C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-mad dening 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,- 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. 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 ? And spirit patient, pious, proud and free; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 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 ex change 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. Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge Man. Oh! no, no, no! My injuries came down on those who loved me- An enemy, save in my just defence But my embrace was fatal. C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest! And penitence restore thee to thyself; Man. I need them not, But can endure thy pity. I depart 'Tis time-farewell!—Here's gold, and thanks for thee— No words-it is thy due.-Follow me not I know my path-the mountain peril's past :- SCENE II. [Exit MANFRED. A lower Valley in the Alps. A Cataract. It is not noon-the sunbow's rays (1) still arch [MANFRED takes some of the water into the palm Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light, And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form The charms of Earth's least-mortal daughters grow Of purer elements; while the hues of youth,— The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son Witch. Son of Earth! I know thee, and the powers which give thee power; And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, I have expected this-what would'st thou with me? But they can nothing aid me. I have sought Witch. What could be the quest Which is not in the power of the most powerful, The rulers of the invisible? Man. But why should I repeat it? A boon; 'twere in vain. Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it. Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same; On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave VOL. III. D |