Henrik Ibsen Poems

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NOW they sing the hero loud; --
But they sing him in his shroud.

Torch he kindled for his land;
On his brow ye set its brand.

Taught by him to wield a glaive;
Through his heart the steel ye drave.

Trolls he smote in hard-fought fields;
Ye bore him down 'twixt traitor shields.

But the shining spoils he won,
These ye treasure as your own.--

Dim them not, that so the dead
Rest appeased his thorn-crowned head.

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