Ibsen threw on his tomb the characteristic bunch of bitter herbs called
_Til de genlevende_--"To the Survivors," in which he expressed the
faintest appreciation of those who lavished posthumous honor on Heiberg
in Denmark:

In your land a torch he lifted;
With its flame ye scorched his forehead.

How to swing the sword he taught you,
And,--ye plunged it in his bosom.

While he routed trolls of darkness,--
With your shields you tripped and bruised him.

But his glittering star of conquest
Ye must guard, since he has left you:

Try, at least, to keep it shining,
While the thorn-crowned conqueror slumbers.]



CHAPTER III

LIFE IN BERGEN (1852-57)

Ibsen's native biographers have not found much to record, and still less
that deserves to recorded, about his life during the next five years. He
remained in Bergen, cramped by want of means in his material condition,
and much harassed and worried by the little pressing requirements of the