Manfred Farewell ye opening heavens' Ye were not meant for me Earth take these atoms' Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood P 309 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 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 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. 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, Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 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. |