Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/160

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 <g>there</g>.
'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 <g>black</g> will never turn to <g>white</g>!

The Mayor.

Respected friend, the gain is slight
Of saying: "White as yonder brae,"
When the mob's shouting: "Black as snow