[MANFRED advances to the window of the Hall.
Glorious orb! the idol
Of early nature, and the vigorous race
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex
More beautiful than they, which did draw down
The erring spirits who can ne'er return-
Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,
There be more sons in like predicament.
But wherein do they differ?
Of features or of form, but mind and habits:
Count Sigismund was proud,-but gay and free,-
A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not
With books and solitude, nor made the night
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,
Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the From men and their delights.
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd
Themselves in orisons! Thou material god!
And representative of the Unknown-
Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for near or far,
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects;-thou dost rise,
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone:
I follow.
[Exit MANFRED.
The Mountains—The Castle of Manfred at some
distance-A Terrace before a Tower.-Time,
Twilight.
HERMAN, MANUEL, and other dependants of
MANFRED.
'Tis strange enough: night after night, for years,
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,
Without a witness. I have been within it,-
So have we all been oft-times: but from it,
Or its contents, it were impossible
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is
One chamber where none enter; I would give
The fee of what I have to come these three years,
To pore upon its mysteries.
But those were jocund times! I would that such
Would visit the old walls again; they look
As if they had forgotten them.
Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have
Some strange things in them, Herman.
Come, be friendly; Relate me some to while away our watch: Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same towel. I've heard thee darkly speak of an event
That was a night indeed; I do remember
'Twas twilight as it may be now, and such
Another evening:--yon red cloud, which rests
So like that it might be the same: the wind
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,--
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――
Hush! who comes here!
Enter the ABBOT.
Content thyself with what thou know'st already. I must speak with him.
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful'
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learn'd the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,-upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cæsar's palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bow-shot-where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levell'd battle-
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ;-
But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!
While Cesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.-
And thou did'st shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries:
VOL. II.-42
My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded: Retire, or 'twill be dangerous-Away!
Thou dost not mean to menace me?
To breathe my scorn upon ye-earthly strength To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take Why-ay-what doth he here? Shall be ta'en limb by limb.
I did not send for him, he is unbidden.
Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like these
Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake.
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him?
Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his brow
The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye
Glares forth the immortality of hell-
Avaunt!-
Pronounce what is thy mission?
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 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
Come! Was purchased by no compact with thy crew,
But by superior science-penance-daring-
And length of watching-strength of mind-and
skill
What art thou, unknown being? answer?— speak!
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!—
Thou'lt know anon-Come! come!
I have commanded Things of an essence greater far than thine,
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!
Mortal! thine hour is come-Away! I say.
I knew, and know my hour is come, but not
To render up my soul to such as thee:
Away! I'll die as I have lived-alone.
Then I must summon up my brethren.-Rise!
[Other Spirits rise up.
Avaunt! ye evil ones!-Avaunt! I say,-
Ye have no power where piety hath power,
And I do charge ye in the name
What are they to such as thee?
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 posess 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 colour from the fleeting things without;
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy,
Born from the knowledge of its own desert.
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.
Alas! how pale thou art-thy lips are white
We know ourselves, our mission, and thine And thy breast heaves-and in thy gasping throat
Cold-cold-even to the heartBut yet one prayer-alas! how fares it with thee?
Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die.
Strange that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for gods, a dwelling-place,
And every charm and grace hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fix'd,
There man, enamour'd of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
[MANFRED expires. Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
He's gone-his soul hath ta'en its earthless And sweetly woos him-but to spare.
Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone.
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Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles.
Which, seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the Eastern wave:
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odors there!
For there the rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale;
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,
By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by nature given
In softest incense back to heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
And many a shade that love might share,
And many a grotto, meant for rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow,
Till the gay mariner's guitar
Is heard, and seen the evening star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.
A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles.
Strange-that where all is peace beside,
There Passion riots in her pride,
And Lust and Rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,
And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of hell;
So soft the scene, so form'd for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore:
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling pass'd away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd
earth!
Clime or the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was freedom's home, or glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave;
Say, is not this Thermopyla?
These waters blue that round you lave,
O servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires:
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won,
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusky darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendor to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.
What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the muse might soar, High as thine own in days of yore,
When man was worthy of thy clime. The hearts within thy valleys bred, The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave, And callous, save to crime; Stain'd with each evil that pollutes Mankind, where least above the brutes: Without even savage virtue blest, Without one free or valiant breast. Still to the neighboring ports they waft Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; In this the subtle Greek is found, For this, and this alone, renown'd. In vain might Liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke,
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke;
No more her sorrows I bewail,
Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.
Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote; And fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near but doubtful creek; Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Port Leone's safer shore
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Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed! Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast; And though to-morrow's tempest lour, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!* I know thee not, I loath thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface: Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.
On-on he hasten'd, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew; Though like a demon of the night He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, His aspect and his air impress'd A troubled memory on my breast, And long upon my startled ear Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. He spurs his steed: he nears the steep, That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; He winds around; he hurries by; The rock relieves him from mine eye; For well I ween unwelcome he Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight. He wound along; but ere he pass'd, One glance he snatch'd as if his last, A moment check'd his wheeling steed, A moment breathed him from his speed, A moment on his stirrup stoodWhy looks he o'er the olive-wood? The crescent glimmers on the hill, The mosque's high lamps are quivering still, Though too remote for sound to wake In echoes of the far tophaike,t The flashes of each joyous peal Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. To night, set Rhamazani's sun; To-night, the Bairam feast's begun; To-night-but who and what art thou Of foreign garb and fearful brow? And what are these to thine or thee, That thou shouldst either pause or flee?
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