I wept so bitterly
When he roughly would woo me,
He at last set me free,
And forbore to pursue me.
Let me in, for the horror my soul doth fill.
That I love him still."
_Chorus of nuns within the Church._
"Come child, come bride,
To God's own side,
From grief find rest
On Jesus' breast.
Rest thy burden of sorrow.
On Horeb's height;
Like the lark, with to-morrow
Shall thy soul take flight.
Here stilled is all yearning,
No passion returning;
No terror come near thee
When the Saviour can hear thee.
For He, if in need be
Thy storm-beaten soul,
Though it bruised as a reed be,
Shall raise it up whole."
Despite the power and beauty of an occasional manifestation
of his genius during the late sixties and early seventies,
the poetic impulse that had made Bjornson the most famous of
Norwegian authors seemed, toward the close of the fifteen-year
period just now under review, to be well nigh exhausted. Even
among those who had followed his career most closely there were
few who could anticipate the splendid new outburst of activity
for which he was preparing.
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