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For here the patriarchal days are not
A pastoral fable-pipes in the liberal air,
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;
My soul would drink those echoes.—Oh, that I were
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,
A living voice, a breathing harmony,
A bodiless enjoyment-born and dying
With the blest tone which made me!

Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTER. CHAMOIS HUNTER.

Even so This

way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet Have baffled me; my gains to-day will scarce Repay my break-neck travail. What is here? Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd A height which none even of our mountaineers, Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance. I will approach him nearer.

Man. (not perceiving the other.) To be thusGray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,

Which but supplies a feeling to decay-
And to be thus, eternally but thus,
Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years ;
And hours-all tortured into ages—hours
Which I outlive !—Ye toppling crags of ice !
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down
In mountainous o’erwhelming, come and crush me!
I hear ye momently above, beneath,
Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,
And only fall on things which still would live;
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut
And hamlet of the harmless villager.

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; I'll warn him to descend, or he

may

chance To lose at once his way and life together.

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles.—I am giddy.

C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near, A sudden step will startle him, and he Seems tottering already.

Man.

Mountains have fallen,
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock
Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters;
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash,
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made
Their fountains find another channel - thus,
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg-
Why stood I not beneath it?
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 pastimeas thus—thus they shall be In this one plunge.-Farewell, ye opening heavens ! Look not upon me thus reproachfullyYe were not meant for me -Earth! take these atoms!

(As MANFRED is in act to spring from the cliff,

the 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
Spinning around me- I grow blind—What art thou?

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon.--Away with me The clouds grow thicker—there—now lean on mePlace

your foot here-here, take this staff, and cling A moment to that shrub now give me your hand, And hold fast by my girdlesoftly—well— The Chalet will be gain'd within an hourCome on, we'll quickly find a surer footing, And something like a pathway, which the torrent Hath wash'd since winter.—Come, 'tis bravely doneYou should have been a hunter. Follow me. (As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the

scene closes.)

END OF ACT THE FIRST.

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-
But whither?
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-
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags
Look o'er the lower valleys—which of these
May call thee Lord? I only know their portals ;

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