Over Life's precipices cast,
Each to its mouldering branches clings,
And, if they crumble, clutches fast
With tooth and nail to straws and bast
Agnes.
And, while they helpless, hopeless fall,
You cry: Give <g>nothing</g> or give all!
Brand.
He who would conquer still must fight,
Rise, fallen to the highest height.
[A brief silence: his voice changes.]
And yet, when with that stern demand
Before some living soul I stand,
I seem like one that floats afar
Storm-shatter'd on a broken spar.
With solitary anguish wrung
I've bitten this chastising tongue,
And thirsted, as I aim'd the blow,
To clasp the bosom of my foe.
Go, Agnes, watch the sleeping boy.
And sing him into dreams of joy.
An infant's soul is like the sleep
Of still clear tarns in summer-light.
A mother over it may sweep
And hover, like the bird, whose flight
Is mirror'd in the deepest deep.
Agnes.
What does it mean, Brand? Wheresoe'er
You aim your thought-shafts—they fly <g>there</g>!
Brand.
Oh, nothing. Softly watch the child.
