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 p 30 I will approach him nearer. Man. (not perceiving the other). To be thus- Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley; To lose at once his way and life together. Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds Seems tottering already. Man. Mountains have fallen, The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters; Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made C. Hun. Friend! have a care, Your next step may be fatal-for the love Of him who made you, stand not on that brink! Man. (not hearing him). Such would have been for me a fitting tomb; My bones had then been quiet in their depth; They had not then been strewn upon the rocks For the wind's pastime-as thus-thus they shall be In this one plunge.-Farewell, ye opening heavens! Look not upon me thus reproachfully You were not meant for me-Earth! take these atoms! (As MANFRED is in act to spring from the cliff, th CHAMOIS HUNTER seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp.) C. Hun. Hold, madman!-though aweary of thy life, Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood Away with me-I will not quit my hold. Man. I am most sick at heart-nay, grasp me not I am all feebleness-the mountains whirl (As they descend the rocks with difficulty the scene closes.) ACT II. SCENE I. A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER. C. Hun. No, no-yet pause-thou must not yet go forth: Thy mind and body are alike unfit To trust each other, for some hours, at least; When thou art better, I will be thy guide- Man. It imports not: I do know My route full well, and need no further guidance. C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage- Look o'er the lower valleys-which of these To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, Which step from out our mountains to their doors, C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question, 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 warın 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, Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 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. 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? t doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, 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. What is it C. Hun. 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. |