ACT FOURTH.

Christmas Eve in the Manse. The room is dark. Garden-door in the background; a window on one side, a door on the other.Agnes, in mourning, stands at the window and gazes out into the darkness.

Agnes.

Still he comes not! Comes not yet!—Oh, how hard, with gloom beset,—Still to wait and still to cry,—Winning never a reply,—Fast they fall, the softly siftedSnowflakes; in a shroud-like woofThey have swathed the old church roof——[Listens.]Hark! the garden-latch is lifted!Steps! A man’s step, firm and fast![Hurries to the door and opens it.]Is it thou? Come home! At last!

Still he comes not! Comes not yet!—

Oh, how hard, with gloom beset,—

Still to wait and still to cry,—

Winning never a reply,—

Fast they fall, the softly sifted

Snowflakes; in a shroud-like woof

They have swathed the old church roof——

[Listens.]

Hark! the garden-latch is lifted!

Steps! A man’s step, firm and fast!

[Hurries to the door and opens it.]

Is it thou? Come home! At last!

Brandcomes in, snowy, in travelling dress, which he removes during what follows.

Agnes[Throwing her arms about him.]

Agnes

[Throwing her arms about him.]

Oh, how long thou wast away!Go not from me, go not from me;All alone I cannot swayThe black clouds that overcome me;What a night, what days have beenThese two—and the night between!

Oh, how long thou wast away!

Go not from me, go not from me;

All alone I cannot sway

The black clouds that overcome me;

What a night, what days have been

These two—and the night between!

Brand.

I am with thee, child, once more.[He lights a single candle, which throws a pale radiance over the room.]Thou art pale.

I am with thee, child, once more.

[He lights a single candle, which throws a pale radiance over the room.]

Thou art pale.

Agnes.

And worn and sad.I have watch’d and long’d so sore;And this little leafy bough—Little, it was all I had,Saved from summer until nowTo bedeck our Christmas-tree,—I have hung it there, Brand, see!Histhe bush was, so we said;Ah,’twashis—it crown’d him dead![Bursts into tears.]Look, from the snow it peersYonder, his—O God——

And worn and sad.

I have watch’d and long’d so sore;

And this little leafy bough—

Little, it was all I had,

Saved from summer until now

To bedeck our Christmas-tree,—

I have hung it there, Brand, see!

Histhe bush was, so we said;

Ah,’twashis—it crown’d him dead!

[Bursts into tears.]

Look, from the snow it peers

Yonder, his—O God——

Brand.

His grave.

Agnes.

O that word!

Brand.

Have done with tears.

Agnes.

Yes—be patient—I’ll be brave!But my soul is bleeding still,And the wound is raw and new—Sapp’d is all my strength of will.Oh, but better shall ensue!Once these days are overworn,Thou shalt never see me mourn!

Yes—be patient—I’ll be brave!

But my soul is bleeding still,

And the wound is raw and new—

Sapp’d is all my strength of will.

Oh, but better shall ensue!

Once these days are overworn,

Thou shalt never see me mourn!

Brand.

Keep’st thou so God’sholyNight?

Agnes.

Ah! Too much thou must not crave!Think—last year so sweet and bright,This year carried from my sight;Carried—carried——

Ah! Too much thou must not crave!

Think—last year so sweet and bright,

This year carried from my sight;

Carried—carried——

Brand[Loudly.]

Brand

[Loudly.]

To the grave.

Agnes.[Shrieks.]

Agnes.

[Shrieks.]

Name it not!

Brand.

With lungs that crack,Named it must be, if thou shrink—Named, till echo rolls it back,Like a billow from the brink.

With lungs that crack,

Named it must be, if thou shrink—

Named, till echo rolls it back,

Like a billow from the brink.

Agnes.

Ah! The word gives thee, too, pain.How-so passionless thou boast thee!On thy brow I see the stainOf the agony it cost thee!

Ah! The word gives thee, too, pain.

How-so passionless thou boast thee!

On thy brow I see the stain

Of the agony it cost thee!

Brand.

On my brow the drops that lieAre but sea-spray from the storm.

On my brow the drops that lie

Are but sea-spray from the storm.

Agnes.

And that dewdrop in thine eye,Has it fallen from the sky?No, ah! no, it is too warm,’Tis thy heart’s dew!

And that dewdrop in thine eye,

Has it fallen from the sky?

No, ah! no, it is too warm,

’Tis thy heart’s dew!

Brand.

Agnes, wife,Let us bravely face the strife;Stand together, never flinch,Struggle onward, inch by inch.Oh, I felt a man out there!Surges o’er the reef were dashing;Horror of the storm-lit airStill’d the sea-gull; hail was thrashingDown upon the boiling sea.In my skiff, that mid-fjord quiver’d,Mast and tackle creak’d and shiver’d,Tatter’d sails blew far a-lee,Scarce a shred of them remaining,Every nail and stanchion straining!From the beetling summits sunder’d.Down the avalanches thunder’d;Stiff and stark, with corpse-like facesSat the rowers in their places.Then the soul in me wax’d high;From the helm I ruled them all,Knowing well that One therebyHad baptized me to His call!

Agnes, wife,

Let us bravely face the strife;

Stand together, never flinch,

Struggle onward, inch by inch.

Oh, I felt a man out there!

Surges o’er the reef were dashing;

Horror of the storm-lit air

Still’d the sea-gull; hail was thrashing

Down upon the boiling sea.

In my skiff, that mid-fjord quiver’d,

Mast and tackle creak’d and shiver’d,

Tatter’d sails blew far a-lee,

Scarce a shred of them remaining,

Every nail and stanchion straining!

From the beetling summits sunder’d.

Down the avalanches thunder’d;

Stiff and stark, with corpse-like faces

Sat the rowers in their places.

Then the soul in me wax’d high;

From the helm I ruled them all,

Knowing well that One thereby

Had baptized me to His call!

Agnes.

In the tempest to be strong,Eager in the stress of fight,That is easy, that is light;Think of me, who, all day long,Still must croon without reliefThe low swallow-song of grief;Think of me, who have no charmFor the tedious pain of life;Me, who, far from war’s alarm,Lack the fiery joys of strife:Think, oh think, of me, who share notNoble work, but brood and wait;Me, who to remember dare not,And who never can forget!

In the tempest to be strong,

Eager in the stress of fight,

That is easy, that is light;

Think of me, who, all day long,

Still must croon without relief

The low swallow-song of grief;

Think of me, who have no charm

For the tedious pain of life;

Me, who, far from war’s alarm,

Lack the fiery joys of strife:

Think, oh think, of me, who share not

Noble work, but brood and wait;

Me, who to remember dare not,

And who never can forget!

Brand.

Thou no noble life-work! Thou!Never was it great as now.Listen, Agnes; thou shalt knowWhat to me our loss has brought.Oftentimes my light is low.Dim my reason, dull my thought,And there seems a kind of gladnessIn immeasurable sadness.Agnes—in such hours I seeGod, as at no other, near;Oh, so near, it seems to meI could speak, and He would hear.Like a lost child then I longTo be folded to his breast,And be gather’d by His strongTender Father-arms to rest!

Thou no noble life-work! Thou!

Never was it great as now.

Listen, Agnes; thou shalt know

What to me our loss has brought.

Oftentimes my light is low.

Dim my reason, dull my thought,

And there seems a kind of gladness

In immeasurable sadness.

Agnes—in such hours I see

God, as at no other, near;

Oh, so near, it seems to me

I could speak, and He would hear.

Like a lost child then I long

To be folded to his breast,

And be gather’d by His strong

Tender Father-arms to rest!

Agnes.

Brand, oh see Him so alway!To thy supplication near—God of love and not of fear!

Brand, oh see Him so alway!

To thy supplication near—

God of love and not of fear!

Brand.

No; I may not bar his way,Nor run counter to my Call;I must see Him vast, sublimeAs the heavens,—a pigmy TimeNeeds a giant God withal!Oh, butthoumayst see Him near,See Him as a Father dear,BowThyhead upon His breast,There, when thou art weary, rest,Then return, with face aglowFrom His presence, fair and free,Bear His glory down to meWorn with battle-thrust and throe!See, my Agnes; so to shareIs the soul of wedded life:His, the turmoil and the strife,Hers the healing and the care;This and this alone, the trueWedlock, that makes one of two.Since thou turnedst from the lifeOf the world to be my wife,Boldly cast thy lot with me,This the work appointed theeMine the stir and stress of fight,Battle in the burning sun,Watching in the winter night;But for thee, when all is done,To my parching lips to holdLove’s full wine-cup, and to fold’Neath the breastplate’s iron stressThe soft robe of tenderness.Surely that work is not light!

No; I may not bar his way,

Nor run counter to my Call;

I must see Him vast, sublime

As the heavens,—a pigmy Time

Needs a giant God withal!

Oh, butthoumayst see Him near,

See Him as a Father dear,

BowThyhead upon His breast,

There, when thou art weary, rest,

Then return, with face aglow

From His presence, fair and free,

Bear His glory down to me

Worn with battle-thrust and throe!

See, my Agnes; so to share

Is the soul of wedded life:

His, the turmoil and the strife,

Hers the healing and the care;

This and this alone, the true

Wedlock, that makes one of two.

Since thou turnedst from the life

Of the world to be my wife,

Boldly cast thy lot with me,

This the work appointed thee

Mine the stir and stress of fight,

Battle in the burning sun,

Watching in the winter night;

But for thee, when all is done,

To my parching lips to hold

Love’s full wine-cup, and to fold

’Neath the breastplate’s iron stress

The soft robe of tenderness.

Surely that work is not light!

Agnes.

Every work that I have soughtIs too hard for my weak skill;All the fibres of my willGather round a single thought.Like a vision seems it still:Let me have of tears my fill.Helpme so myself to see,—What I am, and ought to be!Brand,—last night, in stillest hush,Open’d he my chamber door,On his cheek a rosy flush,And his little shirt he wore,—Toddled so with childish treadTo the couch where I lay lonely,“Mother!” call’d to me, and spreadBoth his arms, and smiled, but onlyAs if praying: “Make me warm.”Yea, I saw!—Oh, my heart bled——

Every work that I have sought

Is too hard for my weak skill;

All the fibres of my will

Gather round a single thought.

Like a vision seems it still:

Let me have of tears my fill.

Helpme so myself to see,—

What I am, and ought to be!

Brand,—last night, in stillest hush,

Open’d he my chamber door,

On his cheek a rosy flush,

And his little shirt he wore,—

Toddled so with childish tread

To the couch where I lay lonely,

“Mother!” call’d to me, and spread

Both his arms, and smiled, but only

As if praying: “Make me warm.”

Yea, I saw!—Oh, my heart bled——

Brand.

Agnes!

Agnes.

Ah, his little formWas a-cold, Brand! Needs it must,Pillow’d in the chilly dust.

Ah, his little form

Was a-cold, Brand! Needs it must,

Pillow’d in the chilly dust.

Brand.

That which lies beneath the sodIs thecorse; the child’s with God.

That which lies beneath the sod

Is thecorse; the child’s with God.

Agnes.[Shrinking from him.]

Agnes.

[Shrinking from him.]

Oh, canst thou without remorseThus our bleeding anguish tear?What thou sternly call’st the corse—Ah, to me, my child isthere!Where is body, there is soul:These apart I cannot keep,Each is unto me the whole;Alf beneath the snow asleepIs my very Alf in Heaven!

Oh, canst thou without remorse

Thus our bleeding anguish tear?

What thou sternly call’st the corse—

Ah, to me, my child isthere!

Where is body, there is soul:

These apart I cannot keep,

Each is unto me the whole;

Alf beneath the snow asleep

Is my very Alf in Heaven!

Brand.

Many a raw wound must be rivenEre thy deep disease give way.

Many a raw wound must be riven

Ere thy deep disease give way.

Agnes.

Yet have patience with me, pray,Let me follow, not be driven.Give me thy strong hand and guide meOh, and gently, gently chide me!Thou whose voice in thunder-tonesVibrates in the hour of strife,For the soul that still with groansFights a fight for very life,Hast thou no soft, piteous lay,To beguile its pangs away?Ne’er a message to uplift,Point me to the dawn-fired rift?God, as thou wouldst have me view Him,Is a monarch on His throne.How dare I, then, turn unto HimWith my lowly mother’s moan?

Yet have patience with me, pray,

Let me follow, not be driven.

Give me thy strong hand and guide me

Oh, and gently, gently chide me!

Thou whose voice in thunder-tones

Vibrates in the hour of strife,

For the soul that still with groans

Fights a fight for very life,

Hast thou no soft, piteous lay,

To beguile its pangs away?

Ne’er a message to uplift,

Point me to the dawn-fired rift?

God, as thou wouldst have me view Him,

Is a monarch on His throne.

How dare I, then, turn unto Him

With my lowly mother’s moan?

Brand.

Wouldst thou rather, haply, turnTo the God thou knew’st before?

Wouldst thou rather, haply, turn

To the God thou knew’st before?

Agnes.

Never, never, nevermore!And yet oftentimes I yearnTowards the daybreak, towards the light,Towards the sunshine warm and golden.Oh, the ancient saw is right:“Lightly lifted, hardly holden”All too vast this realm of thine,Too gigantic to be mine.Thou, thy word, thy work, thy goal,Will austere, and steadfast soul,Overhead the beetling height,And the barrier fjord below,Grief and memory, toil and night,All vast,—were the Church but so!

Never, never, nevermore!

And yet oftentimes I yearn

Towards the daybreak, towards the light,

Towards the sunshine warm and golden.

Oh, the ancient saw is right:

“Lightly lifted, hardly holden”

All too vast this realm of thine,

Too gigantic to be mine.

Thou, thy word, thy work, thy goal,

Will austere, and steadfast soul,

Overhead the beetling height,

And the barrier fjord below,

Grief and memory, toil and night,

All vast,—were the Church but so!

Brand.[Starting.]

Brand.

[Starting.]

What! the Church? Again that thought?Is it bred an instinct blindIn the air?

What! the Church? Again that thought?

Is it bred an instinct blind

In the air?

Agnes.[Shaking her head sadly.]

Agnes.

[Shaking her head sadly.]

Oh ask me notTo find reasons for my thought.Instinct steals upon the senseLike a perfume,—to and fro,Blowing whither? Blowing whence?I perceive it, that is allAnd, unknowing, yet I knowThat for me it is too small.

Oh ask me not

To find reasons for my thought.

Instinct steals upon the sense

Like a perfume,—to and fro,

Blowing whither? Blowing whence?

I perceive it, that is all

And, unknowing, yet I know

That for me it is too small.

Brand.

Truth may be from dreams divined.In a hundred hearts I findSelf-begotten this one word;Even in hers, whose frantic callFrom the mountain-side I heard:“It is ugly, for ’tis small!”So she said; and like the restLeft her meaninghalf-express’dhalf-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 GodGave me for His angel-guide.Safe alike from doubt and fearThrough 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 fatedRegion 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 wordPenetrates 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 wotAll God gave me, giving thee;Now that cry of thine’s for me:Leave me not! Oh leave me not!

Truth may be from dreams divined.

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 meaninghalf-express’dhalf-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 sleepMemory’s lone castle-keep;Lay oblivion like a seaOpen between it and me,I will blot the joyous gleamsFrom my little world of dreams,Live, thy wife, alone for thee!

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 stillHe accepts the steadfast will,Though the flesh be weak withal![Going.

One of whom thou saidst that still

He accepts the steadfast will,

Though the flesh be weak withal!

[Going.

Brand.

Whither, Agnes?

Agnes.[Smiles.]

Agnes.

[Smiles.]

Ah, to-dayHome must have its feast arrayThou my lavishness didst chide,Mindest thou, last Christmastide?All the chamber flash’d with lights,From the Christmas-tree there hungToys and wreaths and quaint delights;There was laughter, there was song.Brand, for us this year alsoShall the Christmas-candles glow,Here shall all be deck’d and dightFor the great, still Feast to-night!Here, if haply God should peep,He of meek and lowly mindShall His stricken children find,Babes, that humbly understand,To have felt their Father’s handGives them not a right to weep.—Seest thou now of tears a sign?

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.]

Brand.

[Presses her to him a moment.]

Child, make light: that work is thine.

Agnes.[Smiles sadly.]

Agnes.

[Smiles sadly.]

Thou thy greater Church shalt rear:Oh—but end ere Spring is here![Goes.

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 unbrokenisisher Will.Lord, to her poor strength add Thine;—Be the cruel task not mineAt Thy bidding to unchainAngry vultures of the Law,Swift to swoop with ravening mawAnd her heart’s warm blood to drain!I have strength to stand the strain.Twofold agony let me bear,—But be merciful to her!

Willing in her torments still,

Willing at the martyr’s stake;

Flesh may flag and spirit break,

But unbrokenisisher 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 Mayorenters.

The Mayor.

A beaten man, I seek your door.

Brand.

A beaten man?

The Mayor.

As such I standBefore 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.

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 boastThe better, I’ll contend no more.

But though my cause I boast

The better, I’ll contend no more.

Brand.

And why?

The Mayor.

Because you have themost.

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 confineA 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!

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!”

War such as we wage does not cease,

Howe’er the vanquished cry “No more!”

The Mayor.

Why, what should be the end of warBut 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 feelIt 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.

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 menI have the larger part.

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 riseThe great dread day of sacrifice,Who will have more supportersthen?

Now, possibly: but when shall rise

The great dread day of sacrifice,

Who will have more supportersthen?

The Mayor.

Of sacrifice? Why, goodness me,That’s just the day we never seeAt least, the sacrifice no worse isThan drafts upon good people’s purses;The age is too humane to bringAny more costly offering.And what’s most vexing is, that IMyself have all along been notedOf those who the Humane promotedAnd 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 storeTo baffle all I’ve struggled for.

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, furthermoreI hardly know how you can dareSurrender 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, liesthere.’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!”?

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, liesthere.

’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 rewardFor every labour, light or hard;And if in arms we miss the prize,—We gain our point by compromise.

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.

Butblackwill never turn towhite!

The Mayor.

Respected friend, the gain is slightOf saying: “White as yonder brae,”When the mob’s shouting: “Black assnow.”snow.”

Respected friend, the gain is slight

Of saying: “White as yonder brae,”

When the mob’s shouting: “Black assnow.”snow.”

Brand.

You join them, possibly?

The Mayor.

Why, no—I rather shout, not black, butgray,The time’s humane; asks apt compliance,Not blunt and absolute defiance.We stand on democratic ground,Where what the people thinks is right;Shalloneagainst the mass propoundHis 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 twittedFor not contending to the last!Folks now consider, I perceive,Petty and poor all I achieve;They say there’s something of more worthThan 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 thingTo 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 foregoneIn just the way it first was won;Ay, ay,—and by another trackI’ll get my old possession back.

Why, no—

I rather shout, not black, butgray,

The time’s humane; asks apt compliance,

Not blunt and absolute defiance.

We stand on democratic ground,

Where what the people thinks is right;

Shalloneagainst 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?

So all your cunning, all your art,

Aim’d but to win the people’s heart?

The Mayor.

God help me, no! The common goodAnd profit of this neighbourhoodHas been my single, sole desire.But, I admit, there did conspireThe worker’s hope of worthy hireFor day’s work honestly pursued.The fact stands thus: a resoluteAnd able man, with sense to boot,Demands to see his labour’s fruit,And not to drudge and sweat and groanTo profit an Idea alone.With the best will I can’t affordTo 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,Theideascarce 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.

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,

Theideascarce 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.

Tobuild?

The Mayor.

Why, yes,—the common stateTo better, and my own to boot.First I will build up the reputeI 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 competeWith 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 basisFor making war with poverty.

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 illIn 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!

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!

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