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The SCENE of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps—partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-Manfred alone.-Scene, a Gothic Gal- | Which gives me power upon you-Rise! Appear!
lery.-Time, Midnight.
[A pause.
They come not yet.-Now by the voice of him
Which makes you tremble-by the claims of him
Who is undying,-Rise! Appear!- -Appear!
[A pause.
If it be so.-Spirits of earth and air,
Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power,
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant spell,
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd,
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world,
A wandering hell in the eternal space;
By the strong curse which is upon my soul,
The thought which is within me and around me,
I do compel ye to my will.-Appear!

Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then Who is the first among you-by this sign,

It will not burn so long as I must watch:
My slumbers-if I slumber-are not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought,
Which then I can resist not in my heart
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close
To look within; and yet I live, and bear
The aspect and the form of breathing men.
But grief should be the instructor of the wise;
Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth,
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.
Philosophy and science, and the springs
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world,
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is
A power to make these subject to itself-
But they avail not: I have done men good,
And I have met with good even among men―
But this avail'd not: I have had my foes,
And none have baffled, many fallen before me-
But this avail'd not:-Good, or evil, life,
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings,
Have been to me as rain unto the sands,
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread,
And feel the curse to have no natural fear,

Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or
wishes,

Or lurking love of something on the earth.
Now to my task.-

Mysterious Agency!

Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe!
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light-
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell
In subtler essence-ye, to whom the tops
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things-
I call upon ye by the written charm

* March 3, 1817, Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Murray, "I sent you the other day, in two covers, the first act of 'Manfred.' a drama as mad as Nat Lee's Bedlam tragedy, which was

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery: it is stationary; and a voice is heard singing.

First Spirit.

Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd,
From my mansion in the cloud,
Which the breath of twilight builds,
And the summer's sunset gilds
With the azure and vermilion,
Which is mix'd for my pavilion;
Though thy quest may be forbidden,
On a star-beam I have ridden:
To thine adjuration bow'd,
Mortal-be thy wish avow'd!

Voice of the Second Spirit.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crown'd him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced,
The Avalanche in his hand;

twenty-five acts and some odd scenes: mine is but in three acts."-March 9, 1817. "You must not publish it (if it ever is published) without giving me previous notice."

But ere it fall, that thundering ball
Must pause for my command.
The Glacier's cold and restless mass
Moves onward day by day;
But I am he who bids it pass,
Or with its ice delay.

I am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow
And quiver to his cavern'd base-
And what with me wouldst Thou?

Voice of the Third Spirit.
In the blue depth of the waters,
Where the wave hath no strife,
Where the wind is a stranger,
And the sea-snake hath life,
Where the Mermaid is decking
Her green hair with shells,
Like the storm on the surface
Came the sound of thy spells;
O'er my calm Hall of Coral
The deep echo roll'd-
To the Spirit of Ocean
Thy wishes unfold!

Fourth Spirit.

Where the slumbering earthquake
Lies pillow'd on fire,
And the lakes of bitumen

Rise boilingly higher;

Where the roots of the Andes
Strike deep in the earth,

As their summits to heaven
Shoot soaringly forth;

I have quitted my birthplace,
Thy bidding to bide-
Thy spell hath subdued me,
Thy will be my guide!

Fifth Spirit.

I am the Rider of the wind,
The Stirrer of the storm;

The hurricane I left behind

Is yet with lightning warm;

To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea

I swept upon the blast:

The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet "T will sink ere night be past.

Sixth Spirit.

My dwelling is the shadow of the night, Why doth thy magic torture me with light?

Seventh Spirit.

The star which rules thy destiny
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me:
It was a world as fresh and fair
As e'er revolved round sun in air;
Its course was free and regular,
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star.
The hour arrived-and it became
A wandering mass of shapeless flame,
A pathless comet, and a curse,
The menace of the universe;
Still rolling on with innate force,
Without a sphere, without a course,
A bright deformity on high,
The monster of the upper sky!

And thou! beneath its influence born-
Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn-
Forced by a power (which is not thine,
And lent thee but to make thee mine)
For this brief moment to descend,
Where these weak spirits round thee bend
And parley with a thing like thee-
What wouldst thou, Child of Clay! with
me?

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days

Man. Accursed! what have I to do with days?
They are too long already.-Hence-begone!
Spirit. Yet pause: being here, our will would do
thee service;

Bethink thee, is there then no other gift
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes?
Man. No, none; yet stay-one moment, ere we
part-

I would behold ye face to face. I hear
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds,
As music on the waters; and I see
The steady aspect of a clear large star;
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are,
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms.
Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements
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 or 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 beauti
ful female figure). Behold!

Man. Oh God! if it be thus, and thou
Art not a madness and a mockery,

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(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.

From thy false tears I did distill
An essence which hath strength to kill;
From thy own heart I then did wring
The black blood in its blackest spring;
From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake,

For there it coil'd as in a brake;
From thy own lip I drew the charm
Which gave all these their chiefest harm;
In proving every poison known,

I found the strongest was thine own.

By thy cold breast and serpent smile,
By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile,
By that most seeming virtuous eye,
By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ;
By the perfection of thine art

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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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 mayst 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,

Which pass'd for human thine own heart; A bodiless enjoyment-born and dying

By thy delight in others' pain,

And by thy brotherhood of Cain,

I call upon thee! and compel

Thyself to be thy proper Hell!

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 a fear;

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, his mien manly, and his air

Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance-
I will approach him nearer.

Man. (not perceiving the other). To be thus-
Gray-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.

Friend! have a care,

C. Hun.
Your next step may be fatal!-for the love
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink!
Man.(not hearing him). Such would have been for
me a fitting tomb;

My bones had then been quiet in their depth;
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks
For the wind's pastime-as thus-thus they shall
be-

In this one plunge.-Farewell, ye opening heavens!
Look not upon me thus reproachfully-

You were not meant for me-Earth! take these
atoms!

[As Manfred is in act to spring from the cliff, the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp.

C. Hun. Hold, madman!--though aweary of thy life,

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood: 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,
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore,
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles.—I am giddy.
C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near,
A sudden step will startle him, and he
Seems tottering already.
Man.
Mountains have fallen,
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock
Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters;
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash,
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made
Their fountains find another channel-thus,
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg-
Why stood I not beneath it?

Away with me--I will not quit my hold.

Man. I am most sick at heart-nay, grasp me
not-

I am all feebleness-the mountains whirl
Spinning around me I grow blind-What art
thou?

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon.-Away with

me

The clouds grow thicker- -there-now lean on

me

Place your foot here-here, take this staff, and cling
A moment to that shrub-now give me your hand,
And hold fast by my girdle-softly-well-
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour:
Come on, we 'll quickly find a surer footing,
And something like a pathway, which the torrent
Hath wash'd since winter.-Come, 'tis bravely
done-

You should have been a hunter.-Follow me.
[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the
scene closes.

ACT

SCENE I.-A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps.
Manfred and the Chamois Hunter.

C. Hun. No, no-yet pause-thou must not yet
go forth:

Thy mind and body are alike unfit

To trust each other, for some hours, at least;
When thou art better, I will be thy guide-
But whither?

Man.

It imports not: I do know

My route full well, and need no further guidance.
C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high
lineage-

One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags
Look o'er the lower valleys-which of these
May call thee lord? I only know their portals;
My way of life leads me but rarely down
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls,
Carousing with the vassals; but the paths,
Which step from out our mountains to their doors,
I know from childhood-which of these is thine?
Man. No matter.

C. Hun.
Well, sir, pardon me the question,
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine;
Tis of an ancient vintage: many a day

T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now
Let it do thus for thine.-Come, pledge me fairly.
Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the brim!
Will it then never-never sink in the earth?

*See foot-note, page 112.

II.

C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee.

Man. I say 't is blood-my blood! the pure warm
stream

Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours
When we were in our youth, and had one heart,
And loved each other as we should not love,
And this was shed: but still it rises up,
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven,
Where thou art not-and I shall never be.

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-
maddening sin,

Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er
Thy dread and sufferance be, there 's comfort yet-
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience-

Man. Patience and patience! Hence-that word
was made

For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-
I am not of thine order.

C. Hun.

Thanks to heaven!

I would not be of thine for the free fame
Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill,
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.
Man. Do I not bear it ?-Look on me-I live.
C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages-ages-
Space and eternity-and consciousness,

With the fierce thirst of death-and still unslaked!

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?

It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

C. Hun. Alas! he 's mad-but yet I must not leave

him.

Man. I would I were-for then the things I see Would be but a distemper'd dream.

C. Hun. What is it That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? Man. Myself, and thee-a peasant of the AlpsThy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, With cross and garland over its green turf, And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph; This do I see-and then I look within

It matters not-my soul was scorch'd already! C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine?

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange

My lot with living being: I can bear-
However wretchedly, 't is still to bear-
In life what others could not brook to dream,
But perish in their slumber.

C. Hun.

And with thisThis cautious feeling for another's pain, Canst thou be black with evil ?-say not so. Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge Upon his enemies?

Man.

Oh! no, no, no!

My injuries came down on those who loved me-
On those whom I best loved: I never quell'd
An enemy, save in my just defence-
But my embrace was fatal.

C. Hun.

the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbow
of the torrent.

Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form
The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow
To an unearthly stature, in an essence

Of purer elements; while the hues of youth,-
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek,
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart,
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow,

The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven,-
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame

The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee.
Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow,
Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul,
Which of itself shows immortality,
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit
At times to commune with them-if that he
Avail him of his spells-to call thee thus,
And gaze on thee a moment.

Witch.

Son of Earth!

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power;
I know thee for a man of many thoughts,
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both,
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.

I have expected this-what wouldst thou with me?
Man. To look upon thy beauty-nothing further.
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce
To the abodes of those who govern her-
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought
From them what they could not bestow, and now
I search no further.
Witch.
What could be the quest
Which is not in the power of the most powerful,
The rulers of the invisible?

Man.

A boon;

But why should I repeat it? 't were in vain.
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it.
Man. Well, though it torture me, 't is but the
same;

My pang shall find a voice. From my youth up-
wards

My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men,

Heaven give thee rest! Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes;

And penitence restore thee to thyself;
My prayers shall be for thee.
Man.

I need them not,

But can endure thy pity. I depart'Tis time-farewell!-Here 's gold, and thanks for

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It is not noon-the sunbow's rays still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular,
And fling its lines of foaming light along,
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail,
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness;
I should be sole in this sweet solitude,
And with the Spirit of the place divide
The homage of these waters.-I will call her.
[Manfred takes some of the water into the palm
of his hand, and flings it in the air, muttering
the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch of

The thirst of their ambition was not mine,
The aim of their existence was not mine;
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me
Was there but one who-but of her anon.

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion; but instead,
My joy was in the wilderness,-to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top,
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing
Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along

On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or

To follow through the night the moving moon,
The stars and their development; or catch
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;
Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves,
While Autumn winds were at their evening song.
These were my pastimes, and to be alone;
For if the beings, of whom I was one,-
Hating to be so,-cross'd me in my path,
I felt myself degraded back to them,
And was all clay again. And then I dived,
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,
Searching its cause in its effect; and drew
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust,

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