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And on thy head I pour the vial
Which doth devote thee to this trial;
Nor to slumber, nor to die,
Shall be in thy destiny ;
Though thy death shall still seem near
To thy wish, but as
Lo! the spell now works around thee,
And the clankless chain hath bound thee ;
O'er thy heart and brain together
Hath the word been pass'd-now wither!


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The Mountain of the Jung frau.—Time, Morning

MANFRED alone upon the Cliffs.

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me-
The spells which I have studied baffle me-
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me:
I lean no more on super-human aid,
It hath no power upon the past, and for
The future, till the pass'd be gulf’d 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 crags, 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 myself-
The 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

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Man. The spirits
The spells which I ha
The remedy I reck'd
I lean no more on sup
It hath no power upor
The future, till the pa
It is not of my search.
And thou fresh breakin
Why are ye beautiful
And thou, the bright e
That openest over all,
Art a delight-thou sh


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t perceiving the other.) To be thuswith anguish, like these blasted pines, 1 single winter, barkless, branchless, trunk upon a cursed root, supplies a feeling to decayhus, eternally but thus, in otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er kles, plough'd by moments, not by years ; --all tortured into ages-hours itlive!_Ye toppling crags of ice! hes, whom a breath draws down nous o’erwhelming, come and crush me! nomently above, beneath, a frequent conflict; but ye pass, all on things which still would live ; ung flourishing forest, or the hut it of the harmless villager.

The mists begin to rise from up the valley; im to descend, or he may chance once his way and life together. Themists boil up around the glaciers; clouds ing fast beneath me, white and sulphury, n from the roused ocean of deep Hell, very wave breaks on a living shore, with the damn'd like pebbles.-I am giddy. x. I must approach him cautiously; if near, n step will startle him, and he ottering already.

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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,
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. CHAMOIS HUNTER.

Even so 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, bis mien manly, and his air Proud as a free-born peasant's at this distance.I will approach him nearer.

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