Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/173

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 <g>One-sidedness</g>.
And sure, if truth the poet utters,
Precisely what is to be sought