Man. Pronounce-what is thy mission?
Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer!-speak! Spirit. The genius of this mortal.-Come! 'tis time. Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny
The power which summons me. Who sent thee here? Spirit. Thou'lt know anon-come! come! Man.
Things of an essence greater far than thine, And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence! Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come-Away! I say. Man. 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.
Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren-Rise! [Other Spirits rise up. Abbot. Avaunt; ye evil ones!-Avaunt! I say,Ye have no power where piety hath power, And I do charge thee in the name
We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,
It were in vain: this man is forfeited.
Once more I summon him-Away! away! Man. I do defy ye,-though I feel my soul Is cbbing from me, yet I do defy ye;
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath To breathe my scorn upon ye-earthly strength To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take Shall be ta'en limb by limb.
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 Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, But by superior science-penance-daring-
And length of watching-strength of mind-and skill 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 !-
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 possess 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!
Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art-thy lips are white; And thy breast heaves-and in thy gasping throat The accents rattle-Give thy prayers to Heaven- Pray-albeit but in thought, but die not thus.
Man. 'Tis over-my dull eyes can fix thee not; But all things swim around me, and the earth Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well- Give me thy hand.
Abbot. Cold-cold-even to the heart- But yet one prayer-Alas! how fares it with thee? Man. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die.
[MANFRED expires. Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta'en his earthless flightWhither? I dread to think-but he is gone,
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL.
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul ! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be:
There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
THEY say that hope is happiness; But genuine love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless They rose the first-they set the last.
And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory.
Alas! it is delusion all;
The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.
Ar Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso's "Grerusalemme," and of Guarini's "Pastor Fido," with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the cotemporary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or monument of Ariosto-at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated: the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon.
LONG years!-It tries the thrilling frame to bear And eagle-spirit of a child of Song-
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,
And the mind's canker in its savage mood, When the impatient thirst of light and air Parches the heart; and the abhorrèd grate, Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, With a hot sense of heaviness and pain; And bare, at once, Captivity display'd
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, Which nothing through its bars admits, save day, And tasteless food, which I have eat alone Till its unsocial bitterness is gone; And I can banquet like a beast of prey, Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave Which is my lair, and-it may be-my grave. All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wea But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; For I have battled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; And revell'd among men and things divine, And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, In honour of the sacred war for Hini, The God who was on earth and is in heaven,
For He has strengthen'd me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, I have employ'd my penance to record
How Salem's shrine was won and how adored.
But this is o'er-my pleasant task is done :- My long-sustaining friend of many years! If I do blot thy final page with tears,
Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. But thou, my young creation! my soul's child! Which ever playing round me came and smiled, And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, Thou too art gone-and so is my delight: And therefore do I weep and inly bleed With this last bruise upon a broken reed. Thou too art ended-what is left me now? For I have anguish yet to bear-and how? I know not that-but in the innate force Of my own spirit shall be found resource. I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,
Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad-and why? Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply?
I was indeed delirious in my heart
To lift my love so lofty as thou art; But still my frenzy was not of the mind; I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Not less because I suffer it unbent.
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,
Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind; But let them go, or torture as they will,
My heart can multiply thine image still; Successful love may sate itself away,
The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate To have all feeling save the one decay, And every passion into one dilate,
As rapid rivers into ocean pour;
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.
Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry Of minds and bodies in captivity;
And hark! the lash and the increasing howl,
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy!
There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,
Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind,
And dim the little light that's left behind
With needless torture, as their tyrant will
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:
With these and with their victims am I class'd,
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd: 'Mid sounds and sights like these my life
So let it be for then I shall repose.
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