Ochlciischlacgcr's Hakon Jarl 71 



These touched thy heart ; the splendid paintings stole 

 Thine eye. So thou didst think the impulse must 

 Be true. What thou didst feel, the North must feel, 

 Or else, — thy sword is drawn. Is not this so ? 



OJaf. Thy hair is silvered o'er with age, th}- mind 

 Is set upon the olden faith.. I blame 

 Thee not that thou dost call my faith a fond 

 Delusion. 



A*tidcu. Set upon the olden faith? 

 'T is well ; a fortunate expression this. 

 But tell me, Olaf, how else should one be ? 

 Can not we say of All that it is set ? 

 For faith is surely nothing more than strange 

 Propensity, an instinct, say, which draws 

 The infinite spark within the soul toward that 

 Which gave it birth, the invisible ; a bent 

 Which varies as the thing it works upon, 

 Or varies as the seasons, or as Nature. 

 This striving toward the infinite is seen 

 In every fir, in every cloud-kissed hill. 

 The bold instinct to rear their heads toward heaven, 

 This is, we say, their faith. Thou seest they show 

 A common faith ; thou must admit 't is not 

 In vain that everywhere, as far as eye 

 Doth reach, throughout the North, it bears the stamp, 

 Bespeaks the genius of a single mind. 

 In southern climes 't is otherwise. These leaves, 

 So stifif and slender, there are changed to soft 

 And tender blades; the trees no longer rear 

 Their fronded heads aloft, but bend themselves 

 Beneath the arch of heaven in pious curves — 

 Resembling much thy monks when at their mass. 



Olaf. Strange man ! 



Audcn. Where now the sky is ever blue, 



Where sunsets paint themselves in red, and where • 

 The woods voluptuous in repose, invite 

 To love and song, there wakes sweet music's art. 



109 



