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A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps.
MANFRED and the Chamois HUNTER.
Man. It imports not: I do know
Which step from out our mountains to their doors,
Man. No matter.
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, now Let 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
stream Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours When 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-mad
dening sin, Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yetThe aid of holy men, and heavenly patience Man. Patience and patience! Hence—that word was
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;
Thanks to heaven!
Max. Do I not bear it ?-Look on me - I live.
Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,
C. Hon. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.
Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have 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
Man. I would I were—for then the things I see
What is it
Man. Myself, and thee-a peasant of the Alps-
And with this
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge
Oh! no, no, no!
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
A lower Valley in the Alps. A Cataract.
It is not noon—the sunbow's rays (1) still arch