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, And we again will be [The figure vanishes. My heart is crush'd! (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 wisp on the morass; Though thy slumber may be deep There are shades which will not vanish, banish; By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone; Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Though thou seest me not pass by,. not And a magic voice and verse And the day shall have a sun, From thy false tears I did distil An essence which hath strength to kill; For there it coil'd as in a brake; In proving every poison known, I found the strongest was thine own. By thy cold breast and serpent smile, By thy delight in others' pain, And on thy head I pour the vial Shall be in thy destiny; Though thy death shall still seem near Lo! the spell now works around thee, It is not of my search. My mother Earth! And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautifui? I cannot love ye. 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 with holds, 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 For here the patriarchal days are not My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTER. Even so C. Hun. question, Well, sir, pardon me the 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 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? C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee. Man. I say 'tis 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, Man. Do I not bear it?-Look on meI 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 That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? Man. Myself, and thee-a peasant of the Alps Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; Thy self-respect. grafted on innocent thoughts: The 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 withinIt matters not-my soul was scorch'd already! C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine? A lower Valley in the Alps.-A Cataract. Enter MANFRED. 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, The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, I should be sole in this sweet solitude, [MANFRED takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it into the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the WITCH OF 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 |