is the wisest to surrender.
BRAND.
Two things are noticeable here.
First, that you call me strong. Of men
I have the larger part.
THE MAYOR.
That’s clear.
BRAND.
Now, possibly: but when shall rise
The great dread day of sacrifice,
Who will have more supporters _then_?
THE MAYOR.
Of sacrifice? Why, goodness me,
That’s just the day we never see
At least, the sacrifice no worse is
Than drafts upon good people’s purses;
The age is too humane to bring
Any more costly offering.
And what’s most vexing is, that I
Myself have all along been noted
Of those who the Humane promoted
And hinder’d sacrifice thereby.
So that it may be fairly said,
I’ve put the axe to my own head,
Or, at the least, laid rods in store
To baffle all I’ve struggled for.
BRAND.
You may be right. But, furthermore
I hardly know how you can dare
Surrender your own cause as lost.
Be rods, or be they not, the cost,
Man’s work is what he’s fashion’d for,
And Paradise, for him, lies _there_.
’Twixt him and it though oceans swell,
And close at hand lie Satan’s quarter,
May he for that cry “Toil, farewell—
The way to hell’s distinctly shorter!”?
THE MAYOR.
To that I answer: Yes and No.
Some final haven man must win;—
If all our toil brings nothing in,
Who on a barren quest will go?
The fact stands thus: we want reward
For every labour, light or hard;
And if in arms we miss the prize,—
We gain our point by compromise.
BRAND.
But _black_ will never turn to _white_!
THE MAYOR.
Respected friend, the gain is slight
Of saying: “White as yonder brae,”
When the mob’s shouting: “Black as snow.”
BRAND.
You join them, possibly?
THE MAYOR.
Why, no—
I rather shout, not black, but _gray_,
The time’s humane; asks apt compliance,
Not blunt and absolute defiance.
We stand on democratic ground,
Where what the people thinks is right;
Shall _one_ against the mass propound
His special views on black and white?
In short, you, having a majority,
Are best entitled to authority.
So I submit, as they submitted,
With you my humble lot I cast,
And may I by no soul be twitted
For not contending to the last!
Folks now consider, I perceive,
Petty and poor all I achieve;
They say there’s something of more worth
Than richer harvests wrung from earth;
They are not willing as they were,
The necessary mite to spare;
And the best cause, if will’s not in it,—
There’s very little hope to win it.
Believe me, ’tis no easy thing
To drop one’s plans for roads and bridges,
For tapping meres and draining ridges,
And more besides that was in swing.
But, good Lord, what’s a man to say?
If he can’t win, he must give way;
Patiently trust that Time’s his friend,
And to the blast astutely bend.
Now,—the folks’ favour I’ve foregone
In just the way it first was won;
Ay, ay,—and by another track
I’ll get my old possession back.
BRAND.
So all your cunning, all your art,
Aim’d but to win the people’s heart?
THE MAYOR.
God help me, no! The common good
And profit of this neighbourhood
Has been my single, sole desire.
But, I admit, there did conspire
The worker’s hope of worthy hire
For day’s work honestly pursued.
The fact stands thus: a resolute
And able man, with sense to boot,
Demands to see his labour’s fruit,
And not to drudge and sweat and groan
To profit an Idea alone.
With the best will I can’t afford
To throw my interests overboard,
And give my brains without reward.
I’ve a large household to supply,
A wife, and of grown girls a store,
Who must be first provided for;—
Belly that’s empty, throat that’s dry,
The _idea_ scarce will satisfy,
Where mouths so many must be fill’d.
And any man who should demur,
For him I have but one reply,—
He’s an unworthy householder.
BRAND.
And now your object is—?
THE MAYOR.
To build.
BRAND.
To _build_?
THE MAYOR.
Why, yes,—the common state
To better, and my own to boot.
First I will build up the repute
I stood in till a recent date:—
The elections soon will be on foot:—
So I must set some scheme afloat,
Some booming enterprise promote;
Thus I regain my lost authority,
And check the wane of my majority.
Now, I’ve reflected, to compete
With wind and tide wins no man’s praises;
The folk want “lifting,” as the phrase is,
A work for which I’m all unmeet;
I can but set them on their feet;
Which can’t be done unless they please,—
And here all are my enemies!
Whence I’ve resolved since such the case is,
After ripe thought, to find a basis
For making war with poverty.
BRAND.
You would uproot it?
THE MAYOR.
No, not I!
It is a necessary ill
In every state: we must endure it;
Yet may we, with a little skill,
In certain forms confine, secure it,
If only we begin in time.
He who would grow a bed of crime,
Let him with poverty manure it:
I’ll set a dam to this manure!
BRAND.
How?
THE MAYOR.
Do you take me? I can cure
A want, of long and bitter proof,
By building, for the Town’s behoof,
A Pest-house for the afflicted Poor.
Pest-house I call a thing projected
To rid us of the crime-infected.
And, I reflected, to the Pest-house
Might well be added an Arrest-house,
The cause with its effect confined
The selfsame bars and bolts behind,
And nothing but a wall between.
And, while my hand is in, I mean
In the same block to build withal
A wing for balls and ballotings,
Social and business gatherings,
With platform and Assembly-Hall;
In short, a half-political,
Half-social, smart and festive Guest-house.
BRAND.
Sorely required; this most of all;
But yet there’s _one_ thing needed more.
THE MAYOR.
You mean a Mad-house? Yes, indeed;
A very peremptory need;
That was my own idea before.
But now, by friendly counsel wrought,
I’ve utterly renounced the thought;
For who’s to furnish the supplies
For such a giant enterprise?
To put a Mad-house up would come,
Believe me, to a pretty sum,
If all whom need and merit fitted,
Should be within its walls admitted.
We must not build for our caprice,
But note Time’s current as it glides;—
The world moves on with giant strides,
Last year abundance, famine this;
You see to what a monstrous girth
The folks’ necessities have swell’d,
Talents for everything on earth,
Headlong by seven-league boots propell’d,
Are swarming madly to the birth.
Thus it would be too dear a jest
To build posterity a nest
And let self, wife, and children go;
This tooth, I say, we can’t afford:
Out with it therefore, by the Lord!
BRAND.
And then, there’s the great Hall, you know,
For any madder than the rest.
THE MAYOR.
[_Delighted._]
Yes, it would mostly be to spare!
Why, Brand, you’ve hit the nail-head there!
If fortunate our project’s fate is,
We get to boot—a Mad-house gratis;
Here, shelter’d by the selfsame roof,
And by the selfsame flag defended,
All the essential strands are blended
That tinge and tone our social woof.
Here in one haven disembogues
The flood of Paupers and of Rogues;
With Lunatics who roam’d at large,
Subject to no man’s check or charge;
Here too our Freedom’s highest reach,
The election-strife, the storm of speech;
And here our Council-Hall, for framing
Measures to meet each public pest;
And here our Feast-Hall, for proclaiming
How well we’ll guard the Past’s bequest.
You see, then, if our Project stand,
The Cragsman has at his command
All he in reason can demand,—
The right to live as he thinks best.
God knows, how slender our resources,
But once our enterprise in force is,
I trust we may be with impunity
Styled a well-organised community.
BRAND.
But then the means—?
THE MAYOR.
Ay, there’s the knot,
As in all other things, in this.
Hardly to contributions wrought
Is Will, and if your help I miss,
I furl my flag without a thought:
But with your eloquent alliance
I’ll bid all obstacles defiance,
And when all’s done, your kind compliance,
Believe me, shall not be forgot.
BRAND.
In short, you’d _buy_ me.
THE MAYOR.
For my aim
I should prefer another name:
I seek, with general good in view,
That gulf of difference to cross
Which you from me and me from you
Has sever’d, to our common loss.
BRAND.
In an ill-omen’d hour you came——
THE MAYOR.
Unfortunately yes, I own it:
Your recent loss,—I might have known it,
But your brave bearing re-assured me,
And need of public credit lured me.
BRAND.
In grievous or in gladsome season
I render help where need is plain;
But, for another weighty reason,
This time your mission is in vain.
THE MAYOR.
And which, pray—?
BRAND.
_I_ am building too.
THE MAYOR.
You building? You adopt my view?
BRAND.
Not altogether.
[_Pointing out of the window._]
Do you see?
THE MAYOR.
Yonder
BRAND.
Yes.
THE MAYOR.
That great ugly stall?—
Why, that’s the Parsonage granary.
BRAND.
No, not that;—but the ugly, _small_——
THE MAYOR.
The Church?
BRAND.
I mean to build it _great_.
THE MAYOR.
That, by the devil! you shall not!
No man shall alter it one jot!
My plan ’twould utterly frustrate.
Mine’s urgent, only waits the word,
By yours I’m absolutely floor’d;
Two weapons can’t at once be wielded,
Yield therefore—!
BRAND.
I have never yielded.
THE MAYOR.
You must, man, here. Build my Arrest-house,
My Pest-house and my festive Guest-house,
Build all, the Mad-house comprehending,
And who’ll ask, where the Church wants mending?
And why condemn it now to fall?
’Twas well enough a while ago.
BRAND.
Possibly; _now_ it is too small.
THE MAYOR.
_I_ never saw it full, I know.
BRAND
Even a single soul is scanted,
And has not room therein to soar.
THE MAYOR.
[_Shaking his head in amazement._]
(Which single soul but proves the more
How sorely my Asylum’s wanted.)
[_Changing his tone._]
Let the Church be, is my advice.
One may regard it, in some wise,
As a rich heirloom of our age;
In fact, a noble heritage,
Which we not lightly may remove.
Nay, if my building project crashes,
I, like a Phoenix from the ashes,
Will live again in public love,
As one chivalrously intent
To save our ancient monument!
Here stood a heathen fane of old,—
’Twas in King Belë’s reign, no doubt;
Then, later heroes more devout
Founded the Church with looted gold.
All-sacred in its antique dress,
Grand in its simple stateliness,
Till our own days it tower’d sublime——
BRAND.
But all these glories of old time
Lie long since buried deep in mould,
Of all surviving sign bereft.
THE MAYOR.
Just so! They are so very old
That not a trace of them is left.
But in my late grandfather’s day
A wall-hole still defied decay!
BRAND.
A wall-hole?
THE MAYOR.
Fit to hold a tun!
BRAND.
But the wall’s self?
THE MAYOR.
Oh, that was gone.
In plain terms then, I am compell’d
To say, your scheme is out of court:—
A barbarous and unparallel’d
Horrible sacrilege, in short.
And then the money,—do you dream
These folks are so profuse in spending,
That they’ll contrive new cost by lending
Existence to a half-hatch’d scheme?
When with a little deftness they
May so far patch the crumbling wall
That in _our_ time it will not fall?
But just go out!—the field survey,—
You’ll find, I’m winner after all.
BRAND.
From no man will I wring a jot
To give my God house-harbourage:
With my own goods it shall be wrought;
In that one work my heritage
To the last penny shall be spent.—
Now, Mayor, are you still confident
That you can shake me from my thought?
THE MAYOR.
[_With folded hands._]
I stand—as from the clouds dropp’d down
Such things are even in a Town
Scarce heard of,—and yet here, for us,
Who long to the necessitous
Have closed our purses and our doors,
You loose this flood of gifts unbounded
That ripples, flashes, foams and pours—.
—No, Brand, I’m utterly dumbfounded.
BRAND.
In thought I long ago resign’d
My wealth——
THE MAYOR.
Yes, whisper’d hints have flown
Pointing to something of the kind.
But I regarded them as wind.
How many men give all they own
Without a tangible return?
However, that’s your own concern.—
Go on! I’ll follow. You’re in feather,
You can act freely, work and sway.—
Brand, we will build the Church _together_.
BRAND.
What, you are willing to give way?
THE MAYOR.
Dear God’s my witness, that I am!
And shall be while my wits are sound!
When _one_ would fatten, pamper, cram,—
Another milk and shear and flay,—
Where, think you, will the flock be found?
Death and destruction, I’m your man!
I’m fire and fury for the plan!
Thrill’d, agitated, nay, affected!
Providence prompted the design
That led me to your door to-night,
For sure, without the hint of _mine_,
_Your_ plan had scarcely been projected,
Or, at the least, scarce seen the light!
And thus the Church, conceived aright,
Will by _my_ means have been erected!
BRAND.
But, don’t forget, we must lay low
That towering relic of the past!
THE MAYOR.
[_Looking out._]
Seen in the twofold glimmer cast
By the new moon and the fresh snow,
It seems a sort of—rubbish-heap.
BRAND.
What, Mayor!
THE MAYOR.
It is too old to keep!
I fail entirely to explain it,
Till now it never struck my eye,—
The weathercock stands all awry;
It would be monstrous to retain it.
And where are architecture, style,
Rightly regarded, in the pile?
What terms can give that arch its due?
An architect would call it _vile_;—
And really I must share his view.
And then that roof with moss-tufts blowing,—
Bless me, they’re none of Belë’s growing.
No, we may overmuch assert
The reverence for ancient glories!
One fact, at least, there’s no o’erthrowing,
That this old rotten hut no more is
But just a very heap of dirt!
BRAND.
But if the people’s voice should storm
At those who seek to lay it low—?
THE MAYOR.
_I_ will it though they all cry No.
This Christmas with the least delay
I’ll put the thing in proper form,
And launch it smoothly on its way.
I’ll write, I’ll agitate, I’ll sway!
Ay, ay—you know the stuff I’m made of!
And if I cannot hire or hound
The foolish flock to help to end it,
With my own hands I’ll rive and rend it,
Timber by timber, to the ground.
Nay, though I had to call the aid of
My wife and all my girls as well,
Down it should come, by death and hell.
BRAND.
This language has another sound
Than that which earlier from you fell.
THE MAYOR.
To be humane is to repress
All manner of _One-sidedness_.
And sure, if truth the poet utters,
Precisely what is to be sought
In thinking is “the winged thought,”—
That is to say—the thought that flutters.
Farewell.
[_Taking his hat._]
I have to see the band.
BRAND.
The what?
THE MAYOR.
Just think, within our land
This morning two of us laid hand
On a foul-favour’d gipsy-horde,
So I got help with rope and cord,
And now they’re in your neighbour’s ward
Next to the North, but—devil clip me!—
If just a couple didn’t slip me——
BRAND.
The bells are ringing: Peace to Men.
THE MAYOR.
Why came this hell-brood hither, then?
Yet in a sense, they are, ’tis true,
Kin to this parish,—
[_Laughing._]
Nay to you.
Hark to a riddle; read it right,
If you have power and appetite.
There be, who in effect derive
From her, by whom you are alive,
But owe their actual origin
To coming of another kin.
BRAND.
[_Shaking his head._]
O God, so many riddles rise
Before our baffled, helpless eyes!
THE MAYOR.
But this one’s very lightly guess’d.
You must have often, heretofore,
Heard tell one story or another
Of that poor fellow here by West
Whose head four parsons’ learning bore;
He went a-wooing to your Mother.
BRAND.
What then?
THE MAYOR.
Conceive,—a girl of gold
She sent him to the right-about
Promptly, as might have been foretold.
And how d’ye think he took the flout?
Half mad with grief he wander’d out,
Mated at last another bride,
A gipsy,—and, before he died,
Enrich’d with issue this foul band
That sins and starves about the land.
Nay, on this parish he conferr’d
One bastard imp—as souvenir
Of his illustrious career.
BRAND.
Namely—?
THE MAYOR.
The gipsy-urchin Gerd.
BRAND.
[_In muffled tones._]
Ah—so!
THE MAYOR.
[_Gaily._]
Confess, the riddle’s good!
His issue in effect derive
From her by whom you are alive;
For the first cause of all the brood
Was, that he loved and she withstood.
BRAND.
Advise me, Mayor; can you tell
Some means of giving them relief?
THE MAYOR.
Tut, clap them in a Bridewell cell.
They’re overhead in debt to hell;
To save them were to play the thief
With Satan, who will lose his trade
If earth restore not what he made.
BRAND.
You plann’d to build a house, to better
This naked misery and dearth——
THE MAYOR.
That plan was, by its own begetter,
Slain in the moment of its birth.
BRAND.
If after all though—it were well——
THE MAYOR.
[_Smiling._]
This language has another sound
Than that which earlier from you fell.
[_Clapping him on the shoulder._]
What’s buried, leave it in the ground
Man must not dash his deed with doubt.
Farewell, farewell, I can’t remain,
I must be off and scour the fell,
To seek this nest of truants out.
A merry _Yule_! We’ll meet again!
My greetings to your wife. Farewell!
[_Goes._
BRAND.
[_After a meditative silence._]
O expiation without end!—
So wildly mingle, strangely blend
The threads that human fortune spin,—
Sin tangled with the fruit of sin,
Pouring its own pollution in,—
That he who eyes their mazy flight
Sees foulest Wrong grow one with Right.
[_Goes to the window, and after a long look out._]
My little child, lamb without stain,
Thou for my mother’s deed wast slain;
A shatter’d spirit bore His voice
Whose throne the crested heavens sustain,
And bade me cast the die of choice.
And this distracted soul had birth
Because my mother’s clave to earth.
Thus the Lord, sowing fruit of crime,
Reaps retribution in His time,
And, reaching down from His high dome,
Strikes the third generation home.
[_Starts back in horror from the window._]
Yes, God is above all things just,
And retribution is His goal;
Only by sacrifice the soul
Achieves redemption from the dust;
Hard truth, our age appall’d descries,
And, therefore, stubbornly denies.
[_Walks up and down the room._]
To pray? Ah, pray—a word that slips
Easily over all men’s lips;
A coin by all men lightly paid.
What’s prayer? In storm and stress to shout
Unto the vague Unknown for aid.
Upon Christ’s shoulders beg a place,
And stretch both hands to Heaven for grace—
While knee-deep in the slough of doubt.
Ha! if there needed nothing more
I might like others dare to raise
My hand and batter at His door
Who still is “terrible in praise.”—
[_Pauses and reflects._]
And yet in uttermost despair,
In shuddering sorrow’s deepest deep,
When Alf at last had sunk to sleep,
And all his mother’s kisses vain
Won not the lost smile back again—
What felt I—if it was not prayer?
Whence came that trance, that ecstasy,
That rushing music, like a blast,
That sang afar and hurried past,
Bore me aloft and set me free?
Was it the ecstasy of prayer?
Did I with God hold converse there?
My anguish—did it reach his ears?
Did he look down and see my tears?
I know not. Barr’d is now the door,
The darkness deeper than before,
And nowhere, nowhere any light!
Yes, She—who, darkling, yet hath sight—
[_Calls in anguish._]
Light, Agnes—light, if light thou hast!
_AGNES opens the door and enters with the lighted
Christmas candles; a bright glow falls over the
room._
BRAND.
Light!
AGNES.
See, the Yule light, Brand, at last!
BRAND.
[_Softly._]
The Yule light! Ha!
AGNES.
[_Putting them on the table._]
Have I been slow?
BRAND.
No, no.
AGNES.
Thou must be cold, Brand!
BRAND.
[_Loudly._]
No!
AGNES.
[_Smiling, fills the stove._]
How stern! It is thy pride of will,
That scorns the darkness and the chill.
BRAND.
[_Walking up and down._]
H’m, Will!
AGNES.
[_To herself as she decks the room._]
Here must the candles stand.
Last year he stretch’d his tiny hand
After the glancing, dancing light:
He was so joyous and so bright;
He started from his little chair,
And ask’d me if a sun it were.
[_Moves the candles a little._]
See! now the candle’s glow falls—_there_!
Now from his bed my boy can see
The window gleaming cheerily;
Now can he peer out of the gloom
Silently into our lit room—
But, ah! the glass is dim; stay, stay—
I’ll wipe the dew of tears away
And make it smile——
[_Dries the pane._
BRAND.
[_Softly as he watches her._]
When in this breast
Will the wild waters sink to rest?
To rest they _must_!
AGNES.
[_To herself._]
How bright the glow
It seems as though the sundering wall
Had sunk; the low room grown a hall,
The murky world of ice and snow
Sudden become a shelter’d nest,
Where cosily my child may rest.
BRAND.
What dost thou, Agnes?
AGNES.
[_To herself._]
Peace, I pray!
BRAND.
[_Nearer._]
Why didst thou ope the curtain?
AGNES.
Nay,
I dreamt, and knew not what I did!
BRAND.
Snares in that dream of thine lie hid;
Close it again.
AGNES.
[_Pleading._]
Brand!
BRAND.
Close, I say!
AGNES.
Oh, be not harsh, it is not right.
BRAND.
Close, close!
AGNES.
[_Drawing it._]
Now all is close and tight;
Yet in my heart I scarce can deem
God injured if, at sorest need,
In the brief respite of a dream
I tasted comfort.
BRAND.
No, indeed!
He is a feeling Judge and kind,
And will indulgently forbear,
If in thy service He should find
Some idol-worship here and there.
AGNES.
[_Bursts into tears._]
Oh, say, _when_ will He cease to crave?
My wings are weak—I faint and fall——
BRAND.
He gives to the devouring wave
Who in his giving gives not _all_.
AGNES.
I _have_ given all; I have no more.
BRAND.
[_Shakes his head._]
Yet other gifts remain behind.
AGNES.
[_Smiling._]
Ask: I’ve the courage of the poor!
BRAND.
Give!
AGNES.
Take! Ah, Brand, thou’lt nothing find.
BRAND.
Thy memories and thy moans thou hast,
Thy longings and thy sinful sighs——
AGNES.
[_Despairingly._]
I have my heart of agonies!
Tear, tear it from me!
BRAND.
Thou hast cast
Thy offerings in the yawning deep
For nothing, if thou count them losses.
AGNES.
[_Shudders._]
Narrow is thy Lord’s way, and steep.
BRAND.
That way _Will_ cannot choose but keep.
AGNES.
And Mercy’s is——
BRAND.
[_Peremptorily._]
Beset with crosses.