Sure as the snow-white tent of Glittertind[[116]]

Has clouds, like higher rows of peaks, above it.

No patriot was he. Both for church and state

A fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge,

In the small circle where he saw his calling,

There he was great, because he was himself.

His inborn note rang true unto the end.

His days were as a lute with muted strings.

And therefore, peace be with thee, silent warrior,

That fought the peasant’s little fight, and fell!