LITMIR.BIZ

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belief60 Have given me power to smooth the path from sin To higher hope and better thoughts; the first I leave to Heaven,—"Vengeance is mine alone!" So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness His servant echoes back the awful word.

      Man. Old man! there is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast, Nor agony—nor, greater than all these, The innate tortures of that deep Despair,70 Which is Remorse without the fear of Hell, But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of Heaven—can exorcise From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense Of its own sins—wrongs—sufferance—and revenge Upon itself; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self—condemned He deals on his own soul.

      Abbot. All this is well; For this will pass away, and be succeeded By an auspicious hope, which shall look up80 With calm assurafice to that blessed place, Which all who seek may win, whatever be Their earthly errors, so they be atoned: And the commencement of atonement is The sense of its necessity. Say on— And all our church can teach thee shall be taught; And all we can absolve thee shall be pardoned.

Man. When Rome's sixth Emperor156 was near his last, The victim of a self-inflicted wound, To shun the torments of a public deathbd90 From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, With show of loyal pity, would have stanched The gushing throat with his officious robe; The dying Roman thrust him back, and said— Some empire still in his expiring glance— "It is too late—is this fidelity?"

      Abbot. And what of this?

      Man. I answer with the Roman— "It is too late!"

      Abbot. It never can be so, To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope?100 'Tis strange—even those who do despair above, Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth, To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.

Man. Aye—father! I have had those early visions, And noble aspirations in my youth, To make my own the mind of other men, The enlightener of nations; and to rise I knew not whither—it might be to fall; But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,110 Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, (Which casts up misty columns that become Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,)157 Lies low but mighty still.—But this is past, My thoughts mistook themselves.

      Abbot. And wherefore so?

      Man.I could not tame my nature down; for he Must serve who fain would sway; and soothe, and sue, And watch all time, and pry into all place, And be a living Lie, who would become A mighty thing amongst the mean—and such120 The mass are; I disdained to mingle with A herd, though to be leader—and of wolves, The lion is alone, and so am I.

      Abbot. And why not live and act with other men?

Man. Because my nature was averse from life; And yet not cruel; for I would not make, But find a desolation. Like the Wind, The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,158 Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,130 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, But being met is deadly,—such hath been The course of my existence; but there came Things in my path which are no more.

      Abbot. Alas! I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid From me and from my calling; yet so young, I still would——

Man. Look on me! there is an order Of mortals on the earth, who do become Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,159140 Without the violence of warlike death; Some perishing of pleasure—some of study— Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness,— Some of disease—and some insanity— And some of withered, or of broken hearts; For this last is a malady which slays More than are numbered in the lists of Fate, Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. Look upon me! for even of all these things Have I partaken; and of all these things,150 One were enough; then wonder not that I Am what I am, but that I ever was, Or having been, that I am still on earth.

      Abbot. Yet, hear me still—

      Man. Old man! I do respect Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain: Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself, Far more than me, in shunning at this time All further colloquy—and so—farewell. Exit Manfred.

      Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: he160 Hath all the energy which would have made A goodly frame of glorious elements, Had they been wisely mingled; as it is, It is an awful chaos—Light and Darkness— And mind and dust—and passions and pure thoughts Mixed, and contending without end or order,— All dormant or destructive. He will perish— And yet he must not—I will try once more, For such are worth redemption; and my duty Is to dare all things for a righteous end.170 I'll follow him—but cautiously, though surely. Exit Abbot.

Scene II.—Another Chamber.

      Manfred and Herman.

      Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset: He sinks behind the mountain.

Man. Doth he so? I will look on him. Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall. Glorious Orb! the idol160 Of early nature, and the vigorous race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons161 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 revealed!10 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, Which gladdened, on their mountain tops, the hearts Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poured162 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,20 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.

Scene III.—The Mountains—The Castle of Manfred at some distance—A Terrace before a Tower.—Time, Twilight.

      Herman, Manuel, and other dependants of Manfred.

      Her. '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.

      Manuel. 'Twere dangerous;10 Content thyself with what thou know'st already.

      Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle— How many years is't?

      Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, I served his father, whom he nought resembles.

      Her. There be more sons in like predicament! But wherein do they differ?

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