THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

7
O, blend but your plaining
With surf’s boisterous song! —
What is there remaining? —
No memory lasts long! —
For while in that heaven
You dream you’re enshrined,
To the waves’ seething leaven
You’ve long been consigned! — — —
DOUBT AND HOPE
Ha, such a night, such gloom and stress!
A raging storm outdoors! — — —
A lion in the wilderness,
Mark how the tempest roars! —
Ha, do you come from Death’s dark vale,
You ghostly shapes that crowd
Night’s field of combat, there to trail
In grey-spun garb of cloud? — —
And then yon thunder, loud and strong
As very midnight passed! — — —
Like murk’s wild, savage victory-song,
Like judgement’s trumpet-blast! —
O, many a time I would pour scorn
On dread of Judgement Day, —
Ha, that contempt fine fruit has borne,
This present wild dismay! — —
Long, long ago while still a lad
I’d pray with such delight
To God in Heaven for Mum and Dad
And little ones at night; —
But long, ah! long that ceased to be,
I have forgone my prayer,
No more incline to piety,
No more seek solace there! — — —
Ha, feeble soul! do you so quail
Before these thunder-claps? — —
You think in this night’s dreadful gale
To see Doomsday perhaps —
A day that never could befall, —
As oft your creed denied;
And in the God on whom you call
Your faith has long since died! — —