But there is one thing that the law outshineth 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! It is not ours to search the heart and reins;— That is no task for dust, but for its ruler;— Yet dare I freely, firmly, speak my hope: He scarce stands crippled now before his God! [_The gathering disperses. PEER GYNT remains behind, alone._ PEER. Now _that_ is what I call Christianity! Nothing to seize on one’s mind unpleasantly.— And the topic—immovably being oneself,— That the pastor’s homily turned upon,— Is full, in its essence, of edification. [_Looks down upon the grave._ Was it he, I wonder, that hacked through his knuckle That day I was out hewing logs in the forest? Who knows? If I weren’t standing here with my staff By the side of the grave of this kinsman in spirit, I could almost believe it was I that slept, And heard in a vision my panegyric.— It’s a seemly and Christianlike custom indeed This casting a so-called memorial glance In charity over the life that is ended. I shouldn’t at all mind accepting my verdict At the hands of this excellent parish priest. Ah well, I dare say I have some time left Ere the gravedigger comes to invite me to stay with him;— And as Scripture has it: What’s best is best,— And: Enough for the day is the evil thereof,—[117] And further: Discount not thy funeral.— Ah, the Church, after all, is the true consoler. I’ve hitherto scarcely appreciated it;— But now I feel clearly how blessëd it is To be well assured upon sound authority: Even as thou sowest thou shalt one day reap.— One must be oneself; for oneself and one’s own One must do one’s best, both in great and in small things. If the luck goes against you, at least you’ve the honour Of a life carried through in accordance with principle.— Now homewards! Though narrow and steep the path, Though fate to the find may be never so biting— Still old Peer Gynt will pursue his own way, And remain what he is: poor, but virtuous ever. [_Goes out._ SCENE FOURTH. _A hill-side seamed by the dry bed of a torrent. A ruined mill house beside the stream. The ground is torn up, and the whole place waste. Further up the hill, a large farm-house._