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rhou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,

[An eagle passes.
Vhose happy flight is highest into heaven,
Well may'st thou swoop so near me I should be

rhy 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 mixed 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
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,
Mixed 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!

MANFRED'S NOCTURNAL SOLILOQUY.
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains Beautiful !
I linger yet with Nature, for the night

MANFRED'S SOLILOQUY ON THE JUNGFRAU. The Mountain of the Jungfrau. Time, morning.

Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. The spirits I have raised abandon me The spells which I have studied baffle me The remedy I recked of tortured me; I lean no more on super-human aid, It hath no power upon the past, and for The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness, It is not of my search.-My mother Earth ! And thou fresh-breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight thou shin'st not on my heart. And you, ye crage, upon whose extreme edge I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To rest for ever-wherefore do I pause ? I feel the impulse-yet I do not plunge ; I see the peril_yet do not recede; And my brain reels and yet my foot is firm: There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live ; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myselfThe last infirmity of evil. Ay,

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,

[An eagle passes. Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, Well may'st thou swoop so near me_I should be 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 mixed 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, 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 reedFor here the patriarchal days are not A pastoral fable---pipes in the liberal air, Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; My soul would drink those echoes.-Oh, that I 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!

MANFRED'S NOCTURNAL SOLILOQUY.
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful !
I linger yet with Nature, for the night

Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learned the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,-upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cæsars' palace came

The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot-where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levelled battlements,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the Laurel's place of growth;
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection !
While Cæsar's chambers and the Augustan halls
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As 'twere, anew, the gaps of centuries ;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old !-
The dead but sceptered sovereigns, who still rule
Our 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 flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order.

THE LAST PARTING OF MEDORA AND CONRAD.
· He pass'd the portal-cross'd the corridore,
And reached the chamber as the strain gave o'er :
“ My own Medora! sure thy song is sad."
“ In Conrad's absence would'st thou have it glad ?
Without thine ear to listen to my lay,
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray :
Still must each accent to my bosom suit,
My heart unhush'd although my lips were mute !
Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined,
My dreaming fear with storms has wing'd the wind,
And deem'd the breath that faintly fanned thy sail
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ;
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge,
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge:
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire:
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star,
And morning came—and still thou wert afar.
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,
And day broke dreary on my troubled view,
And still I gazed and gazed—and not a prow
Was granted to my tears my truth-my vow!
At length-'twas noon—I hail'd and blest the mast

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