Manfred: A Dramatic Poem by Lord Byron

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."[Hamlet, Act i. Scene 5, Lines 166, 167.

The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps--partly in theCastle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains.

ACT 1.

SCENE 1.--Manfred alone.--Scene, a Gothic Gallery.--Time, Midnight.

Man. The lamp must be replenished, but even thenIt will not burn so long as I must watch:My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep,But a continuance, of enduring thought,Which then I can resist not: in my heartThere is a vigil, and these eyes but closeTo look within; and yet I live, and bearThe aspect and the form of breathing men.But Grief should be the Instructor of the wise;Sorrow is Knowledge: they who know the mostMust mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth,The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.Philosophy and science, and the springsOf Wonder, and the wisdom of the World,I have essayed, and in my mind there isA power to make these subject to itself--But they avail not: I have done men good,And I have met with good even among men--But this availed not: I have had my foes,And none have baffled, many fallen before me--But this availed not:--Good--or evil--life--Powers, passions--all I see in other beings,Have been to me as rain unto the sands,Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread,And feel the curse to have no natural fear,Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes,Or lurking love of something on the earth.Now to my task.--Mysterious Agency!Ye Spirits of the unbounded Universe!Whom I have sought in darkness and in light--Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwellIn subtler essence--ye, to whom the topsOf mountains inaccessible are haunts,And Earth's and Ocean's caves familiar things--I call upon ye by the written charmWhich gives me power upon you--Rise! Appear![A pause.They come not yet.--Now by the voice of himWho is the first among you--by this sign,Which makes you tremble--by the claims of himWho is undying,--Rise! Appear!----Appear![A pause.If it be so.--Spirits of Earth and Air,Ye shall not so elude me! By a power,Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell,Which had its birthplace in a star condemned,The burning wreck of a demolished world,A wandering hell in the eternal Space;By the strong curse which is upon my Soul,The thought which is within me and around me,I do compel ye to my will.--Appear!

First Spirit.

Mortal! to thy bidding bowed,From my mansion in the cloud,Which the breath of Twilight builds,And the Summer's sunset gildsWith the azure and vermilion,Which is mixed for my pavilion;Though thy quest may be forbidden,On a star-beam I have ridden,To thine adjuration bowed:Mortal--be thy wish avowed!

Voice of the Second Spirit.

Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains;They crowned him long agoOn a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,With a Diadem of snow.Around his waist are forests braced,The Avalanche in his hand;But ere it fall, that thundering ballMust pause for my command.The Glacier's cold and restless massMoves onward day by day;But I am he who bids it pass,Or with its ice delay.I am the Spirit of the place,Could make the mountain bowAnd quiver to his caverned base--And what with me would'st Thou?

Voice of the Third Spirit.

In the blue depth of the waters,Where the wave hath no strife,Where the Wind is a stranger,And the Sea-snake hath life,Where the Mermaid is deckingHer green hair with shells,Like the storm on the surfaceCame the sound of thy spells;O'er my calm Hall of CoralThe deep Echo rolled--To the Spirit of OceanThy wishes unfold!

FOURTH SPIRIT.

Where the slumbering EarthquakeLies pillowed on fire,And the lakes of bitumenRise boilingly higher;Where the roots of the AndesStrike deep in the earth,As their summits to heavenShoot soaringly forth;I have quitted my birthplace,Thy bidding to bide--Thy spell hath subdued me,Thy will be my guide!

FIFTH SPIRIT.

I am the Rider of the wind,The Stirrer of the storm;The hurricane I left behindIs yet with lightning warm;To speed to thee, o'er shore and seaI swept upon the blast:The fleet I met sailed well--and yet'Twill sink ere night be past.

SIXTH SPIRIT.

My dwelling is the shadow of the Night,Why doth thy magic torture me with light?

SEVENTH SPIRIT.

The Star which rules thy destiny noWas ruled, ere earth began, by me:It was a World as fresh and fairAs e'er revolved round Sun in air;Its course was free and regular,Space bosomed not a lovelier star.The Hour arrived--and it becameA wandering mass of shapeless flame,A pathless Comet, and a curse,The menace of the Universe;Still rolling on with innate force,Without a sphere, without a course,A bright deformity on high,The monster of the upper sky!And Thou! beneath its influence born--Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn--Forced by a Power (which is not thine,And lent thee but to make thee mine)For this brief moment to descend,Where these weak Spirits round thee bendAnd parley with a thing like thee--What would'st thou, Child of Clay! with me?

The SEVEN SPIRITS.

Earth--ocean--air--night--mountains--winds--thy Star,Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay!Before thee at thy quest their Spirits are--What would'st thou with us, Son of mortals--say?

Man. Forgetfulness----

First Spirit. Of what--of whom--and why?

Man. Of that which is within me; read it there--Ye know it--and I cannot utter it.

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess:Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the powerO'er earth--the whole, or portion--or a signWhich shall control the elements, whereofWe are the dominators,--each and all,These shall be thine.

Man. Oblivion--self-oblivion!Can ye not wring from out the hidden realmsYe offer so profusely--what I ask?

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill;But--thou may'st die.

Man. Will Death bestow it on me?

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget;We are eternal; and to us the pastIs, as the future, present. Art thou answered?

Man. Ye mock me--but the Power which brought ye hereHath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will!The Mind--the Spirit--the Promethean spark,The lightning of my being, is as bright,Pervading, and far darting as your own,And shall not yield to yours, though cooped in clay!Answer, or I will teach you what I am.

Spirit. We answer--as we answered; our replyIs even in thine own words.

Man. Why say ye so?

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours,We have replied in telling thee, the thingMortals call death hath nought to do with us.

Man. I then have called ye from your realms in vain;Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me.

Spirit. Say--What we possess we offer; it is thine:Bethink ere thou dismiss us; ask again;Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days--

Man. Accurséd! what have I to do with days?They are too long already.--Hence--begone!

Spirit. Yet pause: being here, our will would do thee service;Bethink thee, is there then no other giftWhich we can make not worthless in thine eyes?

Man. No, none: yet stay--one moment, ere we part,I would behold ye face to face. I hearYour voices, sweet and melancholy sounds,As Music on the waters; and I seeThe steady aspect of a clear large Star;But nothing more. Approach me as ye are,Or one--or all--in your accustomed forms.

Spirit. We have no forms, beyond the elementsOf which we are the mind and principle:But choose a form--in that we will appear.

Man. I have no choice; there is no form on earthHideous or beautiful to me. Let him,Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspectAs unto him may seem most fitting--Come!

Seventh Spirit (appearing in the shape of a beautifulfemale figure). Behold!

Man. Oh God! if it be thus, and thouArt not a madness and a mockery,I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee,And we again will be----[The figure vanishes.My heart is crushed![MANFRED falls senseless.

(A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.)

When the Moon is on the wave,And the glow-worm in the grass,And the meteor on the grave,And the wisp on the morass;When the falling stars are shooting,And the answered owls are hooting,And the silent leaves are stillIn the shadow of the hill,Shall my soul be upon thine,With a power and with a sign.

Though thy slumber may be deep,Yet thy Spirit shall not sleep;There are shades which will not vanish,There are thoughts thou canst not banish;By a Power to thee unknown,Thou canst never be alone;Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,Thou art gathered in a cloud;And for ever shalt thou dwellIn the spirit of this spell.

Though thou seest me not pass by,Thou shalt feel me with thine eyeAs a thing that, though unseen,Must be near thee, and hath been;And when in that secret dreadThou hast turned around thy head,Thou shalt marvel I am notAs thy shadow on the spot,And the power which thou dost feelShall be what thou must conceal.

And a magic voice and verseHath baptized thee with a curse;And a Spirit of the airHath begirt thee with a snare;In the wind there is a voiceShall forbid thee to rejoice;And to thee shall Night denyAll the quiet of her sky;And the day shall have a sun,Which shall make thee wish it done.

From thy false tears I did distilAn essence which hath strength to kill;From thy own heart I then did wringThe black blood in its blackest spring;From thy own smile I snatched the snake,For there it coiled as in a brake;From thy own lip I drew the charmWhich gave all these their chiefest harm;In proving every poison known,I found the strongest was thine own.

By the cold breast and serpent smile,By thy unfathomed gulfs of guile,By that most seeming virtuous eye,By thy shut soul's hypocrisy;By the perfection of thine artWhich passed for human thine own heart;By thy delight in others' pain,And by thy brotherhood of Cain,I call upon thee! and compelThyself to be thy proper Hell!

And on thy head I pour the vialWhich doth devote thee to this trial;Nor to slumber, nor to die,Shall be in thy destiny;Though thy death shall still seem nearTo thy wish, but as a fear;Lo! the spell now works around thee,And the clankless chain hath bound thee;O'er thy heart and brain togetherHath the word been passed--now wither!

SCENE II.--The Mountain of the Jungfrau.--Time, Morning.--MANFRED alone upon the cliffs.

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me,The spells which I have studied baffle me,The remedy I recked of tortured meI lean no more on superhuman aid;It hath no power upon the past, and forThe future, till the past be gulfed in darkness,It is not of my search.--My Mother Earth!And thou fresh-breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.And thou, the bright Eye of the Universe,That openest over all, and unto allArt a delight--thou shin'st not on my heart.And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edgeI stand, and on the torrent's brink beneathBehold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubsIn dizziness of distance; when a leap,A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bringMy breast upon its rocky bosom's bedTo rest for ever--wherefore do I pause?I feel the impulse--yet I do not plunge;I see the peril--yet do not recede;And my brain reels--and yet my foot is firm:There is a power upon me which withholds,And makes it my fatality to live,--If it be life to wear within myselfThis barrenness of Spirit, and to beMy own Soul's sepulchre, for I have ceasedTo justify my deeds unto myself--The last infirmity of evil. Aye,Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,[An Eagle passes.Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,Well may'st thou swoop so near me--I should beThy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art goneWhere the eye cannot follow thee; but thineYet pierces downward, onward, or above,With a pervading vision.--Beautiful!How beautiful is all this visible world!How glorious in its action and itself!But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,Half dust, half deity, alike unfitTo sink or soar, with our mixed essence makeA conflict of its elements, and breatheThe breath of degradation and of pride,Contending with low wants and lofty will,Till our Mortality predominates,And men are--what they name not to themselves,And trust not to each other. Hark! the note,[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard.The natural music of the mountain reed--For here the patriarchal days are notA pastoral fable--pipes in the liberal air,Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, that I wereThe viewless spirit of a lovely sound,A living voice, a breathing harmony,A bodiless enjoyment--born and dyingWith the blest tone which made me!

Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTER.

Chamois Hunter. Even soThis way the Chamois leapt: her nimble feetHave baffled me; my gains to-day will scarceRepay my break-neck travail.--What is here?Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reachedA height which none even of our mountaineers,Save our best hunters, may attain: his garbIs goodly, his mien manly, and his airProud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance:I will approach him nearer.

Man. (not perceiving the other). To be thus--Grey-haired with anguish, like these blasted pines,Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,A blighted trunk upon a curséd root,Which but supplies a feeling to Decay--And to be thus, eternally but thus,Having been otherwise! Now furrowed o'erWith wrinkles, ploughed by moments, not by yearsAnd hours, all tortured into ages--hoursWhich I outlive!--Ye toppling crags of ice!Ye Avalanches, whom a breath draws downIn mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!I hear ye momently above, beneath,Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,And only fall on things that still would live;On the young flourishing forest, or the hutAnd hamlet of the harmless villager.

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley;I'll warn him to descend, or he may chanceTo lose at once his way and life together.

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; cloudsRise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury,Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell,Whose every wave breaks on a living shore,Heaped with the damned like pebbles.--I am giddy.

C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near,A sudden step will startle him, and heSeems tottering already.

Man. Mountains have fallen,Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shockRocking their Alpine brethren; filling upThe ripe green valleys with Destruction's splinters;Damming the rivers with a sudden dash,Which crushed the waters into mist, and madeTheir fountains find another channel--thus,Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg--Why stood I not beneath it?

C. Hun. Friend! have a care,Your next step may be fatal!--for the loveOf Him who made you, stand not on that brink!

Man. (not hearing him).Such would have been for me a fitting tomb;My bones had then been quiet in their depth;They had not then been strewn upon the rocksFor the wind's pastime--as thus--thus they shall be--In this one plunge.--Farewell, ye opening Heavens!Look not upon me thus reproachfully--You were not meant for me--Earth! take these atoms!

[As MANFRED is in act to spring from the cliff, theCHAMOIS HUNTER seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp.

C. Hun. Hold, madman!--though aweary of thy life,Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood:Away with me----I will not quit my hold.

Man. I am most sick at heart--nay, grasp me not--I am all feebleness--the mountains whirlSpinning around me----I grow blind----What art thou?

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon.--Away with me----The clouds grow thicker----there--now lean on me--Place your foot here--here, take this staff, and clingA moment to that shrub--now give me your hand,And hold fast by my girdle--softly--well--The Chalet will be gained within an hour:Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing,And something like a pathway, which the torrentHath washed since winter.--Come,'tis bravely done--You should have been a hunter.--Follow me.

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes.

ACT II.

SCENE I.--A Cottage among the Bernese Alps.--MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.

C. Hun. No--no--yet pause--thou must not yet go forth;Thy mind and body are alike unfitTo trust each other, for some hours, at least;When thou art better, I will be thy guide--But whither?

Man. It imports not: I do knowMy route full well, and need no further guidance.

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage--One of the many chiefs, whose castled cragsLook o'er the lower valleys--which of theseMay call thee lord? I only know their portals;My way of life leads me but rarely downTo bask by the huge hearths of those old halls,Carousing with the vassals; but the paths,Which step from out our mountains to their doors,I know from childhood--which of these is thine?

Man. No matter.

C. Hun. Well, Sir, pardon me the question,And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine;'Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day'T has thawed my veins among our glaciers, nowLet it do thus for thine--Come, pledge me fairly!

Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the brim!Will it then never--never sink in the earth?

C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee.

Man. I say 'tis blood--my blood! the pure warm streamWhich ran in the veins of my fathers, and in oursWhen we were in our youth, and had one heart,And loved each other as we should not love,And this was shed: but still it rises up,Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from Heaven,Where thou art not--and I shall never be.

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-maddening sin,Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'erThy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet--The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience----

Man. Patience--and patience! Hence--that word was madeFor brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey!Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,--I am not of thine order.

C. Hun. Thanks to Heaven!I would not be of thine for the free fameOf William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill,It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.

Man. Do I not bear it?--Look on me--I live.

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.

Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,Many long years, but they are nothing nowTo those which I must number: ages--ages--Space and eternity--and consciousness,With the fierce thirst of death--and still unslaked!

C. Hun. Why on thy brow the seal of middle ageHath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?It doth; but actions are our epochs: mineHave made my days and nights imperishable,Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,Innumerable atoms; and one desert,Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

C. Hun. Alas! he's mad--but yet I must not leave him.

Man. I would I were--for then the things I seeWould be but a distempered dream.

C. Hun. What is itThat thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?

Man. Myself, and thee--a peasant of the Alps--Thy humble virtues, hospitable home,And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free;Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts;Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils,By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopesOf cheerful old age and a quiet grave,With cross and garland over its green turf,And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph!This do I see--and then I look within--It matters not--my Soul was scorched already!

C. Hun. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for mine?

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchangeMy lot with living being: I can bear--However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear--In life what others could not brook to dream,But perish in their slumber.

C. Hun. And with this--This cautious feeling for another's pain,Canst thou be black with evil?--say not so.Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaked revengeUpon his enemies?

Man. Oh! no, no, no!My injuries came down on those who loved me--On those whom I best loved: I never quelledAn enemy, save in my just defence--But my embrace was fatal.

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest!And Penitence restore thee to thyself;My prayers shall be for thee.

Man. I need them not,But can endure thy pity. I depart--'Tis time--farewell!--Here's gold, and thanks for thee--No words--it is thy due.--Follow me not--I know my path--the mountain peril's past:And once again I charge thee, follow not![Exit MANFRED.

SCENE II.--A lower Valley in the Alps.--A Cataract.

Enter MANFRED.

It is not noon--the Sunbow's rays still archThe torrent with the many hues of heaven,And roll the sheeted silver's waving columnO'er the crag's headlong perpendicular,And fling its lines of foaming light along,And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail,The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,As told in the Apocalypse. No eyesBut mine now drink this sight of loveliness;I should be sole in this sweet solitude,And with the Spirit of the place divideThe homage of these waters.--I will call her.

[MANFRED takes some of the water into the palm of hishand and flings it into the air, muttering the ajuration.After a pause, the WITCH OF THE ALPS rises beneaththe arch of the sunbow of the torrent.

Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose formThe charms of Earth's least mortal daughters growTo an unearthly stature, in an essenceOf purer elements; while the hues of youth,--Carnationed like a sleeping Infant's cheek,Rocked by the beating of her mother's heart,Or the rose tints, which Summer's twilight leavesUpon the lofty Glacier's virgin snow,The blush of earth embracing with her Heaven,--Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tameThe beauties of the Sunbow which bends o'er thee.Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow,Wherein is glassed serenity of Soul,Which of itself shows immortality,I read that thou wilt pardon to a SonOf Earth, whom the abstruser powers permitAt times to commune with them--if that heAvail him of his spells--to call thee thus,And gaze on thee a moment.

Witch. Son of Earth!I know thee, and the Powers which give thee power!I know thee for a man of many thoughts,And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both,Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.I have expected this--what would'st thou with me?

Man. To look upon thy beauty--nothing further.The face of the earth hath maddened me, and ITake refuge in her mysteries, and pierceTo the abodes of those who govern her--But they can nothing aid me. I have soughtFrom them what they could not bestow, and nowI search no further.

Witch. What could be the questWhich is not in the power of the most powerful,The rulers of the invisible?

Man. A boon;--But why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain.

Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it.

Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same;My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwardsMy Spirit walked not with the souls of men,Nor looked upon the earth with human eyes;The thirst of their ambition was not mine,The aim of their existence was not mine;My joys--my griefs--my passions--and my powers,Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,Nor midst the Creatures of Clay that girded meWas there but One who--but of her anon.I said with men, and with the thoughts of men,I held but slight communion; but instead,My joy was in the wilderness,--to breatheThe difficult air of the iced mountain's top,Where the birds dare not build--nor insect's wingFlit o'er the herbless granite; or to plungeInto the torrent, and to roll alongOn the swift whirl of the new-breaking waveOf river-stream, or Ocean, in their flow.In these my early strength exulted; orTo follow through the night the moving moon,The stars and their development; or catchThe dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered leaves,While Autumn winds were at their evening song.These were my pastimes, and to be alone;For if the beings, of whom I was one,--Hating to be so,--crossed me in my path,I felt myself degraded back to them,And was all clay again. And then I dived,In my lone wanderings, to the caves of Death,Searching its cause in its effect; and drewFrom withered bones, and skulls, and heaped up dustConclusions most forbidden. Then I passed--The nights of years in sciences untaught,Save in the old-time; and with time and toil,And terrible ordeal, and such penanceAs in itself hath power upon the air,And spirits that do compass air and earth,Space, and the peopled Infinite, I madeMine eyes familiar with Eternity,Such as, before me, did the Magi, andHe who from out their fountain-dwellings raisedEros and Anteros, at Gadara,As I do thee;--and with my knowledge grewThe thirst of knowledge, and the power and joyOf this most bright intelligence, until----

Witch. Proceed.

Man. Oh! I but thus prolonged my words,Boasting these idle attributes, becauseAs I approach the core of my heart's grief--But--to my task. I have not named to theeFather or mother, mistress, friend, or being,With whom I wore the chain of human ties;If I had such, they seemed not such to me--Yet there was One----

Witch. Spare not thyself--proceed.

Man. She was like me in lineaments--her eyes--Her hair--her features--all, to the very toneEven of her voice, they said were like to mine;But softened all, and tempered into beauty:She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mindTo comprehend the Universe: nor theseAlone, but with them gentler powers than mine,Pity, and smiles, and tears--which I had not;And tenderness--but that I had for her;Humility--and that I never had.Her faults were mine--her virtues were her own--I loved her, and destroyed her!

Witch. With thy hand?

Man. Not with my hand, but heart, which broke her heart;It gazed on mine, and withered. I have shedBlood, but not hers--and yet her blood was shed;I saw--and could not stanch it.

Witch. And for this--A being of the race thou dost despise--The order, which thine own would rise above,Mingling with us and ours,--thou dost foregoThe gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st backTo recreant mortality----Away!

Man. Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour--But words are breath--look on me in my sleep,Or watch my watchings--Come and sit by me!My solitude is solitude no more,But peopled with the Furies;--I have gnashedMy teeth in darkness till returning morn,Then cursed myself till sunset;--I have prayedFor madness as a blessing--'tis denied me.I have affronted Death--but in the warOf elements the waters shrunk from me,And fatal things passed harmless; the cold handOf an all-pitiless Demon held me back,Back by a single hair, which would not break.In Fantasy, Imagination, allThe affluence of my soul--which one day wasA Croesus in creation--I plunged deep,But, like an ebbing wave, it dashed me backInto the gulf of my unfathomed thought.I plunged amidst Mankind--ForgetfulnessI sought in all, save where 'tis to be found--And that I have to learn--my Sciences,My long pursued and superhuman art,Is mortal here: I dwell in my despair--And live--and live for ever.

Witch. It may beThat I can aid thee.

Man. To do this thy powerMust wake the dead, or lay me low with them.Do so--in any shape--in any hour--With any torture--so it be the last.

Witch. That is not in my province; but if thouWilt swear obedience to my will, and doMy bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes.

Man. I will not swear--Obey! and whom? the SpiritsWhose presence I command, and be the slaveOf those who served me--Never!

Witch. Is this all?Hast thou no gentler answer?--Yet bethink thee,And pause ere thou rejectest.

Man. I have said it.

Witch. Enough! I may retire then--say!

Man. Retire!

[The WITCH disappears.

Man. (alone). We are the fools of Time and Terror: DaysSteal on us, and steal from us; yet we live,Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.In all the days of this detested yoke--This vital weight upon the struggling heart,Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,Or joy that ends in agony or faintness--In all the days of past and future--forIn life there is no present--we can numberHow few--how less than few--wherein the soulForbears to pant for death, and yet draws backAs from a stream in winter, though the chillBe but a moment's. I have one resourceStill in my science--I can call the dead,And ask them what it is we dread to be:The sternest answer can but be the Grave,And that is nothing: if they answer not--The buried Prophet answered to the HagOf Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drewFrom the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spiritAn answer and his destiny--he slewThat which he loved, unknowing what he slew,And died unpardoned--though he called in aidThe Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia rousedThe Arcadian Evocators to compelThe indignant shadow to depose her wrath,Or fix her term of vengeance--she repliedIn words of dubious import, but fulfilled.If I had never lived, that which I loveHad still been living; had I never loved,That which I love would still be beautiful,Happy and giving happiness. What is she?What is she now?--a sufferer for my sins--A thing I dare not think upon--or nothing.Within few hours I shall not call in vain--Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:Until this hour I never shrunk to gazeOn spirit, good or evil--now I tremble,And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.But I can act even what I most abhor,And champion human fears.--The night approaches.[Exit.

SCENE III.--The summit of the Jungfrau Mountain.

Enter FIRST DESTINY.

The Moon is rising broad, and round, and bright;And here on snows, where never human footOf common mortal trod, we nightly tread,And leave no traces: o'er the savage sea,The glassy ocean of the mountain ice,We skim its rugged breakers, which put onThe aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam,Frozen in a moment--a dead Whirlpool's image:And this most steep fantastic pinnacle,The fretwork of some earthquake--where the cloudsPause to repose themselves in passing by--Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils;Here do I wait my sisters, on our wayTo the Hall of Arimanes--for to-nightIs our great festival--'tis strange they come not.

A Voice without, singing.

The Captive Usurper,Hurled down from the throne,Lay buried in torpor,Forgotten and lone;I broke through his slumbers,I shivered his chain,I leagued him with numbers--He's Tyrant again!With the blood of a million he'll answer my care,With a Nation's destruction--his flight and despair!

Second Voice, without.

The Ship sailed on, the Ship sailed fast,But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast;There is not a plank of the hull or the deck,And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck;Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair,And he was a subject well worthy my care;A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea--But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me!

FIRST DESTINY, answering.

The City lies sleeping;The morn, to deplore it,May dawn on it weeping:Sullenly, slowly,The black plague flew o'er it--Thousands lie lowly;Tens of thousands shall perish;The living shall fly fromThe sick they should cherish;But nothing can vanquishThe touch that they die from.Sorrow and anguish,And evil and dread,Envelope a nation;The blest are the dead,Who see not the sightOf their own desolation;This work of a night--This wreck of a realm--this deed of my doing--For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing!

Enter the SECOND and THIRD DESTINIES.

The Three.

Our hands contain the hearts of men,Our footsteps are their graves;We only give to take againThe Spirits of our slaves!

First Des. Welcome!--Where's Nemesis?

Second Des. At some great work;But what I know not, for my hands were full.

Third Des. Behold she cometh.

Enter NEMESIS.

First Des. Say, where hast thou been?My Sisters and thyself are slow to-night.

Nem. I was detained repairing shattered thrones--Marrying fools, restoring dynasties--Avenging men upon their enemies,And making them repent their own revenge;Goading the wise to madness; from the dullShaping out oracles to rule the worldAfresh--for they were waxing out of date,And mortals dared to ponder for themselves,To weigh kings in the balance--and to speakOf Freedom, the forbidden fruit.--Away!We have outstayed the hour--mount we our clouds![Exeunt.

SCENE IV.--The Hall of Arimanes.--Arimanes on his Throne,a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits.

Hymn of the SPIRITS.

Hail to our Master!--Prince of Earth and Air!Who walks the clouds and waters--in his handThe sceptre of the Elements, which tearThemselves to chaos at his high command!He breatheth--and a tempest shakes the sea;He speaketh--and the clouds reply in thunder;He gazeth--from his glance the sunbeams flee;He moveth--Earthquakes rend the world asunder.Beneath his footsteps the Volcanoes rise;His shadow is the Pestilence: his pathThe comets herald through the crackling skies;And Planets turn to ashes at his wrath.To him War offers daily sacrifice;To him Death pays his tribute; Life is his,With all its Infinite of agonies--And his the Spirit of whatever is!

Enter the DESTINIES and NEMESIS.

First Des. Glory to Arimanes! on the earthHis power increaseth--both my sisters didHis bidding, nor did I neglect my duty!

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes! we who bowThe necks of men, bow down before his throne!

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes! we awaitHis nod!

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns! we are thine,And all that liveth, more or less, is ours,And most things wholly so; still to increaseOur power, increasing thine, demands our care,And we are vigilant. Thy late commandsHave been fulfilled to the utmost.

Enter MANFRED.

A Spirit. What is here?A mortal!--Thou most rash and fatal wretch,Bow down and worship!

Second Spirit. I do know the man--A Magian of great power, and fearful skill!

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave!--What, know'st thou notThine and our Sovereign?--Tremble, and obey!

All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemnéd clay,Child of the Earth! or dread the worst.

Man. I know it;And yet ye see I kneel not.

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee.

Man. 'Tis taught already;--many a night on the earth,On the bare ground, have I bowed down my face,And strewed my head with ashes; I have knownThe fulness of humiliation--forI sunk before my vain despair, and kneltTo my own desolation.

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dareRefuse to Arimanes on his throneWhat the whole earth accords, beholding notThe terror of his Glory?--Crouch! I say.

Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him,The overruling Infinite--the MakerWho made him not for worship--let him kneel,And we will kneel together.

The Spirits. Crush the worm!Tear him in pieces!--

First Des. Hence! Avaunt!--he's mine.Prince of the Powers invisible! This manIs of no common order, as his portAnd presence here denote: his sufferingsHave been of an immortal nature--likeOur own; his knowledge, and his powers and will,As far as is compatible with clay,Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been suchAs clay hath seldom borne; his aspirationsHave been beyond the dwellers of the earth,And they have only taught him what we know--That knowledge is not happiness, and scienceBut an exchange of ignorance for thatWhich is another kind of ignorance.This is not all--the passions, attributesOf Earth and Heaven, from which no power, nor being,Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt,Have pierced his heart; and in their consequenceMade him a thing--which--I who pity not,Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine--And thine it may be; be it so, or not--No other Spirit in this region hathA soul like his--or power upon his soul.

Nem. What doth he here then?

First Des. Let him answer that.

Man. Ye know what I have known; and without powerI could not be amongst ye: but there arePowers deeper still beyond--I come in questOf such, to answer unto what I seek.

Nem. What would'st thou?

Man. Thou canst not reply to me.Call up the dead--my question is for them.

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouchThe wishes of this mortal?

Ari. Yea.

Nem. Whom wouldst thouUncharnel?

Man. One without a tomb--call upAstarte.

NEMESIS.

Shadow! or Spirit!Whatever thou art,Which still doth inheritThe whole or a partOf the form of thy birth,Of the mould of thy clay,Which returned to the earth,Re-appear to the day!Bear what thou borest,The heart and the form,And the aspect thou worestRedeem from the worm.Appear!--Appear!--Appear!Who sent thee there requires thee here!

[The Phantom of ASTARTE rises and stands in the midst.

Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her cheek;But now I see it is no living hue,But a strange hectic--like the unnatural redWhich Autumn plants upon the perished leaf.It is the same! Oh, God! that I should dreadTo look upon the same--Astarte!--No,I cannot speak to her--but bid her speak--Forgive me or condemn me.

NEMESIS.

By the Power which hath brokenThe grave which enthralled thee,Speak to him who hath spoken.Or those who have called thee!

Man. She is silent,And in that silence I am more than answered.

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of Air!It rests with thee alone--command her voice.

Ari. Spirit--obey this sceptre!

Nem. Silent still!She is not of our order, but belongsTo the other powers. Mortal! thy quest is vain,And we are baffled also.

Man. Hear me, hear me--Astarte! my belovéd! speak to me:I have so much endured--so much endure--Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee moreThan I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst meToo much, as I loved thee: we were not madeTo torture thus each other--though it wereThe deadliest sin to love as we have loved.Say that thou loath'st me not--that I do bearThis punishment for both--that thou wilt beOne of the blesséd--and that I shall die;For hitherto all hateful things conspireTo bind me in existence--in a lifeWhich makes me shrink from Immortality--A future like the past. I cannot rest.I know not what I ask, nor what I seek:I feel but what thou art, and what I am;And I would hear yet once before I perishThe voice which was my music--Speak to me!For I have called on thee in the still night,Startled the slumbering birds from the hushed boughs,And woke the mountain wolves, and made the cavesAcquainted with thy vainly echoed name,Which answered me--many things answered me--Spirits and men--but thou wert silent all.Yet speak to me! I have outwatched the stars,And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee.Speak to me! I have wandered o'er the earth,And never found thy likeness--Speak to me!Look on the fiends around--they feel for me:I fear them not, and feel for thee alone.Speak to me! though it be in wrath;--but say--I reck not what--but let me hear thee once--This once--once more!

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred!

Man. Say on, say on--I live but in the sound--it is thy voice!

Phan. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills.Farewell!

Man. Yet one word more--am I forgiven?

Phan. Farewell!

Man. Say, shall we meet again?

Phan. Farewell!

Man. One word for mercy! Say thou lovest me.

Phan. Manfred!

[The Spirit of ASTARTE disappears.

Nem. She's gone, and will not be recalled:Her words will be fulfilled. Return to the earth.

A Spirit. He is convulsed--This is to be a mortal,And seek the things beyond mortality.

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makesHis torture tributary to his will.Had he been one of us, he would have madeAn awful Spirit.

Nem. Hast thou further questionOf our great Sovereign, or his worshippers?

Man. None.

Nem. Then for a time farewell.

Man. We meet then! Where? On the earth?--Even as thou wilt: and for the grace accordedI now depart a debtor. Fare ye well![Exit MANFRED.

(Scene closes.)

ACT III.

SCENE I.--A Hall in the Castle of Manfred.

MANFRED and HERMAN.

Man. What is the hour?

Her. It wants but one till sunset,And promises a lovely twilight.

Man. Say,Are all things so disposed of in the towerAs I directed?

Her. All, my Lord, are ready:Here is the key and casket.

Man. It is well:Thou mayst retire. [Exit HERMAN.

Man. (alone). There is a calm upon me--Inexplicable stillness! which till nowDid not belong to what I knew of life.If that I did not know PhilosophyTo be of all our vanities the motliest,The merest word that ever fooled the earFrom out the schoolman's jargon, I should deemThe golden secret, the sought "Kalon," found,And seated in my soul. It will not last,But it is well to have known it, though but once:It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,And I within my tablets would note downThat there is such a feeling. Who is there?

Re-enter HERMAN.

Her. My Lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice cravesTo greet your presence.

Enter the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE.

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred!

Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls;Thy presence honours them, and blesseth thoseWho dwell within them.

Abbot. Would it were so, Count!--But I would fain confer with thee alone.

Man. Herman, retire.--What would my reverend guest?

Abbot. Thus, without prelude:--Age and zeal--my office--And good intent must plead my privilege;Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood,May also be my herald. Rumours strange,And of unholy nature, are abroad,And busy with thy name--a noble nameFor centuries: may he who bears it nowTransmit it unimpaired!

Man. Proceed,--I listen.

Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the thingsWhich are forbidden to the search of man;That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,The many evil and unheavenly spiritsWhich walk the valley of the Shade of Death,Thou communest. I know that with mankind,Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarelyExchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitudeIs as an Anchorite's--were it but holy.

Man. And what are they who do avouch these things?

Abbot. My pious brethren--the scaréd peasantry--Even thy own vassals--who do look on theeWith most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril!

Man. Take it.

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy:I would not pry into thy secret soul;But if these things be sooth, there still is timeFor penitence and pity: reconcile theeWith the true church, and through the church to Heaven.

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply--whate'erI may have been, or am, doth rest betweenHeaven and myself--I shall not choose a mortalTo be my mediator--Have I sinnedAgainst your ordinances? prove and punish!

Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment,But penitence and pardon;--with thyselfThe choice of such remains--and for the last,Our institutions and our strong beliefHave given me power to smooth the path from sinTo higher hope and better thoughts; the firstI leave to Heaven,--"Vengeance is mine alone!"So saith the Lord, and with all humblenessHis servant echoes back the awful word.

Man. Old man! there is no power in holy men,Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying formOf penitence, nor outward look, nor fast,Nor agony--nor, greater than all these,The innate tortures of that deep Despair,Which is Remorse without the fear of Hell,But all in all sufficient to itselfWould make a hell of Heaven--can exorciseFrom out the unbounded spirit the quick senseOf its own sins--wrongs--sufferance--and revengeUpon itself; there is no future pangCan deal that justice on the self--condemnedHe deals on his own soul.

Abbot. All this is well;For this will pass away, and be succeededBy an auspicious hope, which shall look upWith calm assurafice to that blessed place,Which all who seek may win, whatever beTheir earthly errors, so they be atoned:And the commencement of atonement isThe sense of its necessity. Say on--And all our church can teach thee shall be taught;And all we can absolve thee shall be pardoned.

Man. When Rome's sixth Emperor was near his last,The victim of a self-inflicted wound,To shun the torments of a public deathFrom senates once his slaves, a certain soldier,With show of loyal pity, would have stanchedThe gushing throat with his officious robe;The dying Roman thrust him back, and said--Some empire still in his expiring glance--"It is too late--is this fidelity?"

Abbot. And what of this?

Man. I answer with the Roman--"It is too late!"

Abbot. It never can be so,To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope?'Tis strange--even those who do despair above,Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth,To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.

Man. Aye--father! I have had those early visions,And noble aspirations in my youth,To make my own the mind of other men,The enlightener of nations; and to riseI knew not whither--it might be to fall;But fall, even as the mountain-cataract,Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,(Which casts up misty columns that becomeClouds raining from the re-ascended skies,)Lies low but mighty still.--But this is past,My thoughts mistook themselves.

Abbot. And wherefore so?

Man.I could not tame my nature down; for heMust serve who fain would sway; and soothe, and sue,And watch all time, and pry into all place,And be a living Lie, who would becomeA mighty thing amongst the mean--and suchThe mass are; I disdained to mingle withA herd, though to be leader--and of wolves,The lion is alone, and so am I.

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men?

Man. Because my nature was averse from life;And yet not cruel; for I would not make,But find a desolation. Like the Wind,The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'erThe barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,And revels o'er their wild and arid waves,And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,But being met is deadly,--such hath beenThe course of my existence; but there cameThings in my path which are no more.

Abbot. Alas!I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aidFrom me and from my calling; yet so young,I still would----

Man. Look on me! there is an orderOf mortals on the earth, who do becomeOld in their youth, and die ere middle age,Without the violence of warlike death;Some perishing of pleasure--some of study--Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness,--Some of disease--and some insanity--And some of withered, or of broken hearts;For this last is a malady which slaysMore than are numbered in the lists of Fate,Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.Look upon me! for even of all these thingsHave I partaken; and of all these things,One were enough; then wonder not that IAm what I am, but that I ever was,Or having been, that I am still on earth.

Abbot. Yet, hear me still--

Man. Old man! I do respectThine order, and revere thine years; I deemThy purpose pious, but it is in vain:Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself,Far more than me, in shunning at this timeAll further colloquy--and so--farewell.[Exit MANFRED.

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: heHath all the energy which would have madeA goodly frame of glorious elements,Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,It is an awful chaos--Light and Darkness--And mind and dust--and passions and pure thoughtsMixed, and contending without end or order,--All dormant or destructive. He will perish--And yet he must not--I will try once more,For such are worth redemption; and my dutyIs to dare all things for a righteous end.I'll follow him--but cautiously, though surely.[Exit ABBOT.

SCENE II.--Another Chamber.

MANFRED and HERMAN.

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset:He sinks behind the mountain.

Man. Doth he so?I will look on him.[MANFRED advances to the Window of the Hall.Glorious Orb! the idolOf early nature, and the vigorous raceOf undiseased mankind, the giant sonsOf the embrace of Angels, with a sexMore beautiful than they, which did draw downThe erring Spirits who can ne'er return.--Most glorious Orb! that wert a worship, ereThe mystery of thy making was revealed!Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,Which gladdened, on their mountain tops, the heartsOf the Chaldean shepherds, till they pouredThemselves in orisons! Thou material God!And representative of the Unknown--Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief Star!Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earthEndurable and temperest the huesAnd hearts of all who walk within thy rays!Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,And those who dwell in them! for near or far,Our inborn spirits have a tint of theeEven as our outward aspects;--thou dost rise,And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glanceOf love and wonder was for thee, then takeMy latest look: thou wilt not beam on oneTo whom the gifts of life and warmth have beenOf a more fatal nature. He is gone--I follow. [Exit MANFRED.

SCENE III.--The Mountains--The Castle of Manfred at somedistance--A Terrace before a Tower.--Time, Twilight.

HERMAN, MANUEL, and other dependants of MANFRED.

Her. 'Tis strange enough! night after night, for years,He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,Without a witness. I have been within it,--So have we all been oft-times; but from it,Or its contents, it were impossibleTo draw conclusions absolute, of aughtHis studies tend to. To be sure, there isOne chamber where none enter: I would giveThe fee of what I have to come these three years,To pore upon its mysteries.

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous;Content thyself with what thou know'st already.

Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle--How many years is't?

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth,I served his father, whom he nought resembles.

Her. There be more sons in like predicament!But wherein do they differ?

Manuel. I speak notOf features or of form, but mind and habits;Count Sigismund was proud, but gay and free,--A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt notWith books and solitude, nor made the nightA gloomy vigil, but a festal time,Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocksAnd forests like a wolf, nor turn asideFrom men and their delights.

Her. Beshrew the hour,But those were jocund times! I would that suchWould visit the old walls again; they lookAs if they had forgotten them.

Manuel. These wallsMust change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seenSome strange things in them, Herman.

Her. Come, be friendly;Relate me some to while away our watch:I've heard thee darkly speak of an eventWhich happened hereabouts, by this same tower.

Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and suchAnother evening:--yon red cloud, which restsOn Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,--So like that it might be the same; the windWas faint and gusty, and the mountain snowsBegan to glitter with the climbing moon;Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,--How occupied, we knew not, but with himThe sole companion of his wanderingsAnd watchings--her, whom of all earthly thingsThat lived, the only thing he seemed to love,--As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do,The Lady Astarte, his----Hush! who comes here?

Enter the ABBOT.

Abbot. Where is your master?

Her. Yonder in the tower.

Abbot. I must speak with him.

Manuel. 'Tis impossible;He is most private, and must not be thusIntruded on.

Abbot. Upon myself I takeThe forfeit of my fault, if fault there be--But I must see him.

Her. Thou hast seen him oncehis eve already.

Abbot. Herman! I command thee,Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.

Her. We dare not.

Abbot. Then it seems I must be heraldOf my own purpose.

Manuel. Reverend father, stop--I pray you pause.

Abbot. Why so?

Manuel. But step this way,And I will tell you further. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.--Interior of the Tower.

MANFRED alone.

The stars are forth, the moon above the topsOf the snow-shining mountains.--Beautiful!I linger yet with Nature, for the NightHath been to me a more familiar faceThan that of man; and in her starry shadeOf dim and solitary loveliness,I learned the language of another world.I do remember me, that in my youth,When I was wandering,--upon such a nightI stood within the Coliseum's wall,'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;The trees which grew along the broken archesWaved dark in the blue midnight, and the starsShone through the rents of ruin; from afarThe watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; andMore near from out the Cæsars' palace cameThe owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,Of distant sentinels the fitful songBegun and died upon the gentle wind.Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breachAppeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stoodWithin a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt,And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidstA grove which springs through levelled battlements,And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,A noble wreck in ruinous perfection,While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.--And thou didst shine, thou rolling Moon, uponAll this, and cast a wide and tender light,Which softened down the hoar austerityOf rugged desolation, and filled up,As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;Leaving that beautiful which still was so,And making that which was not--till the placeBecame religion, and the heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the Great of old,--The dead, but sceptred, Sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns.'Twas such a night!'Tis strange that I recall it at this time;But I have found our thoughts take wildest flightEven at the moment when they should arrayThemselves in pensive order.

Enter the ABBOT.

Abbot. My good Lord!I crave a second grace for this approach;But yet let not my humble zeal offendBy its abruptness--all it hath of illRecoils on me; its good in the effectMay light upon your head--could I say heart--Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I shouldRecall a noble spirit which hath wandered,But is not yet all lost.

Man. Thou know'st me not;My days are numbered, and my deeds recorded:Retire, or 'twill be dangerous--Away!

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me?

Man. Not I!I simply tell thee peril is at hand,And would preserve thee.

Abbot. What dost thou mean?

Man. Look there!What dost thou see?

Abbot. Nothing.

Man. Look there, I say,And steadfastly;--now tell me what thou seest?

Abbot. That which should shake me,--but I fear it not:I see a dusk and awful figure rise,Like an infernal god, from out the earth;His face wrapt in a mantle, and his formRobed as with angry clouds: he stands betweenThyself and me--but I do fear him not.

Man. Thou hast no cause--he shall not harm thee--butHis sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy.I say to thee--Retire!

Abbot. And I reply--Never--till I have battled with this fiend:--What doth he here?

Man. Why--aye--what doth he here?I did not send for him,--he is unbidden.

Abbot. Alas! lost Mortal! what with guests like theseHast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake:Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him?Ah! he unveils his aspect: on his browThe thunder-scars are graven; from his eyeGlares forth the immortality of Hell--Avaunt!--

Man. Pronounce--what is thy mission?

Spirit. Come!

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer!--speak!

Spirit. The genius of this mortal.--Come!'tis time.

Man. I am prepared for all things, but denyThe Power which summons me. Who sent thee here?

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon--Come! come!

Man. I have commandedThings of an essence greater far than thine,And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!

Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come--Away! I say.

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but notTo render up my soul to such as thee:Away! I'll die as I have lived--alone.

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.--Rise![Other Spirits rise.

Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones!--Avaunt! I say,--Ye have no power where Piety hath power,And I do charge ye in the name--

Spirit. Old man!We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,It were in vain: this man is forfeited.Once more--I summon him--Away! Away!

Man. I do defy ye,--though I feel my soulIs ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breathTo breathe my scorn upon ye--earthly strengthTo wrestle, though with spirits; what ye takeShall be ta'en limb by limb.

Spirit. Reluctant mortal!Is this the Magian who would so pervadeThe world invisible, and make himselfAlmost our equal? Can it be that thouArt thus in love with life? the very lifeWhich made thee wretched?

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest!My life is in its last hour,--that I know,Nor would redeem a moment of that hour;I do not combat against Death, but theeAnd thy surrounding angels; my past powerWas purchased by no compact with thy crew,But by superior science--penance, daring,And length of watching, strength of mind, and skillIn knowledge of our Fathers--when the earthSaw men and spirits walking side by side,And gave ye no supremacy: I standUpon my strength--I do defy--deny--Spurn back, and scorn ye!--

Spirit. But thy many crimesHave made thee--

Man. What are they to such as thee?Must crimes be punished but by other crimes,And greater criminals?--Back to thy hell!Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel;Thou never shalt possess me, that I know:What I have done is done; I bear withinA torture which could nothing gain from thine:The Mind which is immortal makes itselfRequital for its good or evil thoughts,--Is its own origin of ill and end--And its own place and time: its innate sense,When stripped of this mortality, derivesNo colour from the fleeting things without,But is absorbed in sufferance or in joy,Born from the knowledge of its own desert.Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me;I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey--But was my own destroyer, and will beMy own hereafter.--Back, ye baffled fiends!The hand of Death is on me--but not yours![The Demons disappear.

Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art--thy lips are white--And thy breast heaves--and in thy gasping throatThe accents rattle: Give thy prayers to Heaven--Pray--albeit but in thought,--but die not thus.

Man. 'Tis over--my dull eyes can fix thee not;But all things swim around me, and the earthHeaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well--Give me thy hand.

Abbot. Cold--cold--even to the heart--But yet one prayer--Alas! how fares it with thee?

Man. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die.[MANFRED expires.

Abbot. He's gone--his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight;Whither? I dread to think--but he is gone.