And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside From men and their delights Her. Beshrew the hour, But those were jocund times! I would that such As if they had forgotten them. Manuel. These walls The trees which grew along the broken arches Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some strange things in them, Herman. Her. So like that it might be the same; the wind Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach While Cæsars' chambers, and the Augustan halls, And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries, Hush! who comes here. With silent worship of the great of old!- Enter the ABBOT. Abbot. Where is your master? Her. Yonder in the tower. 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time: Her. Thou hast seen him once This eve already. Herman! I command thee, But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Enter the ABBOT. My good lord! Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. Her. We dare not. Of my own purpose. Abbot. I crave a second grace for this approach; Then it seems I must be herald Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should Reverend father, stop Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd; But is not yet all lost. Man. Thou know'st me not; Manuel. I pray you pause. Abbot. Why so? What dost thou mean? And steadfastly;-now tell me what thou seest? Abbot. That which should shake me,--but I fear it not I see a dusk and awful figure rise Like an infernal god from out the earth; His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form Man. Thou hast no cause-he shall not harm thee-but His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. Abbot. And I reply Never-till I have battled with this fiend- Man. Man. Why-ay-what doth he here?-Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, I did not send for him,-he is unbidden. But by superior science-penance-daring Abbot. Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like And length of watching-strength of mind-and Skill In knowledge of our fathers-when the earth Spirit. Have made thee Man. But thy many crimes What are they to such as thee i Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 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: We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; Spirit. Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me; I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey- [The Demons disappear. Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art-thy lips are white And thy breast heaves-and in thy gasping throat Man. 'Tis over-my dull eyes can fix thee not, Abbot. [MANFRED expires Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta'en its earth less flight Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not Arn. Bert. [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 The fountain moves without a wind: but shall [A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands Arn. Spirit or man? Stran. What would you? Speak As man is both, why not 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 Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, [ARNOLD goes to a spring, and stoops to wash [He pauses. And shall I live on, 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. But come: you wish to kill yourself;-pursue Your purpose. Arn. 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 Stran. Unless you keep company Arn. Do you dare you To taunt me with my born deformity ? Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary With thy sublime of humps, the animals Would revel in the compliment. And yet Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty In action and endurance than thyself, And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 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 the point upwards. Now 'tis set, And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. Stran. I will. Arn. (with surprise.) Thou canst ? Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you, Arn. Oh! then you are indeed the demon, for Arn. On what condition? There's a question! Arn. No; I will not. What soul, I must not compromise my soul. Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? Stran. Arn. Whose blood then? Not in your own. [Various Phantoms arise from the water, and pass in succession before the Stranger and ARNOLD. Arn. What do I see? The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became Arn. The phantom's bald; my quest is beauty Inherit but his fame with his defects! Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. You see his aspect-choose it, or reject. I can but promise you his form; his fame Arn. We will talk of that hereafter. Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, But I'll be moderate with you, for I see Arn. I take thee at thy word. Or Cleopatra at sixteen-an age When love is not less in the eye than heart. [The phantom of Julius Cæsar disappears. Arn. And can it Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone, [The Stranger approaches the fountain, and And left no footstep? turns to ARNOLD. Stran. Now then! Arn. (holding out his wounded arm.) Take it all. I the sun. Shadows of power! Rise to your duty This is the hour! Walk lovely and pliant From the depth of this fountain, Bestrides the Hartz mountain." • This is a well-known Gerinas superstition—a gigantic shadow produced by relection on the Brocken. Behold another! [A second phantom passes. Who is he? Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of Athenians. Look upon him well. Arn. He is |