[_Gazes before her; then, trembling._]
Now manifest and open lies,
Abysmal as the depths of space,
That mystic Word.
BRAND.
What word?
AGNES.
_He dies
Who sees Jehovah face to face._
BRAND.
[_Throws his arms about her and clasps her close._]
O look not on Him! Close thine eyes!
Hide thee, O hide thee!
AGNES.
Must I?
BRAND.
[_Lets her go._]
No.
AGNES.
Thou sufferest, Brand.
BRAND.
Thou art so dear.
AGNES.
Thou lov’st me, but thy love I fear.
’Tis stern.
BRAND.
Too stern?
AGNES.
Ask not; whereso
Thou goest, I will also go!
BRAND.
Think’st thou without design I won thee
Out of thy gladsome gay content,
Or, half in earnest, laid upon thee
The call to self-abandonment?
Woe to us both; too dear we paid,
Too vast a sacrifice we made;
Thou art my wife: I crave thee _all_
To live according to our call.
AGNES.
Crave; only leave me not.
BRAND.
Indeed
I must; for rest and peace I need.
Soon shall the great new Church arise!
AGNES.
My little Church a ruin lies.
BRAND.
It was a blessed wind that blew
And thy heart’s idol overthrew!
[_Clasps her as if in dread._]
Peace be upon thee—and, through thee,
Peace also upon mine and me!
[_Goes towards the side-door._
AGNES.
Brand, may I softly set ajar
One hateful window-barrier,—so?
Only a little? May I?
BRAND.
[_In the doorway._]
No.
[_Goes into his room._
AGNES.
Closed, all closed with bolt and bar!
Seals on every passion set!
Seal’d to sorrow and to sigh,
Seal’d the grave and seal’d the sky,
Seal’d to feel—and to forget!
I will out! I gasp for breath
In this lonely house of death.
Out? Oh, whither? Angry eyes
Glare upon me from the skies!
Can I, flying, high or low,
Bear my treasure where I go?
Can I from my breast unsphere
The mute vacancy of fear?—
[_Listens at BRAND’S door._]
Loud he reads, he cannot hear.
There’s no comfort! There’s no way
God is busy; lists to-day
But to song and praise and blessing
Of the happy, child-possessing,
Richly-gifted of the earth.
Christmas is the feast of mirth.
_Me He_ sees not, nor takes heed
Of a lonely mother’s need.—
[_Goes cautiously to the window._]
Shall I draw the curtain back,
Till the clear and kindly ray
Chase the horror of night away
From his chamber bare and black?
Nay, he is not there at all.
Yule’s the children’s festival,
He hath got him leave to rise,
Haply now he stands, and cries,
Stretches little arms in vain
To his mother’s darken’d pane.
Was not that a baby’s voice?
Alf, I’ve neither will nor choice!
All is barr’d and bolted here.
’Tis thy father’s bidding, dear!
Alf, I may not open now!
An obedient child art thou!
We ne’er grieved him, thou and I.
Oh, fly home then to the sky,
There is gladness, there is light,
There thy merry comrades stay
Till thou come to join their play.
Oh, but weep not in their sight,
Nor to any soul betray
That thy father bade me lock,
When thy little hand did knock.
Years bring sterner, sadder stress
Than a little child may guess.
Say, he sorrow’d, say, he sigh’d;
Say, he wove the garden’s pride
All into a wreath for thee.
’Tis his doing! Canst thou see?
[_Listens, starts, and shakes her head._]
Oh, I dream! Not bar and wall
Only from my love divide me.
When the purging fire hath tried me
In its anguish, then alone
Shall the parting barriers fall
And the mighty bolts be batter’d,
And the vaulted dungeons shatter’d,
And the prison hinges groan!
Much, oh, much is to be done
Ere we parted twain be one.
I with silent, toiling hands
Still will labour on, to fill
The abyss of his commands;
I shall nerve me, I shall will.
But it is the Feast this eve—
Last year’s how unlike! And wait
We will honour it in state.
I will fetch my treasures forth,
Whereof the uncounted worth
Best a mother can conceive,
To whose spirit they express
All her life-lost happiness.
[_She kneels down by the cupboard, and takes various
things out of a drawer. At the same moment,
BRAND opens the door, and is about to speak,
when he observes her occupation, checks himself
and remains standing. AGNES does not see him._
BRAND.
[_Softly._]
Haunting still the mortal mound,
Playing in Death’s garden-ground.
AGNES.
Lo, the robe, the veil that clad
At the font my little lad.
Under it his cloak I’ve laid—
[_Holds it up, gazes at it, and laughs._]
Lord, how brave it looks and bright!
Ah, he was a bonny sight
In his festal robes array’d!
Here’s the scarf, the cape he wore
When the keen wind first he bore;
Longer was it than was meet
Then, but quickly grew too spare—
I will lay it with them there.
Gloves and stockings—(Oh, what feet!)
And his hood of silken fold
That had fenced him from the cold,
All unused and clean and sweet.
Oh, and there the wrappings warm
That should shield his little form
For the journey, from the storm
When again I laid them by,
Weary unto death was I!
BRAND.
[_Clasps his hands in anguish._]
Mercy, God! I strive in vain!
Shatter her last idol-shrine
By some other hand than mine!
AGNES.
Did I weep? Behold, a stain!
Oh, my treasure! Jewell’d prize,
Bath’d in floods from aching eyes,
Lit with fires of tortured Will,
Holy Crowning-vesture, worn
By a child to Death’s font borne,
Oh, what riches have I still!
_A sharp knock at the outer door; AGNES turns with a cry,
and at the same moment sees BRAND. The door is burst
open, and a WOMAN, raggedly dressed, enters hastily,
with a child in her arms._
THE WOMAN.
[_Looking at the child’s clothes, calls to AGNES._]
Thou rich mother, share with me!
AGNES.
Thou art richer far!
THE WOMAN.
I see,
Thou art of the common breed,
Cramm’d with words, and void of deed.
BRAND.
[_Approaching her._]
Tell me what thou seekest.
THE WOMAN.
_Thee_,
Troth, I do not seek, at least!
Rather to the wind and rain
Will I hurry out again,
Than be sermon’d by a priest;
Rather to the wild sea fly,
Drown and rot beneath the sky,
Than I’ll hear the black man tell
How I’m on my way to hell;
Can I help—the devil take me—
Being what God chose to make me?
BRAND.
[_To himself._]
Voice and feature pierce me still
With a dim and icy dread.
AGNES.
Thou shalt warm thee, if thou’rt chill;
And thy hungry child be fed.
THE WOMAN.
Where there’s warmth and where there’s light
Brats of gipsies may not stay;
We must haunt the lone highway,
Hill and forest, heath and height;
We must wander, we must roam,
Leave to others house and home.
I must swiftly from this place.
Dogs of justice are behind me,
Mayor, bailiff, all in chase,
Hungering to catch and bind me!
BRAND.
Here thou shalt have shelter.
THE WOMAN.
Here!
Roof’d above and wall’d about?
No! The winter night is clear,
And the breezes blithe without.
But a rag to wrap the child!
That were something! Sooth, its wild
Rascal brother fled, and bore
With him all the clouts it wore.
Look, it lies half naked—blue,
Stiff and stark and frozen through,
By the storm-wind’s icy breath.
BRAND.
Woman, on the road to death,
Free thy infant from thy doom;
Free him from thy grief and gloom
Of his birth I’ll blot the brand.
THE WOMAN.
Much, sooth, _thou_ dost understand!
Such a wonder none on earth
Can, nor shall do, though he can!
War on you that set the ban,—
Wot ye where it was, that birth?
In a ditch-side, on the ground,
Gamblers drank and shouted round—
Christen’d in the sleety slime,
Cross’d with charcoal-ashes’ grime,
Suckled with a spirit-flask;—
When his mother bore him first
There were some stood by and cursed,
Who could they be, do you ask?
Bless you! Why, the baby’s father,
Or,—the baby’s fathers rather!
BRAND.
Agnes?
AGNES.
Yes.
BRAND.
Thy duty’s clear.
AGNES.
[_Shuddering._]
Never! never! Brand, to her!
THE WOMAN.
Give me, give me! Give me all!
Silk and broider’d jacket small!
Nought’s too good, and nought too bad,
If ’twill warm my starving lad.
He’ll be going by-and-by.
Thaw his body ere he die!
BRAND.
[_To AGNES._]
Choice is calling! Hear’st thou now?
THE WOMAN.
Store enough of clothes hast thou
For thy dead child: hast thou none
For my death-doom’d living one?
BRAND.
Is not this a warning cry
Importuning bodefully?
THE WOMAN.
Give!
AGNES.
’Tis sacrilege blood-red
Desecration of the dead!
BRAND.
Vainly given to death he was
If thou at the threshold pause.
AGNES.
[_Crushed._]
I obey. My heart’s quick root
I will trample under foot.
Woman, come thou and receive,
I will share it with thee.
THE WOMAN.
Give!
BRAND.
_Share_ it, say’st thou?—Agnes; _share_ it?
AGNES.
[_Wildly._]
I will rather die than spare it
All! See, inch by inch I’ve bent
To thy will; my force is spent!
Half’s enough; she needs no more!
BRAND.
Was the whole too much before,
When for _thy_ child it was meant?
AGNES.
[_Gives._]
Woman, take; in this was clad
At the font my little lad.
Here the scarf, cloak, mantle, good
For the night-air, here the hood
Warm for winter; take this last——
THE WOMAN.
Give me!
BRAND.
Is this all thou hast?
AGNES.
[_Gives again._]
Take the crowning vesture worn,
By the child to Death’s Font.
THE WOMAN.
So! I see there’s nothing more.
I’ll clear out without delay,
Dress my baby at the door—
Then with all my pack away!
[_Goes._
AGNES.
[_In violent inner conflict; at length asks._]
Is it reason, Brand, to lay
Further bidding on me?
BRAND.
Say,
Didst thou with a glad heart go
To thy task of giving?
AGNES.
No.
BRAND.
Then thy gift is vainly will’d
And His bidding unfulfill’d.
[_Going._
AGNES.
[_Remains silent until he is near the door, then calls._]
Brand!
BRAND.
What wilt thou?
AGNES.
I have lied—
See, I’m humbled, I am grieved.
Never knew’st thou nor believed,
Anything was left beside.
BRAND.
Well?
AGNES.
[_Takes a folded child’s cap from her bosom._]
See, _one_ I thought to hide—
One!
BRAND.
The _cap_?
AGNES.
Yes, tear-bewet,
Clammy with his mortal sweat,
There in my beating bosom set!
BRAND.
In thy idol-bonds abide.
[_Going._
AGNES.
Hold!
BRAND.
What wilt thou?
AGNES.
Thou dost know.
[_Holds out the cap to him._
BRAND.
[_Approaches and asks, without taking it._]
Gladly given?
AGNES.
Gladly!
BRAND.
So.
At the door she lingers yet.
[_Goes._
AGNES.
Shiver’d, shatter’d—pluck’d away—
All that bound me to the clay.
[_Stands a while motionless; by degrees her face
assumes an expression of radiant gladness. BRAND
returns; she flies joyously towards him, flings
herself about his neck, and cries._]
I am free, Brand, I am free!
BRAND.
Agnes!
AGNES.
Night is fled from me!
All the terrors that oppress’d
Like an incubus my breast,
In the gulf are sunk to rest!
Will hath conquer’d in the fray,
Cloud and mist are swept away;
Through the night, athwart the Dead,
Streaks of morning glimmer red.
Graveyard! Graveyard! By the word
Now no more a tear is stirr’d;
By the name no wound is riven,
Risen is the child to heaven!
BRAND.
Agnes! Thou hast conquered now.
AGNES.
I indeed have conquer’d. Yes;
Conquer’d death and bitterness!
Oh, look up, look heavenward, thou
See, before the throne he stands—
As in old days—radiant, glad,
To us stretching down his hands!
Though a thousand mouths I had,
Leave to ask, and to obtain,
Never one of them should pray
For his coming back again.
O how wond’rous is God’s way!
By that sacrifice, so grievous,
Won from bondage is my soul;
He was given us but to leave us,
Died to lure me to the goal.
Thanks be to thee that thy hand
Stoutly strove and firmly led—
Ah, I saw thine own heart bled.
Now it is for _thee_, instead,
In the vale of choice to stand,
Now for _thee_ to hear the call
Of the awful _Nought_ or _All_.
BRAND.
Agnes, this is darkly said;—
Vanquish’d, lo, our sorrow lies!
AGNES.
Thou forget’st the word of dread:
_Whoso sees Jehovah dies!_
BRAND.
[_Starts back._]
Woe upon me! What a light
Thou has kindled! Never! No!
I have stalwart hands for fight,
And I will not let thee go!
Tear all earthly ties from me,
All possessions I will lose,
Only never, never thee!
AGNES.
At the cross-way stand’st thou: choose!
Quench the kindled light I brought,
Fence the fountain of my thought,
Give me back my idol treasures
(Still she lingers by the door),
Give me back the earthly pleasures
Of the bright, blind days of yore;
Thrust me back into the pit
Where till now I lulled my sin,
Deeper, deeper thrust me in—
Thou canst lightly compass it;
Clip my wings and check my flight,
Load my feet, and drag me bound
Down, down from thy dizzy height
To my lowly native ground;
Let me lead the life I led
When the darkness yet was dread:
If thou darest thus to lose,
Then, as ever, I am thine;
At the cross-way stand’st thou: choose!
BRAND.
Woe, if such a choice were mine.
Ah, but in some place afar,
Where no bitter memories are,
Death and darkness thou shalt brave!
AGNES.
Hast thou _here_ thy work forgotten,
Holy work—and holy grave?
And the thousands sin-besotten,
It is _here_ thy task to save—
Those thou guidest for God’s sake
To the Fountain that renews?
At the cross-way stand’st thou: choose!
BRAND.
Then I have no choice to make.
AGNES.
[_Throws herself on his neck._]
Thanks for that, and thanks for all!
Thou the weary one hast led;
Over me the dank mists fall,
Thou wilt watch beside my bed.
BRAND.
Sleep! thy day’s work now is done.
AGNES.
Done, and now the lamp alight.
I have fought out all my might,
I am weary of the sun.
Oh, but praising God is best!
Brand, good-night!
BRAND.
Good-night!
AGNES.
Good-night.
Thanks for all. Now I will rest.
[_Goes._
BRAND.
[_Clenches his hands against his breast._]
Soul, be patient in thy pain!
Triumph in its bitter cost.
All to lose was all to gain;
Nought abideth but the Lost!
ACT FIFTH.
_A year and a half later. The new Church stands complete,
and adorned for consecration. The river runs close
beside it. A misty morning, early._
_The SEXTON is busy hanging garlands outside the Church;
shortly after comes the SCHOOLMASTER._
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
At work already?
THE SEXTON.
None too soon.
Lend me a hand; I must festoon
The path, to keep the march in trim.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Before the Manse I see ascending
Something that rears a rounded rim—
THE SEXTON.
Ay, surely, surely!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
What is pending?
THE SEXTON.
Why, it is what they call a shield
With Parson’s name in a gold field.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
To-day the valley’s in high feather.
From far and wide they’re flocking hither,
The fjord with sails is all agleam.
THE SEXTON.
Yes; they’ve awaken’d from their dream.
In the late Pastor’s day, no breast
With bitterness and strife was cumber’d,
Each slumber’d as his neighbour slumber’d,
—I’m not quite certain which is best.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Life, Sexton, life!
THE SEXTON.
Yet you and I
Pass this “life” unregarding by;
How comes it?
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Why, before, the folk
Slumber’d, and nowise toil’d, as we did;
We fell asleep when they awoke,
Because we were no longer needed.
THE SEXTON.
But yet you said that life was best?
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
By Dean and deacon that’s profess’d.
And I too say so, like the rest,—
Provided, mind, the “life” in view
Is that of the great Residue.
But we two serve another law
Than that which holds the mass in awe;
Set by the State to guard and guide,—
Look, we must stand against the tide,
Cherish the Church and Education,
And keep aloof from agitation.
Briefly, in nothing take a side.
THE SEXTON.
But Parson’s in it, heart and soul.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
And just in that forgets his rôle.
His own superiors, well I know,
Look with displeasure on his action,
And, dared they but offend his faction,
Had thrown him over long ago.
But he is fine; he smells a rat;
He’s got a recipe for that.
He builds the Church. Here you may glue
All eyes up, if you will but _do_.
_What’s_ done none has a thought to spare for;
The _doing_ of it’s all they care for.
So they who follow, and we who lead,
All equally are men of deed.
THE SEXTON.
Well, you have sat in the great Thing,
And ought to know the Land and Folk;
But one who travell’d through the glen
A little after we awoke
Said, we’d been sleeping folks till then,
But, having waked,—were _promising_.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Yes; we’re a promising folk, of course,—
And mighty promises we’re giving,—
So fast we stride, we’ll soon be living
Elucidations of their force.
THE SEXTON.
One thing I’ve ponder’d many a day;
You’ve studied,—what do folks intend
By that same “People’s Promise,” pray?
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
A People’s Promise, my good friend?
That were a long investigation;
But ’tis a thing that is pursued
By force of sheer anticipation;
A grand Idea they must make good
In _future_, be it understood.
THE SEXTON.
Thanks; I see that at any rate;
But there’s another point I’d fain
Beg of you briefly to explain.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Speak freely.
THE SEXTON.
Tell me, at what date
Comes, what is call’d the future?
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Why,
It never does come!
THE SEXTON.
Never!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
No,
And only follows Nature so.
For when it comes, you see, ’tis grown
The Present, and the Future’s flown.
THE SEXTON.
Why, yes, to that there’s no reply;
That logic one must needs accept.
But—when then is the promise kept?
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
A Promise is a future-dated
Pact, as I have already stated;
’Tis kept in Future.
THE SEXTON.
That is clear.
When will the Future, though, be here!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
[_Aside._]
You blessed Sexton!
[_Aloud._]
Worthy friend,
Must I the argument recall?
The Future cannot come at all,
Because its coming is its end.
THE SEXTON
Thank you.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
In all conceptions lies
Something that looks like artifice,
But yet is quite direct and plain,—
That is to say, for any brain
Able to reckon up to ten.
To make a promise means, at last,
To _break_ it, spite of best intent;
Truth to one’s word has always pass’d
For hard; but you may just as well
Prove it purely impossible,—
If you’ve an eye for argument.—
There, let this Promise-question be!
Come tell me——!
THE SEXTON.
Hist!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
What is it?
THE SEXTON.
Hark!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
I hear the organ play!
THE SEXTON.
’Tis he.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
The Pastor?
THE SEXTON.
Even so.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Save the mark
But he is out betimes!
THE SEXTON.
I guess
He stirr’d no pillow yesternight.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
What do you say?
THE SEXTON.
All is not right.
He’s felt the pang of loneliness
Since first his widowhood began.
He hides his sorrow all he can;
But, whiles, it may not be controll’d;
His heart’s a jar that will not hold,
And overflows by base and brim;—
So then he plays. ’Tis like a wild
Weeping for buried wife and child.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
It is as if they talk’d with him——
THE SEXTON.
As if _one_ suffered, _one_ consoled——
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
H’m—if one dared to be affected!
THE SEXTON.
Ah,—if one did not serve the State
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Ah,—if one bore no leaden weight
Of forms that have to be respected
THE SEXTON.
Ah,—if one dared toss tape and seal
And ledger to the deuce for ever!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
And leave off striving to be clever;
And, Sexton, if one dared to _feel_!
THE SEXTON.
No one is near,—let’s feel, my friend!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
We cannot fitly condescend
To smirch ourselves in human slime.
Let no man, says the Parson, dare
To be two things at the same time;
And, with the best will, no one can
Be an official and a man;
Our part in all things is, to swear
By our great exemplar—the Mayor.
THE SEXTON.
Why just by him?
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Do you recall
The fire that wreck’d his house, and yet
The deeds were rescued, one and all?
THE SEXTON.
It was an evening——
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Wild and wet,
And like ten toiling men toiled he;
But indoors stood the Devil in glee
Guffawing, and his wife shriek’d out:
“O save your soul, sweet husband! See,
Satan will have you!” Then a shout
Rang backward through the surging vapours:
“My soul may go to hell for me;
Just lend a hand to save the papers!”
Look, that’s a Mayor—without, within!
From top to toe, from core to skin;
He’ll win his way, I’m certain, yonder,
Where his life’s toil shall have its price.
THE SEXTON.
And where may that be?
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Where, I wonder,
But in the good Mayors’ Paradise.
THE SEXTON.
My learned friend!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
What now?
THE SEXTON.
A token
Of our fermenting age I hear,
Methinks, in every word you’ve spoken;
For that it _does_ ferment is clear.
Witness the reverence all refuse
To old-established Wont and Use.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
What moulders, in the mould’s its doom,
What rots must nourish what is fresh;
Their vitals canker and consume,
Let them cough up the imposthume,
Or to the grave with their dead flesh!
There’s ferment, yes; past fear or hope,
That’s plain without a telescope.
The day our ancient Church lay low,
Everything with it seem’d to go
Wherein our life struck root and found
Its home-soil and its native-ground.
THE SEXTON.
Then on the throng a stillness came.
“Down with it! Down with it!” they cried
At first; but soon that clamour died,
And many felt their ears a-flame,
And stole shy glances of distrust.
When the ancestral House of Prayer
Was to be levell’d—then and there,—
By hands unhallow’d, in the dust.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
But countless bonds, they fancied, knit
Them ever to the ghost of it,
So long as yonder Palace lack’d
The final seal of consecration;
And so in anguish’d expectation
They watch’d it growing into fact,
And blinked before the glorious End,
When the old tatter should descend
And the new colours flaunt the gale.
But ever as the spire upclomb
They grew more silent and more pale,
And now,—well, now the End is come.
THE SEXTON.
Look at the throng. Both young and old
Swarm hither.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
And by thousands told.—
How still they are!
THE SEXTON.
And yet they moan,
Like sea fore-feeling tempest’s fret.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
It is the People’s hearts that groan,
As if, with piercing doubts beset,
The great new age they did forebode,
Or were in solemn sessions met
To nominate another God.
Where, where’s the priest,—I stifle here.
Would heaven that I could disappear!
THE SEXTON.
I too, I too!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
In hours like this
No man well knows how deep he is.
Each depth a deeper depth revealing,
We will, then will not, and then doubt——
THE SEXTON.
My friend!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
My friend!
THE SEXTON.
H’m!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Speak it out!
THE SEXTON.
I think, in very truth, we’re feeling!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
Feeling? Not I!
THE SEXTON.
Nor I, take warning!
A single witness I defy!
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
We’re men, not school-girls, you and I.
My youngsters wait for me. Good-morning.
[_Goes._
THE SEXTON.
Just now I’d visions like a fool:
Now I’m again collected, cool,
And close as clasps! To work I’ll press!
Here’s no more scope for hand or tool,
And Satan’s couch is idleness.
[_Goes out at the other side._
_The organ, which during what precedes has been heard in an
undertone, suddenly peals forth, and ends with a
discordant shriek. Shortly afterwards BRAND comes
out._
BRAND.
No, I vainly, vainly seek
To unlock the heart of sound;
All the song becomes a shriek.
Walls and arches, vault and ground,
Seem to stoop and crowd and throng,
Seem to clasp with iron force,
Seem to close around the song,
As the coffin round the corse!
Vain my effort, vain my suit,
All the organ’s music’s mute,
Fain a prayer I would have spoken,
But my lifted voice fell broken,—
Like the muffled moan it fell
Of a riven and rusted bell.
’Twas as if the Lord were seated
In the chancel, and beheld,
And in wrath, while I entreated,
All my piteous prayer repell’d!—
Great shall be the House of God;
In my confidence I swore it;
Fearless, smote and wreck’d and tore it,
Swept it level with the sod.
Now the finish’d work stands fast.
As the people throng before it,
Still they cry: “How vast! how vast!”
Is it they see true or I,
Who no vastness can descry?
Is it great? The thing I will’d,
Is it in _this_ House fulfill’d?
Can the rushing fire of passion
That begot it, _here_ be still’d?
Was the Temple of this fashion
That I dream’d should overspan
All the misery of Man?
Ah, had Agnes stay’d with me,
Not thus vainly had I striven!
Small things greatly she could see,
From doubt’s anguish set me free,
Clasp together Earth and Heaven
Like the green roof of the tree.
[_He observes the preparations for the festival._]
All with wreaths and banners hung;
Children practising their song;
So the Manse they surge and throng,—
Festal greetings they would bring me;—
Yonder gleams my name in gold!—
Give me light, O God, or fling me
Fathom-deep beneath this mould!
In an hour begins the Feast
Every thought and every tongue
Will be ringing with “the priest”
All their thoughts I can discern;
All their words I feel them burn;
All their praise, on elf-wings sped,
Rives me like an icy blast!
Oh, to be enfolded fast
In oblivion, hide my head
In a wild beast’s hole at last!
THE MAYOR.
[_Enters in full uniform, radiant with satisfaction,
and greets him._]