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Manfred

Farewell ye opening heavens'
Look not upon me thus reproachfully.

Ye were not meant for me Earth take these atoms'
Ch Hunt Hold madman! though aweary of thy life.

Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood

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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 Alps

Thy 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 would'st 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, 'tis still to bear

In life what others could not brook to dream,

But perish in their slumber.

C. Hun.

And with this

This cautious feeling for another's pain,

Canst thou be black with evil-say not so.

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