Must serve who fain would sway-and sooth-and|
And watch all time-and pry into all place-
And be a living lie-who would become
A mighty thing among the mean, and such
The mass are; I disdain'd to mingle with
A herd, though to be leader-and of wolves.
The lion is alone, and so am I.
Abbot. And why not live and act with other men?
Man. Because my nature was averse from life;
And yet not cruel; for I would not make,
But find a desolation :-like the wind,
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er
The 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 been
The course of my existence; but there came
Things in my path which are no more.
Abbot.
I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid
From me and from my calling; yet so young,
I still would-
Look on me! there is an order
Of mortals on the earth, who do become
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,
Without the violence of warlike death;
Some perishing of pleasure-some of study-
Some worn with toil-some of mere weariness-
Some of disease-and some of insanity-
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts,
For this last is a malady which slays
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate,
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.
Look upon me! for even of all these things
Have I partaken; and of all these things
One were enough; then wonder nor that 1
Am 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 respect
Thine order, and revere thy years; I deem
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain :
Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself,
Far more than me, in shunning at this time
All further colloquy-and so-farewell.
[Exit MANFRED.
Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: he
Hath all the energy which would have made
A goodly frame of glorious elements,
Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,
It is an awful chaos-light and darkness-
And mind and dust-and passions and pure 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 duty
Is to dare all things for a righteous end.
I'll follow him-but cautiously, though surely.
[Exit ABBOT.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.es/books/content?id=OZlEAQAAMAAJ&hl=es&output=html_text&pg=PA230&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:LCCN24023098&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3HNPv2w6LwLJQIKdJRuV17_nvoMQ&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=517,141,403,41)
[MANFRED advances to the Window of the Hall
Glorious Orb! the idol
Of early nature, and the vigorous race
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 4
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex
More beautiful than they, which did draw down
The erring spirits who can ne'er return.—
Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd
Themselves in orisons! Thou material God!
And representative of the Unknown-
Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star!
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues
And 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 glance
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone:
I follow.
The Mountains.-The Castle of Manfred at some distance.-A Terrace before a Tower.-Time, Twilight.
HERMAN, MANUEL, and other Dependants of MANFRED.
Her. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for years,
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,
Without a witness. I have been within it,-
So have we all been ofttimes, but from it,
Or its contents, it were impossible
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is
One 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 know'st already. Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castleHow many years is't?
Ere Count Manfred's birth, I served his father, whom he naught resembles. Her. There be more sons in like predicament. But wherein do they differ?
Of features or of form, but mind and habits:
Count Sigismund was proud,-but gay and free,-
A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not
With books and solitude, nor made the night
Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset: A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,
He sinks behind the mountain.
Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside
From men and their delights.
Beshrew the hour, But those were jocund times! I would that such Would visit the old walls again; they look
As if they had forgotten them.
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bay'd 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
Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen Bogun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some strange things in them, Herman.
Her.
Come, be friendly;
Relate me some to while away our watch:
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower.
Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such
Another evening;-yon red cloud, which rests
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,-
So like that it might be the same; the wind
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows
Began to glitter with the climbing moon;
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,-
How occupied, we knew not, but with him
The sole companion of his wanderings
And watchings-her, whom of all earthly things
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love,-
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do.
The lady Astarte, his――
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot-Where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuncless birds of night, amidst
A 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 Cæsars' 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 soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugg'd 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 place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
Hush! who comes here. With silent worship of the great of old!-
The dead, but sceptered sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.-
Enter the ABBOT. Abbot. Where is your master? Her.
Yonder in the tower. 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time:
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 thee
And thy surrounding angels: my past power
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew,
But by superior science-penance-daring-
And length of watching-strength of mind—and
skill
In knowledge of our fathers-when the earth
Saw men and spirits walking side by side,
And gave ye no supremacy: I stand
Upon my strength—I do defy-deny-
Spurn back, and scorn ye!-
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 know:
What I have done is done; 1 bear within
A torture which could nothing gain from thine;
The mind which is immortal makes itself
Requital for its good or evil thoughts-
Is its own origin of ill and end-
And its own place and time-its innate sense,
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives
No color from the fleeting things without;
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy,
Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not Born from the knowledge of his own desert.
To render up my soul to such as thee:
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not
Away! I'll die as I have lived-alone.
tempt me;
Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.-I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey-
Rise!
[Other spirits rise up. But was my own destroyer, and will be
Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones!-Avaunt! I say,- My own hereafter.-Back, ye baffled fiends!
Ye have no power where piety hath power,
The hand of death is on me-but not yours!
And I do charge ye in the name-
Spirit.
We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,
It were in vain; this man is forfeited.
Once more I summon him-Away! away!
Man. I do defy ye,-though I feel my soul
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath
To breathe my scorn upon ye-earthly strength
To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take
Shall be ta'en limb by limb.
Spirit.
Reluctant mortal!
Is this the Magian who would so pervade
The world invisible, and make himself
Almost our equal?-Can it be that thou
Art thus in love with life? the very life
Which made thee wretched!
[The Demons disappear. Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art-thy lips are
And thy breast heaves-and in thy gasping throat
The accents rattle-Give thy prayers to heaven-
Pray-albeit but in thought,-but die not thus.
Man. 'Tis over-my dull eyes can fix thee not,
But all things swim around me, and the earth
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well-
Give me thy hand.
Abbot.
Cold-cold-even to the heart-
But yet one prayer-alas! how fares it with thee?-
Man. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die.
Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta'en its earth
Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone.
Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not
If there would be another unlike thee,
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence,
And gather wood!
Arn.
I will; but when I bring it,
Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are
So beautiful aud lusty, and as free
As the free chase they follow, do hot spurn me:
Our milk has been the same.
Bert.
As is the hedgehog's
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid find
The nipple next day sore and udder dry.
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchia, out.
[Exit BERTHA.
Arn. (solus.) Oh mother!-She's gone, and I must do
Her bidding-wearily but willingly
I would fulfil it, could I only hope
A kind word in return. What shall I do?
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but
In vain. The birds-how joyously they sing!
So let them, for I would not be lamented:
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell;
The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur
Of the near fountain my sole elegy:
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall!
[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife,
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain,
which seems in motion.
The fountain moves without a wind: but shall
The ripple of a spring change my resolve?
No. Yet it moves again! The waters stir,
Not as with air, but by some subterrane
And rocking power of the internal world.
What's here? A mist! No more ?—
[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands
gazing upon it: it is dispelled, and a tall black
man comes towards him.
[ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this he Say both in one?
wounds one of his hands.
My labor for the day is over now.
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast;
For double curses will be my meed now
At home. What home? I have no home, no kin, To which you please, without much wrong to either. No kind-not made like other creatures, or
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too Like them? Oh that each drop which falls to earth Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me,
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake
His form, why not his power? Is it because
I have not his will too? For one kind word
From her who bore me would still reconcile me
Ever to this hateful aspect. Let me wash
The wound.
But come: you wish to kill yourself;-pursue Your purpose.
You have interrupted me.
Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er Be interrupted? If I be the devil
You deem, a single moment would have made you Mine, and for ever, by your suicide;
And yet my coming saves you.
Arn.
I said not
You were the demon, but that your approach
Was like one.
Stran.
Unless you keep company
[ARNOLD goes to a spring, and stoops to wash With him (and you seem scarce used to such high
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame
Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood,
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself
On earth, to which I will restore at once
This hateful compound of her atoms, and
Resolve back to her elements, and take
The shape of any reptile save myself,
And make a world for myriads of new worms!
This knife! now let me prove if this will sever
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade-my
Vile form-from the creation, as it hath
The green bough from the forest.
In action and endurance than thyself,
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind
With thee. Thy form is natural; 'twas only
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow
The gifts which are of others upon man.
Arn. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot,
When he spurns high the dust, beholding his
Near enemy; or let me have the long
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship,
[ARNOLD places the knife in the ground, with The helmless dromedary ;-and I'll bear
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. Stran. I will.
Arn. (with surprise.) Thou canst ?
|