Of which we are the mind and principle:
But choose a form-in that we will appear.
Man. I have no choice; there is no form on earth Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him,
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect
As unto him may seem most fitting-Come!
Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape of a beautiful female figure.) Behold!
Man. Oh God! if it be thus, and thou Art not a madness and a mockery,
I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee,
[MANFRED falls senseless.
(A Voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.)
When the moon is on the wave,
And the glow-worm in the grass, And the meteor on the grave,
And the wisp on the morass; When the falling stars are shooting, And the answer'd owls are hooting, And the silent leaves are still In the shadow of the hill, Shall my soul be upon thine,
With a power and with a sign.
Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;
There are shades which will not vanish,
There are thoughts thou canst not banish;
By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone;
Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Thou art gather'd in a cloud; And for ever shalt thou dwell In the spirit of this spell.
Though thou seest me not pass by, Thou shalt feel me with thine eye As a thing that, though unseen, Must be near thee, and hath been; And when in that secret dread Thou hast turn'd around thy head, Thou shalt marvel I am not As thy shadow on the spot, And the power which thou dost feel Shall be what thou must conceal.
And a magic voice and verse Hath baptized thee with a curse; And a spirit of the air
Hath begirt thee with a snare ; In the wind there is a voice Shall forbid thee to rejoice; And to thee shall Night deny All the quiet of her sky; And the Day shall have a sun,
Which shall make thee wish it done.
(MANFRED, Act i. Scene 2.)
The Mountain of the Jungfrau.-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 past 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.
Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,
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 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.
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, his mien manly, and his air Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance— I will approach him nearer.
Man. (not perceiving the other.) To be thus- Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, Which but supplies a feeling to decay- And to be thus, eternally but thus,
Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years And hours-all tortured into ages-hours Which I outlive!-Ye toppling crags of ice! Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! I hear ye momently above, beneath,
Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, And only fall on things that still would live; On the young flourishing forest, or the hut And hamlet of the harmless villager.
C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley; I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance
To lose at once his way and life together.
Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell,
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