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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
Would visit the old walls again; they look

As if they had forgotten them.

Manuel.

These walls

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 Begun 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
'T'was 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 tuneless 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 sɔ,
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.-
'Twas such a night!

Enter the ABBOT. Abbot. Where is your master? Her.

Yonder in the tower. 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time:

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Her.

Thou hast seen him once

This eve already.
Abbot.

Herman! I command thee,

But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight
Even at the moment when they should array
Themselves in pensive order.

Enter the ABBOT.

My good lord!

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.

Her. We dare not.
Abbot.

Of my own purpose.

Abbot.

I crave a second grace for this approach;
But yet let not my humble zeal offend
By its abruptness-all it hath of ill
Recoils on me; its good in the effect
May light upon your head-could I say heart-

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?

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What dost thou mean?
Look there!

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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
Robed as with angry clouds; he stands between
Thyself and me-but I do fear him not.

Man. Thou hast no cause-he shall not harm

thee-but

His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy.
I say to thee-Retire!

Abbot.

And I reply

Never-till I have battled with this fiend-
What doth he here?

Man.

Man.
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

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

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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!-

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,
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; I 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:

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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 timb.

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!

Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not

tempt me;

I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey-
But was my own destroyer, and will be
My own hereafter.-Back, ye baffled fiends!
The hand of death is on me-but not yours!

[The Demons disappear. Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art-thy lips are

white

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.

[MANFRED expires Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta'en its earth

less flight

Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone

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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 not 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, urchin, 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 warin'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.

Arn. Spirit or man?

Stran.

What would you? Speak

As man is both, why not

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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
stung me!

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.

[ARNOLD goes to a spring, and stoops to wash
his hand: he starts back.
They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me
What she hath made me. I will not look on it
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch
That I am! The very waters mock me with
My horrid shadow-like a demon placed
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle
From drinking therein.

[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
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
With him (and you seem scarce used to such high
Society) you can't tell how he approaches:
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain,
And then on me, and judge which of us twain
Look likest what the boors believe to be
Their cloven-footed terror.

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
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

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 ?

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Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you,
Or form you to your wish in any shape.

Arn. Oh! then you are indeed the demon, for
Nought else would wittingly wear mine.
Stran
I'll show thee
The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee
Thy choice.

Arn.
Stran.

On what condition?

There's a question!
An hour ago you would have given your soul
To look like other men, and now you pause
To wear the form of heroes.

Arn.

No; I will not.

What soul,

I must not compromise my soul.
Stran.

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ?
Arn. "Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact:|
Must it be sign'd in blood?

Stran.

Arn. Whose blood then?
Stran.

Not in your own.

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[Various Phantoms arise from the water, and pass in succession before the Stranger and

ARNOLD.

Arn. What do I see?
Stran.
The black-eyed Roman, with
The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along

The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name.

Arn. The phantom's bald; my quest is beauty
Could I

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
Must be long sought and fought for.

Arn.
I will fight too.
But not as a mock Cæsar. Let him pass;
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not.
Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please

We will talk of that hereafter. Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother,

But I'll be moderate with you, for I see
Great things within you. You shall have no bond
But your own will, no contract save your deeds.
Are you content?

Arn.

I take thee at thy word.

Or Cleopatra at sixteen-an age

When love is not less in the eye than heart.
But be it so! Shadow, pass on!

[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!

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Arn. (holding out his wounded arm.) Take it all. I the sun.
Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this.
[The Stranger takes some of ARNOLD's blood in
his hand, and casts it into the fountain.
Stran. Shadows of beauty!

Shadows of power!

Rise to your duty

This is the hour!

Walk lovely and pliant

From the depth of this fountain,
As the cloud-shapen giant

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

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