And there, further on, a slanting cross marks the place where a Talent is buried in the earth. How bold it was, how noisy, how happy! It undertook anything, wished to do everything, and was confident that it could conquer the world.
And it is dead—died but lately, quietly, and unnoticed. One day it went among men, for long it was lost there, and it came back defeated, sad. Long it wept, long it strove to say something, and then without having said it—died.
And here is a long row of little sunken mounds. Who lies here?
Ah! yes. These are children. Little, keen, sportive Hopes. There were so many of them, they were so merry, and the soul was peopled with them. But one by one they died. They were so many, and they made such merriment in the soul.
It is quiet in the resting-place, and the leaves of the white birches rustle sadly.
* * * * * * * * *
But let the dead arise! Ye grim tombs ope wide, crumble to dust ye heavy monuments, ye iron bars give place!
Be it but for one day, for one moment, give freedom to those whom ye are smothering with your weight, and darkness!
Ye think they are dead! Oh, no! they live! They are silent, but they live.
They live!