Oh dear, thats another! This morning! Where is she now? Why, she is now, said Milly, advancing her lips to his ear, in my little parlour in the Lodge, and waiting to see you. He pressed her hand, and was darting off, but she detained him. Mr. Redlaw is much altered, and has told me this morning that his memory is impaired. Be very considerate to him, Mr. Edmund; he needs that from us all. The young man assured her, by a look, that her caution was not illbestowed; and as he passed the Chemist on his way out, bent respectfully and with an obvious interest before him. Redlaw returned the salutation courteously and even humbly, and looked after him as he passed on. He dropped his head upon his hand too, as trying to reawaken something he had lost. But it was gone. The abiding change that had come upon him since the influence of the music, and the Phantoms reappearance, was, that now he truly felt how much he had lost, and could compassionate his own condition, and contrast it, clearly, with the natural state of those who were around him. In this, an interest in those who were around him was revived, and a meek, submissive sense of his calamity was bred, resembling that which sometimes obtains in age, when its mental powers are weakened, without insensibility or sullenness being added to the list of its infirmities. He was conscious that, as he redeemed, through Milly, more and more of the evil he had done, and as he was more and more with her, this change ripened itself within him. Therefore, and because of the attachment she inspired him with (but without other hope), he felt that he was quite dependent on her, and that she was his staff in his affliction. So, when she asked him whether they should go home now, to where the old man and her husband were, and he readily replied yesbeing anxious in that regardhe put his arm through hers, and walked beside her; not as if he were the wise and learned man to whom the wonders of Nature were an open book, and hers were the uninstructed mind, but as if their two positions were reversed, and he knew nothing, and she all. He saw the children throng about her, and caress her, as he and she went away together thus, out of the house; he heard the ringing of their laughter, and their merry voices; he saw their bright faces, clustering around him like flowers; he witnessed the renewed contentment and affection of their parents; he breathed the simple air of their poor home, restored to its tranquillity; he thought of the unwholesome blight he had shed upon it, and might, but for her, have been diffusing then; and perhaps it is no wonder that he walked submissively beside her, and drew her gentle bosom nearer to his own. When they arrived at the Lodge, the old man was sitting in his chair in the chimneycorner, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his son was leaning against the opposite side of the fireplace, looking at him. As she came in at the door, both started, and turned round towards her, and a radiant change came upon their faces. Oh dear, dear, dear, they are all pleased to see me like the rest! cried Milly, clapping her hands in an ecstasy, and stopping short. Here are two more! Pleased to see her! Pleasure was no word for it. She ran into her husbands arms, thrown wide open to receive her, and he would have been glad to have her there, with her head lying on his shoulder, through the short winters day. But the old man couldnt spare her. He had arms for her too, and he locked her in them. Why, where has my quiet Mouse been all this time? said the old man. She has been a long while away. I find that its impossible for me to get on without Mouse. Iwheres my son William?I fancy I have been dreaming, William. Thats what I say myself, father, returned his son. I have been in an ugly sort of dream, I think.How are you, father? Are you pretty well? Strong and brave, my boy, returned the old man. It was quite a sight to see Mr. William shaking hands with his father, and patting him on the back, and rubbing him gently down with his hand, as if he could not possibly do enough to show an interest in him. What a wonderful man you are, father!How are you, father? Are you really pretty hearty, though? said William, shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him gently down again. I never was fresher or stouter in my life, my boy. What a wonderful man you are, father! But thats exactly where it is, said Mr. William, with enthusiasm. When I think of all that my fathers gone through, and all the chances and changes, and sorrows and troubles, that have happened to him in the course of his long life, and under which his head has grown grey, and years upon years have gathered on it, I feel as if we couldnt do enough to honour the old gentleman, and make his old age easy.How are you, father? Are you really pretty well, though? Mr. William might never have left off repeating this inquiry, and shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him down again, if the old man had not espied the Chemist, whom until now he had not seen. I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw, said Philip, but didnt know you were here, sir, or should have made less free. It reminds me, Mr. Redlaw, seeing you here on a Christmas morning, of the time when you was a student yourself, and worked so hard that you were backwards and forwards in our Library even at Christmas time. Ha! ha! Im old enough to remember that; and I remember it right well, I do, though I am eightyseven. It was after you left here that my poor wife died. You remember my poor wife, Mr. Redlaw? The Chemist answered yes. Yes, said the old man. She was a dear creetur.I recollect you come here one Christmas morning with a young ladyI ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw, but I think it was a sister you was very much attached to? The Chemist looked at him, and shook his head. I had a sister, he said vacantly. He knew no more. One Christmas morning, pursued the old man, that you come here with herand it began to snow, and my wife invited the lady to walk in, and sit by the fire that is always a burning on Christmas Day in what used to be, before our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. I was there; and I recollect, as I was stirring up the blaze for the young lady to warm her pretty feet by, she read the scroll out loud, that is underneath that pictur, Lord, keep my memory green! She and my poor wife fell a talking about it; and its a strange thing to think of, now, that they both said (both being so unlike to die) that it was a good prayer, and that it was one they would put up very earnestly, if they were called away young, with reference to those who were dearest to them. My brother, says the young ladyMy husband, says my poor wife.Lord, keep his memory of me, green, and do not let me be forgotten! Tears more painful, and more bitter than he had ever shed in all his life, coursed down Redlaws face. Philip, fully occupied in recalling his story, had not observed him until now, nor Millys anxiety that he should not proceed. Philip! said Redlaw, laying his hand upon his arm, I am a stricken man, on whom the hand of Providence has fallen heavily, although deservedly. You speak to me, my friend, of what I cannot follow; my memory is gone. Merciful power! cried the old man. I have lost my memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble, said the Chemist, and with that I have lost all man would remember! To see old Philips pity for him, to see him wheel his own great chair for him to rest in, and look down upon him with a solemn sense of his bereavement, was to know, in some degree, how precious to old age such recollections are. The boy came running in, and ran to Milly. Heres the man, he said, in the other room. I dont want him. What man does he mean? asked Mr. William. Hush! said Milly. Obedient to a sign from her, he and his old father softly withdrew. As they went out, unnoticed, Redlaw beckoned to the boy to come to him. I like the woman best, he answered, holding to her skirts. You are right, said Redlaw, with a faint smile. But you neednt fear to come to me. I am gentler than I was. Of all the world, to you, poor child! The boy still held back at first, but yielding little by little to her urging, he consented to approach, and even to sit down at his feet. As Redlaw laid his hand upon the shoulder of the child, looking on him with compassion and a fellowfeeling, he put out his other hand to Milly. She stooped down on that side of him, so that she could look into his face, and after silence, said Mr. Redlaw, may I speak to you? Yes, he answered, fixing his eyes upon her. Your voice and music are the same to me. May I ask you something? What you will. Do you remember what I said, when I knocked at your door last night? About one who was your friend once, and who stood on the verge of destruction? Yes. I remember, he said, with some hesitation. Do you understand it? He smoothed the boys hairlooking at her fixedly the while, and shook his head. This person, said Milly, in her clear, soft voice, which her mild eyes, looking at him, made clearer and softer, I found soon afterwards. I went back to the house, and, with Heavens help, traced him. I was not too soon. A very little and I should have been too late. He took his hand from the boy, and laying it on the back of that hand of hers, whose timid and yet earnest touch addressed him no less appealingly than her voice and eyes, looked more intently on her. He is the father of Mr. Edmund, the young gentleman we saw just now. His real name is Longford.You recollect the name? I recollect the name. And the man? No, not the man. Did he ever wrong me? Yes! Ah! Then its hopelesshopeless. He shook his head, and softly beat upon the hand he held, as though mutely asking her commiseration. I did not go to Mr. Edmund last night, said Milly,You will listen to me just the same as if you did remember all? To every syllable you say. Both, because I did not know, then, that this really was his father, and because I was fearful of the effect of such intelligence upon him, after his illness, if it should be. Since I have known who this person is, I have not gone either; but that is for another reason. He has long been separated from his wife and sonhas been a stranger to his home almost from this sons infancy, I learn from himand has abandoned and deserted what he should have held most dear. In all that time he has been falling from the state of a gentleman, more and more, until she rose up, hastily, and going out for a moment, returned, accompanied by the wreck that Redlaw had beheld last night. Do you know me? asked the Chemist. I should be glad, returned the other, and that is an unwonted word for me to use, if I could answer no. The Chemist looked at the man, standing in selfabasement and degradation before him, and would have looked longer, in an ineffectual struggle for enlightenment, but that Milly resumed her late position by his side, and attracted his attentive gaze to her own face. See how low he is sunk, how lost he is! she whispered, stretching out her arm towards him, without looking from the Chemists face. If you could remember all that is connected with him, do you not think it would move your pity to reflect that one you ever loved (do not let us mind how long ago, or in what belief that he has forfeited), should come to this? I hope it would, he answered. I believe it would. His eyes wandered to the figure standing near the door, but came back speedily to her, on whom he gazed intently, as if he strove to learn some lesson from every tone of her voice, and every beam of her eyes. I have no learning, and you have much, said Milly; I am not used to think, and you are always thinking. May I tell you why it seems to me a good thing for us, to remember wrong that has been done us? Yes. That we may forgive it. Pardon me, great Heaven! said Redlaw, lifting up his eyes, for having thrown away thine own high attribute! And if, said Milly, if your memory should one day be restored, as we will hope and pray it may be, would it not be a blessing to you to recall at once a wrong and its forgiveness? He looked at the figure by the door, and fastened his attentive eyes on her again; a ray of clearer light appeared to him to shine into his mind, from her bright face. He cannot go to his abandoned home. He does not seek to go there. He knows that he could only carry shame and trouble to those he has so cruelly neglected; and that the best reparation he can make them now, is to avoid them. A very little money carefully bestowed, would remove him to some distant place, where he might live and do no wrong, and make such atonement as is left within his power for the wrong he has done. To the unfortunate lady who is his wife, and to his son, this would be the best and kindest boon that their best friend could give themone too that they need never know of; and to him, shattered in reputation, mind, and body, it might be salvation. He took her head between her hands, and kissed it, and said It shall be done. I trust to you to do it for me, now and secretly; and to tell him that I would forgive him, if I were so happy as to know for what. As she rose, and turned her beaming face towards the fallen man, implying that her mediation had been successful, he advanced a step, and without raising his eyes, addressed himself to Redlaw. You are so generous, he said, you ever werethat you will try to banish your rising sense of retribution in the spectacle that is before you. I do not try to banish it from myself, Redlaw. If you can, believe me. The Chemist entreated Milly, by a gesture, to come nearer to him; and, as he listened looked in her face, as if to find in it the clue to what he heard. I am too decayed a wretch to make professions; I recollect my own career too well, to array any such before you. But from the day on which I made my first step downward, in dealing falsely by you, I have gone down with a certain, steady, doomed progression. That, I say. Redlaw, keeping her close at his side, turned his face towards the speaker, and there was sorrow in it. Something like mournful recognition too. I might have been another man, my life might have been another life, if I had avoided that first fatal step. I dont know that it would have been. I claim nothing for the possibility. Your sister is at rest, and better than she could have been with me, if I had continued even what you thought me even what I once supposed myself to be. Redlaw made a hasty motion with his hand, as if he would have put that subject on one side. I speak, the other went on, like a man taken from the grave. I should have made my own grave, last night, had it not been for this blessed hand. Oh dear, he likes me too! sobbed Milly, under her breath. Thats another! I could not have put myself in your way, last night, even for bread. But, today, my recollection of what has been is so strongly stirred, and is presented to me, I dont know how, so vividly, that I have dared to come at her suggestion, and to take your bounty, and to thank you for it, and to beg you, Redlaw, in your dying hour, to be as merciful to me in your thoughts, as you are in your deeds. He turned towards the door, and stopped a moment on his way forth. I hope my son may interest you, for his mothers sake. I hope he may deserve to do so. Unless my life should be preserved a long time, and I should know that I have not misused your aid, I shall never look upon him more. Going out, he raised his eyes to Redlaw for the first time. Redlaw, whose steadfast gaze was fixed upon him, dreamily held out his hand. He returned and touched itlittle morewith both his own; and bending down his head, went slowly out. In the few moments that elapsed, while Milly silently took him to the gate, the Chemist dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Seeing him thus, when she came back, accompanied by her husband and his father (who were both greatly concerned for him), she avoided disturbing him, or permitting him to be disturbed; and kneeled down near the chair to put some warm clothing on the boy. Thats exactly where it is. Thats what I always say, father! exclaimed her admiring husband. Theres a motherly feeling in Mrs. Williams breast that must and will have went! Ay, ay, said the old man; youre right. My son Williams right! It happens all for the best, Milly dear, no doubt, said Mr. William, tenderly, that we have no children of our own; and yet I sometimes wish you had one to love and cherish. Our little dead child that you built such hopes upon, and that never breathed the breath of lifeit has made you quietlike, Milly. I am very happy in the recollection of it, William dear, she answered. I think of it every day. I was afraid you thought of it a good deal. Dont say, afraid; it is a comfort to me; it speaks to me in so many ways. The innocent thing that never lived on earth, is like an angel to me, William. You are like an angel to father and me, said Mr. William, softly. I know that. When I think of all those hopes I built upon it, and the many times I sat and pictured to myself the little smiling face upon my bosom that never lay there, and the sweet eyes turned up to mine that never opened to the light, said Milly, I can feel a greater tenderness, I think, for all the disappointed hopes in which there is no harm. When I see a beautiful child in its fond mothers arms, I love it all the better, thinking that my child might have been like that, and might have made my heart as proud and happy. Redlaw raised his head, and looked towards her. All through life, it seems by me, she continued, to tell me something. For poor neglected children, my little child pleads as if it were alive, and had a voice I knew, with which to speak to me. When I hear of youth in suffering or shame, I think that my child might have come to that, perhaps, and that God took it from me in His mercy. Even in age and grey hair, such as fathers, it is present saying that it too might have lived to be old, long and long after you and I were gone, and to have needed the respect and love of younger people. Her quiet voice was quieter than ever, as she took her husbands arm, and laid her head against it. Children love me so, that sometimes I half fancyits a silly fancy, Williamthey have some way I dont know of, of feeling for my little child, and me, and understanding why their love is precious to me. If I have been quiet since, I have been more happy, William, in a hundred ways. Not least happy, dear, in thisthat even when my little child was born and dead but a few days, and I was weak and sorrowful, and could not help grieving a little, the thought arose, that if I tried to lead a good life, I should meet in Heaven a bright creature, who would call me, Mother! Redlaw fell upon his knees, with a loud cry. O Thou, he said, who through the teaching of pure love, hast graciously restored me to the memory which was the memory of Christ upon the Cross, and of all the good who perished in His cause, receive my thanks, and bless her! Then, he folded her to his heart; and Milly, sobbing more than ever, cried, as she laughed, He is come back to himself! He likes me very much indeed, too! Oh, dear, dear, dear me, heres another! Then, the student entered, leading by the hand a lovely girl, who was afraid to come. And Redlaw so changed towards him, seeing in him and his youthful choice, the softened shadow of that chastening passage in his own life, to which, as to a shady tree, the dove so long imprisoned in his solitary ark might fly for rest and company, fell upon his neck, entreating them to be his children. Then, as Christmas is a time in which, of all times in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, wrong, and trouble in the world around us, should be active with us, not less than our own experiences, for all good, he laid his hand upon the boy, and, silently calling Him to witness who laid His hand on children in old time, rebuking, in the majesty of His prophetic knowledge, those who kept them from Him, vowed to protect him, teach him, and reclaim him. Then, he gave his right hand cheerily to Philip, and said that they would that day hold a Christmas dinner in what used to be, before the ten poor gentlemen commuted, their great Dinner Hall; and that they would bid to it as many of that Swidger family, who, his son had told him, were so numerous that they might join hands and make a ring round England, as could be brought together on so short a notice. And it was that day done. There were so many Swidgers there, grown up and children, that an attempt to state them in round numbers might engender doubts, in the distrustful, of the veracity of this history. Therefore the attempt shall not be made. But there they were, by dozens and scoresand there was good news and good hope there, ready for them, of George, who had been visited again by his father and brother, and by Milly, and again left in a quiet sleep. There, present at the dinner, too, were the Tetterbys, including young Adolphus, who arrived in his prismatic comforter, in good time for the beef. Johnny and the baby were too late, of course, and came in all on one side, the one exhausted, the other in a supposed state of doubletooth; but that was customary, and not alarming. It was sad to see the child who had no name or lineage, watching the other children as they played, not knowing how to talk with them, or sport with them, and more strange to the ways of childhood than a rough dog. It was sad, though in a different way, to see what an instinctive knowledge the youngest children there had of his being different from all the rest, and how they made timid approaches to him with soft words and touches, and with little presents, that he might not be unhappy. But he kept by Milly, and began to love herthat was another, as she said!and, as they all liked her dearly, they were glad of that, and when they saw him peeping at them from behind her chair, they were pleased that he was so close to it. All this, the Chemist, sitting with the student and his bride that was to be, Philip, and the rest, saw. Some people have said since, that he only thought what has been herein set down; others, that he read it in the fire, one winter night about the twilight time; others, that the Ghost was but the representation of his gloomy thoughts, and Milly the embodiment of his better wisdom. I say nothing. Except this. That as they were assembled in the old Hall, by no other light than that of a great fire (having dined early), the shadows once more stole out of their hidingplaces, and danced about the room, showing the children marvellous shapes and faces on the walls, and gradually changing what was real and familiar there, to what was wild and magical. But that there was one thing in the Hall, to which the eyes of Redlaw, and of Milly and her husband, and of the old man, and of the student, and his bride that was to be, were often turned, which the shadows did not obscure or change. Deepened in its gravity by the firelight, and gazing from the darkness of the panelled wall like life, the sedate face in the portrait, with the beard and ruff, looked down at them from under its verdant wreath of holly, as they looked up at it; and, clear and plain below, as if a voice had uttered them, were the words. Lord keep my Memory green.


Title page Manfred, a Dramatic Poem Act I, Scene I Act I, Scene II Act II, Scene I Act II, Scene II Act II, Scene III Act II, Scene IV Act III, Scene I Act III, Scene II Act III, Scene III Act III, Scene IV Notes Landmarks Manfred, a Dramatic Poem Cover Manfred,a dramatic poem George Gordon Byron Published 1817Source WikisourceEdition John Murray, Albemarlestreet, London This book has been downloaded from www.aliceandbooks.com. You can find many more public domain books in our website Dramatis person Manfred.Chamois Hunter.Abbot of St. Maurice.Manuel.Herman. Witch of the Alps.Arimanes.Nemesis.The Destinies.Spirits, c. The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alpspartly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains. Acts (not listed in original) Act I Act I, Scene I Act I, Scene II Act II Act II, Scene I Act II, Scene II Act II, Scene III Act II, Scene IV Act III Act III, Scene I Act III, Scene II Act III, Scene III Act III, Scene IV Notes Manfred Act I Scene I Manfred aloneScene, a Gothic galleryTime, Midnight. Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even thenIt will not burn so long as I must watchMy slumbersif I slumberare 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 most Must 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 itselfBut they avail not I have done men good,And I have met with good even among menBut this avail'd not I have had my foes,And none have baffled, many fallen before me But this avail'd not Good, or evil, life,Powers, passions, all I see in other beings,Have been to me as rain unto the sands,Since that allnameless 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 lightYe, who do compass earth about, and dwellIn subtler essenceye, to whom the topsOf mountains inaccessible are haunts,And earth's and ocean's caves familiar thingsI call upon ye by the written charm Which gives me power upon youRise! appear![A pause. They come not yet.Now by the voice of himWho is the first among youby this sign,Which makes you trembleby the claims of himWho is undying,Rise! appear!Appear![A pause. If it be so.Spirits of earth and air,Ye shall not thus elude me by a power,Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrantspell,Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd,The burning wreck of a demolish'd 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![A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery it is stationary; and a voice is heard singing. First Spirit.Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd,From my mansion in the cloud,Which the breath of twilight builds,And the summer's sunset gilds With the azure and vermilion,Which is mix'd for my pavilion;Though thy quest may be forbidden,On a starbeam I have ridden;To thine adjuration bow'd,Mortalbe thy wish avow'd! 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 cavern'd baseAnd what with me wouldst 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 seasnake hath life,Where the Mermaid is decking Her green hair with shells;Like the storm on the surfaceCame the sound of thy spells;O'er my calm Hall of CoralThe deep echo roll'dTo the Spirit of OceanThy wishes unfold! Fourth Spirit.Where the slumbering earthquakeLies pillow'd on fire,And the lakes of bitumen Rise 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 bideThy 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 blastThe 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, Was ruled, ere earth began, by meIt was a world as fresh and fairAs e'er revolved round sun in air; Its course was free and regular,Space bosom'd not a lovelier star.The hour arrivedand 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 bornThou worm! whom I obey and scornForced 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 wouldst 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 areWhat wouldst thou with us, son of mortalssay? Man. Forgetfulness First Spirit. Of whatof whomand why? Man. Of that which is within me; read it thereYe know it, and I cannot utter it. Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possessAsk of us subjects, sovereignty, the power O'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, selfoblivionCan ye not wring from out the hidden realmsYe offer so profusely what I ask? Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill;Butthou mayst 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 mebut 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 fardarting as your own,And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay!Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. Spirit. We answer as we answer'd; 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 call'd ye from your realms in vain;Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. Spirit.Say;What we possess we offer; it is thineBethink ere thou dismiss us, ask againKingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days Man. Accursed! what have I to do with days?They are too long already.Hencebegone! 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 stayone moment, ere we partI 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 accustom'd forms. Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elementsOf which we are the mind and principleBut choose a formin 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 abeautiful female 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,[The figure vanishes.And we again will beMy heart is crushed![Manfred falls senseless. (A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) When the moon is on the wave,And the glowworm in the grass,And the meteor on the grave,And the wisp on the morass; When the falling stars are shooting,And the answer'd 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 turn'd around thy head, Thou shalt marvel I am notAs thy shadow on the spot,And the power which thou dost feel Shall 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 snatch'd the snake,For there it coil'd 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 thy cold breast and serpent smile,By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile,By that most seeming virtuous eye,By thy shut soul's hypocrisy;By the perfection of thine artWhich pass'd 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 together Hath the word been pass'dnow wither! Scene II The Mountain of the Jungfrau.Time, Morning.Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. Man. The spirits I have raised abandon meThe spells which I have studied baffled meThe remedy I reck'd of tortured me;I lean no more on superhuman aid,It hath no power upon the past, and forThe future, till the past be gulf'd 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 delightthou 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 bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bedTo rest for everwherefore do I pause?I feel the impulseyet I do not plunge;I see the perilyet do not recede;And my brain reelsand yet my foot is firmThere is a power upon me which withholdsAnd 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 myselfThe last infirmity of evil. Ay, Thou winged and cloudcleaving minister, [An eagle passes. Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,Well may'st thou swoop so near meI should beThy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art goneWhere the eye cannot follow thee; but thineYet pierces downward, onward, or aboveWith 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 unfit To sink or soar, with our mix'd 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 arewhat 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 reedFor here the patriarchal days are notA pastoral fablepipes in the liberal air,Mix'd 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 enjoymentborn and dyingWith the blessed 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 today will scarceRepay my breakneck travail.What is here?Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd A height which none even of our mountaineers,Save our best hunters, may attain his garbIs goodly, his mien manly, and his airProud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance.I will approach him nearer. Man. (not perceiving the other.) To be thusGreyhair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines,Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,Which but supplies a feeling to decayAnd to be thus, eternally but thus,Having been otherwise! Now furrowed o'erWith wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years;And hoursall tortured into ageshoursWhich I outlive!Ye toppling crags of ice!Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws downIn mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush meI 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 damn'd 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 crush'd the waters into mist, and madeTheir fountains find another channelthus,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 pastimeas thusthus they shall be In this one plunge.Farewell, ye opening heavens!Look not upon me thus reproachfullyYe were not meant for meEarth! take these atoms!(As Manfred is in Act to spring from the cliff, the Chamois 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 meI will not quit my hold. Man. I am most sick at heartnay, grasp me notI am all feeblenessthe mountains whirlSpinning around meI grow blindWhat art thou? C. Hun. I'll answer that anon.Away with meThe clouds grow thickertherenow lean on mePlace your foot herehere, take this staff, and clingA moment to that shrubnow give me your hand,And hold fast by my girdlesoftlywellThe Chalet will be gain'd within an hourCome on, we'll quickly find a surer footing,And something like a pathway, which the torrentHath wash'd since winter.Come, 'tis bravely doneYou should have been a hunter. Follow me.(As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the Scene closes.) End of act the first Act II Scene I A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. C. Hun. No, noyet pausethou must not yet go forthThy mind and body are alike unfitTo trust each other, for some hours, at least;When thou art better, I will be thy guideBut 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 lineageOne of the many chiefs, whose castled cragsLook o'er the lower valleyswhich 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 childhoodwhich 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 thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, nowLet it do thus for thineCome, pledge me fairly. Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the brim!Will it then nevernever sink in the earth? C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee. Man. I say 'tis bloodmy blood! the pure warm streamWhich ran in the veins of my fathers, and in oursWhen we were in our youth, and had one heartAnd 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 notand I shall never be. C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some halfmaddening sin, Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'erThy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yetThe aid of holy men, and heavenly patience Man. Patience and patience! Hencethat 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 meI 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 agesagesSpace and eternityand consciousness,With the fierce thirst of deathand 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 desart,Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks,Rocks, and the saltsurf weeds of bitterness. C. Hun. Alas! he's madbut yet I must not leave him. Man. I would I werefor then the things I seeWould be but a distemper'd dream. C. Hun.What is itThat thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? Man. Myself, and theea peasant of the AlpsThy humble virtues, hospitable home,And spirit patient, pious, proud and free;Thy selfrespect, 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 seeand then I look withinIt matters notmy soul was scorch'd already! C. Hun. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for mine? Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange My lot with living being I can bearHowever wretchedly, 'tis still to bearIn life what others could not brook to dream,But perish in their slumber. C. Hun.And with thisThis cautious feeling for another's pain,Canst thou be black with evil?say not so.Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revengeUpon his enemies? Man.Oh! no, no, no!My injuries came down on those who loved meOn those whom I best loved I never quell'dAn enemy, save in my just defenceBut 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 timefarewell!Here's gold, and thanks for theeNo wordsit is thy due.Follow me notI know my paththe mountain peril's pastAnd once again, I charge thee, follow not![Exit Manfred. Scene II A lower Valley in the AlpsA CatarAct Enter Manfred.It is not noonthe 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 his hand, and flings it in the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch of the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent.) Man. Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form The charms of Earth's least mortal daughters growTo an unearthly stature, in an essenceOf purer elements; while the hues of youth,Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek,Rock'd 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 glass'd 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 themif that heAvail him of his spellsto 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 thiswhat wouldst thou with me? Man. To look upon thy beautynothing further. The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and ITake refuge in her mysteries, and pierceTo the abodes of those who govern herBut 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 walk'd not with the souls of men,Nor look'd 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 whobut 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 riverstream, or ocean, in their flow.In these my early strength exulted; orTo follow through the night the moving moon,The stars and their developement, 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,cross'd 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 wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust,Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'dThe nights of years in sciences untaught, Save in the oldtime; 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 griefBut 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 seem'd not such to meYet there was one Witch. Spare not thyselfproceed. Man. She was like me in lineamentsher eyes,Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;But soften'd all, and temper'd 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 tearswhich I had not;And tendernessbut that I had for her;Humilityand that I never had.Her faults were mineher virtues were her ownI loved her, and destroy'd her! Witch.With thy hand? Man. Not with my hand, but heartwhich broke her heartIt gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shedBlood, but not hersand yet her blood was shedI sawand could not staunch it. Witch.And for thisA 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 mortalityAway! Man. Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour But words are breathlook on me in my sleep,Or watch my watchingsCome and sit by me!My solitude is solitude no more,But peopled with the Furies,I have gnash'dMy teeth in darkness till returning morn,Then cursed myself till sunset;I have pray'dFor madness as a blessing'tis denied me.I have affronted deathbut in the warOf elements the waters shrunk from me,And fatal things pass'd harmlessthe cold handOf an allpitiless demon held me back,Back by a single hair, which would not break.In phantasy, imagination, allThe affluence of my soulwhich one day wasA Crsus in creationI plunged deep,But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me backInto the gulf of my unfathom'd thought.I plunged amidst mankindForgetfulnessI sought in all, save where 'tis to be found,And that I have to learnmy sciences,My long pursued and superhuman art,Is mortal hereI dwell in my despairAnd liveand 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 soin any shapein any hourWith any tortureso 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 swearObey! and whom? the spiritsWhose presence I command, and be the slaveOf those who served meNever! 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 thensay! 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 yokeThis 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 fewhow less than fewwherein 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 scienceI can call the dead,And ask them what it is we dread to beThe sternest answer can but be the Grave,And that is nothingif they answer notThe buried Prophet answered to the HagOf Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drewFrom the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spiritAn answer and his destinyhe slewThat which he loved unknowing what he slew,And died unpardon'dthough he call'd in aidThe Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia rousedThe Arcadian Evocators to compelThe indignant shadow to depose her wrath,Or fix her term of vengeanceshe repliedIn words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. If I had never lived, that which I loveHad still been living; had I never loved, That which I love would still be beautifulHappy and giving happiness. What is she?What is she now?a sufferer for my sinsA thing I dare not think uponor nothing.Within few hours I shall not call in vainYet in this hour I dread the thing I dareUntil this hour I never shrunk to gazeOn spirit, good or evilnow 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 momenta dead whirlpool's image;And this most steep fantastic pinnacle,The fretwork of some earthquakewhere the cloudsPause to repose themselves in passing byIs sacred to our revels, or our vigils;Here do I wait my sisters, on our wayTo the Hall of Arimanes, for tonightIs our great festival'tis strange they come not. A Voice without, singing.The Captive Usurper,Hurl'd down from the throne,Lay buried in torpor,Forgotten and lone;I broke through his slumbers,I shiver'd his chain,I leagued him with numbersHe's Tyrant again!With the blood of a million he'll answer my care,With a nation's destructionhis flight and despair. Second Voice, without.The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd 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 weepingSullenly, slowly,The black plague flew o'er itThousands lie lowly;Tens of thousands shall perishThe 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 nationThe blest are the dead,Who see not the sightOf their own desolation.This work of a nightThis wreck of a realmthis deed of my doingFor 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 gravesWe 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 tonight. Nem.


l was detain'd 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 outstaid the hourmount we our clouds![Exeunt. Scene IV The Hall of ArimanesArimanes on his Throne, a Globeof Fire, surrounded by the Spirits Hymn of the Spirits.Hail to our Master!Prince of Earth and Air!Who walks the clouds and watersin his handThe sceptre of the elements, which tearThemselves to chaos at his high command! He breathethand a tempest shakes the sea;He speakethand the clouds reply in thunder;He gazethfrom his glance the sunbeams flee;He movethearthquakes 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 agoniesAnd his the spirit of whatever is! Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. First Des. Glory to Arimanes! on the earthHis power increasethboth 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 await His 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 vigilantThy late commandsHave been fulfill'd 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 manA 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 condemned 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 bow'd down my face,And strew'd 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 dare Refuse to Arimanes on his throneWhat the whole earth accords, beholding notThe terror of his GloryCrouch! I say. Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him,The overruling Infinitethe MakerWho made him not for worshiplet 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 knowThat knowledge is not happiness, and scienceBut an exchange of ignorance for thatWhich is another kind of ignorance.This is not allthe passions, attributes Of 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 bebe it so, or not,No other Spirit in this region hathA soul like hisor 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 beyondI come in questOf such, to answer unto what I seek. Nem. What wouldst thou? Man.Thou canst not reply to me.Call up the deadmy question is for them. Nemesis. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouchThe wishes of this mortal? Ari.Yea. Nem.Whom would'st thouUncharnel? Man.One without a tombcall up Astarte. 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 clayWhich returned to the earth, Reappear 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 standsin 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 hecticlike the unnatural redWhich Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf.It is the same! Oh, God! that I should dreadTo look upon the sameAstarte!No, I cannot speak to herbut bid her speakForgive me or condemn me. Nemesis.By the power which hath brokenThe grave which enthrall'd thee,Speak to him who hath spoken,Or those who have call'd 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 alonecommand her voice. Ari. Spiritobey 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 meAstarte! my beloved! speak to meI have so much enduredso much endureLook 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 made To torture thus each other, though it wereThe deadliest sin to love as we have loved.Say that thou loath'st me notthat I do bearThis punishment for boththat thou wilt beOne of the blessedand that I shall die,For hitherto all hateful things conspireTo bind me in existencein a lifeWhich makes me shrink from immortalityA future like the past. I cannot rest.I know not what I ask, nor what I seekI feel but what thou artand what I am;And I would hear yet once before I perishThe voice which was my musicSpeak to me!For I haye call'd on thee in the still night,Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs,And woke the mountain wolves, and made the cavesAcquainted with thy vainly echoed name,Which answered memany things answered meSpirits and menbut thou wert silent all.Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars,And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee.Speak to me! I have wandered o'er the earthAnd never found thy likenessSpeak to me!Look on the fiends aroundthey feel for me I fear them not, and feel for thee aloneSpeak to me! though it be in wrath; but sayI reck not what but let me hear thee onceThis once once more! Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! Man.Say on, say onI live but in the soundit is thy voice! Phan. Manfred! Tomorrow ends thine earthly ills.Farewell! Man. Yet one word moream I forgiven? Phan. Farewell! Man.Say, shall we meet again? Phan. Farewell! Man. One word for mercy! Say, thou lovest me. [The Spirit of Astarte disappears.Phan. Manfred! Nem.She's gone, and will not be recall'd;Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. A Spirit. He is convulsedThis is to be a mortalAnd 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. Nemesis.Then for a time farewell. Man. We meet then! Where? On the earth?Even as thou wilt and for the grace accorded[Exit Manfred.I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well! (Scene closes). End of Act Second 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 tower As I directed? Her.All, my lord, are ready; Here is the key and casket. Man.It is well [Exit Herman.Thou mayst retire. Man. (alone).There is a calm upon meInexplicable stillness! which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. If that I did not know philosophyTo be of all our vanities the mothest,The merest word that ever fool'd 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 onceIt hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,And I within my tablets would note downThat there is such a feeling. Who is there?Reenter Herman.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 preludeAge 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 unimpair'd! 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 brethrenthe scared peasantryEven thy own vassalswho do look on theeWith most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. Man. Take it. Abbot. I come to save, and not destroyI 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 sinn'dAgainst your ordinances? prove and punish! Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment,But penitence and pardon;with thyselfThe choice of such remainsand 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 prayernor purifying formOf penitencenor outward looknor fastNor agonynor, 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 heavencan 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 selfcondemn'dHe deals on his own soul. Abbot.All this is well;For this will pass away, and be succeededBy an auspicious hope, which shall look up With calm assurance to that blessed place,Which all who seek may win, whatever beTheir earthly errors, so they be atonedAnd the commencement of atonement isThe sense of its necessity.Say onAnd all our church can teach thee shall be taught;And all we can absolve thee, shall be pardon'd. Man. When Rome's sixth Emperor was near his last,The victim of a selfinflicted wound,To shun the torments of a public deathFrom senates once his slaves, a certain soldier,With show of loyal pity, would have staunch'dThe gushing throat with his officious robe; The dying Roman thrust him back and saidSome empire still in his expiring glance,"It is too lateis 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 strangeeven those who do despair above,Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth,To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. Man. Ayfather! I have had those earthly visionsAnd noble aspirations in my youth,To make my own the mind of other men,The enlightener of nations; and to riseI knew not whitherit might be to fall;But fall, even as the mountaincatarAct,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 reascended 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 swayand sootheand sueAnd watch all timeand pry into all placeAnd be a living liewho would becomeA mighty thing amongst the mean, and suchThe mass are; I disdain'd to mingle withA herd, though to be leaderand 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 desolationlike the wind,The redhot 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 aid From 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 pleasuresome of studySome worn with toilsome of mere wearinessSome of diseaseand some insanityAnd some of wither'd 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 time[Exit Manfred.All further colloquyand sofarewell. 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 chaoslight and darknessAnd mind and dustand passions and pure thoughts,Mix'd, 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.[Exit Abbot.I'll follow himbut cautiously, though surely. Scene II Another Chamber Manfred and Herman. Her. My Lord, you bade me wait on you at sunsetHe 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 reveal'd!Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the heartsOf the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'dThemselves in orisons! Thou material God!And representative of the UnknownWho 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 thee,Even 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[Exit Manfred.I follow. Scene III The MountainsThe Castle of Manfred at somedistanceA Terrace before a TowerTime, 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 ofttimes; 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 give The fee of what I have to come these three years,To pore upon its mysteries. Manuel.'Twere dangerous;Content thyself with what thou knowest already. Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,And could'st say much; thou hast dwelt within the castleHow 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 habitsCount 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 watchI'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 watchingsher, whom of all earthly thingsThat lived, the only thing he seem'd to love,As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do,The Lady Astarte, hisHush! 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 beBut I must see him. Her.Thou hast seen him onceThis 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, stopI pray you pause. Abbot.Why so? Manuel.But step this way,[Exeunt.And I will tell you further. Scene IV Interior of the Tower Manfred alone. Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the topsOf the snowshining 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 learn'd the language of another world.I do remember me, that in my youth,When I was wandering,upon such a nightI stood within the Coloseum'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 watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber; andMore near from out the Csars' palace cameThe owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind.Some cypresses beyond the timeworn breachAppeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stoodWithin a bowshotwhere the Csars dwelt,And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidstA grove which springs through levell'd 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 Csar'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 soften'd down the hoar austerityOf rugged desolation, and fill'd 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 abruptnessall it hath of illRecoils on me; its good in the effectMay light upon your headcould I say heartCould 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 recordedRetire, or 'twill be dangerousAway! 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 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 mebut I fear it notI see a dusk and awful figure riseLike an infernal god from out the earth;His face wrapt in a mantle, and his formRobed as with angry clouds; he stands betweenThyself and mebut I do fear him not. Man. Thou hast no causehe shall not harm theebutHis sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy.I say to theeRetire! Abbot.And, I replyNevertill I have battled with this fiendWhat doth he here? Man.Whyaywhat 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 thunderscars are graven; from his eyeGlares forth the immortality of hellAvaunt! Man.Pronouncewhat 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 anonCome! 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 comeAway! I say. Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but notTo render up my soul to such as theeAway! I'll die as I have livedalone. Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.Rise![Other Spirits rise up. 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 himAway! 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 yeearthly 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 sciencepenancedaringAnd length of watchingstrength of mindand skillIn knowledge of our fatherswhen the earthSaw men and spirits walking side by side,And gave ye no supremacy I standUpon my strengthI do defydenySpurn back, and scorn ye! Spirit.But thy many crimesHave made thee Man.What are they to such as thee?Must crimes be punish'd 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 knowWhat I have done is done; I bear withinA torture which could nothing gain from thineThe mind which is immortal makes itselfRequital for its good or evil thoughtsIs its own origin of ill and endAnd its own place and timeits innate sense,When stripp'd of this mortality, derivesNo colour from the fleeting things without;But is absorb'd 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 preyBut was my own destroyer, and will beMy own hereafter.Back, ye baffled fiends!The hand of death is on mebut not yours![The Demons disappear. Abbot. Alas! how pale thou artthy lips are whiteAnd thy breast heavesand in thy gasping throatThe accents rattleGive thy prayers to heavenPrayalbeit but in thought,but die not thus. Man. 'Tis overmy dull eyes can fix thee not;But all things swim around me, and the earthHeaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well[Manfred expires.Give me thy hand. Abbot.Coldcoldeven to the heartBut yet one prayeralas! how fares it with thee?He's gonehis soul hath ta'en its earthless flightWhither? I dread to thinkbut he is gone. Notes Note 1, page 31, line 1.  the sunbow's rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven. This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower part of the Alpine torrents it is exActly like a rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk into itthis effect lasts till noon. Note 2, page 35, line 9. He who from out their fountain dwellings raised Eros and Anteros, at Gadara. The philosopher Iamblicus. The story of the raising of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life, by Eunapius. It is well told. Note 3, page 39, line 21. she replied In words of dubious import, but fulfilled. The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who commanded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and afterwards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacedemonians) and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life of Cimon; and in the Laconics of Pausanias the Sophist, in his description of Greece. Note 4, page 63, line 6. the giant sons Of the embrace of angels. "That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair," c. "There were giants on the earth in those days, and also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men, which were of old, men of renown." Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4. The end This book has been downloaded from www.aliceandbooks.com. You can find many more public domain books in our website