Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone
Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine
Yet 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 unfit
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make
| A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation and of pride,
Contending with low wants and lofty will
Till our mortality predominates,
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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 not
A pastoral fable-pipes in the liberal air,
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;
My soul would drink those echoes.—Oh, that I were
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,
A living voice, a breathing harmony,
A bodiless enjoyment-born and dying
With the blest tone which made me!
Enter from below a CHAMOIS Hunter.
This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet
Have baffled me; my gains to-day will scarce
Repay my break-neck 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 garb
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance.-
I will approach him nearer.
MANFRED (not perceiving the other).
To be thus-
Grey-hair'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 decay-
And to be thus, eternally but thus,
Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er
With wrinkles, plougli'd by moments, not by years;
And hours-all tortured into ages-hours
Which I outlive!-Ye toppling crags of ice!
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down
In 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 hut
And hamlet of the harmless villager.
The mists begin to rise from up the valley; I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance To lose at once his way and life together.
The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury,
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell,
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore,
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles.—I am giddy.
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 cling
A moment to that shrub-now give me your hand,
And hold fast by my girdle-softly--well-
The chalet will be gain'd within an hour.
Come on, we 'll quickly find a surer footing,
And something like a pathway, which the torrent
Hath wash'd since winter.-Come, 't is bravely done-
You should have been a hunter.-Follow me.
[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the
scene closes.]
A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.
No, no-yet pause-thou must not yet go forth:
Thy mind and body are alike unfit
To trust each other, for some hours, at least;
When thou art better, I will be thy guide-
But whither?
It imports not: I do know My route full well, and need no further guidance.
But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks, Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.
Alas! he's mad-but yet I must not leave him.
I would I were-for then the things I see Would be but a distemper'd dream.
What is it That thou dost sec, or think thou look'st upon?
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; hopes
Of 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 scorch'd already!
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!
A lower Valley in the Alps-A Cataract.
Enter MANFRED.
It is not noon-the sunbow's rays still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column
O'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 eyes
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; I should be sole in this sweet solitude, And with the spirit of the place divide The 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 sunbeam of the torrent.
Beautiful spirit! with thy hair of light,
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form
The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow
To an unearthly stature, in an essence
Of 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 leaves
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow,
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven,-
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame
The 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 son
Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit
At times to commune with them—if that he
Avail him of his spells-to call thee thus,
And gaze on thee a moment.
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 wouldst thou with me?
To look upon thy beauty-nothing further.
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce
To the abodes of those who govern her-
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought
From them what they could not bestow, and now
I search no further.
What could be the quest Which is not in the power of the most powerful, The rulers of the invisible?
But why should I repeat it? 't were in vain.
I know not that; let thy lips utter it.
Well, though it torture me, 't is but the same;
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards
My 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 me
Was 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 breathe The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge Into the torrent, and to roll along On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. In these my early strength exulted; or To follow through the night the moving moon, The stars and their development; or catch The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd 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 drew From wither'd bones, and sculls, and heap'd-up dust, Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd The nights of years in sciences untaught, Save in the old time; and with time and toil, And terrible ordeal, and such penance
As in itself hath power upon the air,
And spirits that do compass air and earth,
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made
Mine eyes familiar with eternity,
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and
He who from out their fountain dwellings raised
Eros and Anteros,' at Gadara,
As I do thee;-and with my knowledge grew
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy
Of this most bright intelligence, until――
Oh! I but thus prolong'd my words, Boasting these idle attributes, because As I approach the core of my heart's grief— But to my task. I have not named to thee Father 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-
Spare not thyself-proceed.
She was like me in liueaments-her 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 mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, 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 destroy'd her!
Not with my hand, but heart--which broke her
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed
Blood, but not hers-and yet her blood was shed-
I saw-and could not staunch it.
A being of the race thou dost despise,
The order which thine own would rise above,
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back
To recreant mortality--Away!
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,
Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live,
heart-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
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness-
In all the days of past and future, for
In life there is no present, we can number
How few-how less than few-wherein the soul
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment's. I have one resource
Still 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 answer'd to the Hag
Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit
An answer and his destiny--he slew
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew,
And died unpardon'd-though he call'd in aid
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused
The Arcadian Evocators to compel
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath,
Or fix her term of vengeance-she replied
In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd,3
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful-
But peopled with the Furies.-I have gnash'd
My teeth in darkness till returning morn,
Then cursed myself till sunset;-I have pray'd
For madness as a blessing-'t is denied me.
I have affronted death-but in the war
Of elements te water shrunk from me,
And fatal things passed harmless-the cold hand
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back,
Back by a single hair, which would not break.
In phantasy, imagination, all
The affluence of my soul-which one day was
A Croesus in creation-I plunged deep,
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back
Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought.
I plunged amidst mankind-Forgetfulness
I sought in all, save where 't is to be found,
And that I have to learn-my sciences,
My long-pursued and super-human art,
Is mortal here-I dwell in my despair-
And live-and live for ever.
I broke through bis slumbers,
I shiver'd 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 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,
Aud 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 mel
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 from
The sick they should cherish;
But nothing can vanquish
The touch that they die from.
Sorrow and anguish,
And evil and dread,
Envelop a nation-
The blest are the dead,
Who see not the sight
Of 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 Hall of Arimanes-Arimanes on his Throne, a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits.
Hail to our master!-Prince of earth and air! Who walks the clouds and waters-in his hand The sceptre of the elements, which tear
Themselves 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 volcanos rise;
His shadow is the pestilence; his path
The 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.
Glory to Arimanes! on the earth
His power increaseth-both my sisters did His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty!
| Glory to Arimanes! we who bow
The necks of men, bow down before his throne!
Glory to Arimanes!—we await his nod!
T is 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 known
The fulness of humiliation, for
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt
To my own desolation.
|