Manfred, a dramatic poem/Act 1 Scene 2
SCENE II.
The Mountain of the Jungfrau.—Time, Morning.—Manfred alone upon the Cliffs.
Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me—The spells which I have studied baffled me—The remedy I reck'd of tortured me;I lean no more on super-human aid,It hath no power upon the past, and forThe future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness,It is not of my search.—My mother Earth!And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.And thou, the bright eye of the universe,That openest over all, and unto allArt a delight—thou shin'st not on my heart.And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edgeI stand, and on the torrent's brink beneathBehold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubsIn dizziness of distance; when a leap,A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bedTo rest for ever—wherefore do I pause?I feel the impulse—yet I do not plunge;I see the peril—yet do not recede;And my brain reels—and yet my foot is firm:There is a power upon me which withholdsAnd makes it my fatality to live;If it be life to wear within myselfThis barrenness of spirit, and to beMy own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceasedTo justify my deeds unto myself—The last infirmity of evil. Ay, Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, [An eagle passes. Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,Well may'st thou swoop so near me—I should beThy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art goneWhere the eye cannot follow thee; but thineYet pierces downward, onward, or aboveWith a pervading vision.—Beautiful!How beautiful is all this visible world!How glorious in its action and itself;But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence makeA conflict of its elements, and breatheThe breath of degradation and of pride,Contending with low wants and lofty will,Till our mortality predominates,And men are—what they name not to themselves,And trust not to each other. Hark! the note,[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. The natural music of the mountain reed—For here the patriarchal days are notA 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 wereThe viewless spirit of a lovely sound,A living voice, a breathing harmony,A bodiless enjoyment—born and dyingWith the blessed tone which made me!
Enter from below a Chamois Hunter.
Chamois Hunter.Even soThis way the chamois leapt: her nimble feetHave baffled me; my gains to-day will scarceRepay 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 garbIs goodly, his mien manly, and his airProud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance.—I will approach him nearer.
Man. (not perceiving the other.) To be thus—Grey—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 furrowed o'erWith wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years;And hours—all tortured into ages—hoursWhich I outlive!—Ye toppling crags of ice!Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws downIn mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush meI hear ye momently above, beneath,Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,And only fall on things that still would live; On the young flourishing forest, or the hutAnd 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 chanceTo lose at once his way and life together.
Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; cloudsRise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury,Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell,Whose every wave breaks on a living shore,Heaped 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 heSeems tottering already.
Man.Mountains have fallen,Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shockRocking their Alpine brethren; filling upThe ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters;Damming the rivers with a sudden dash,Which crush'd the waters into mist, and madeTheir 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 loveOf 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 rocksFor the wind's pastime—as thus—thus they shall be— In this one plunge.—Farewell, ye opening heavens!Look not upon me thus reproachfully—Ye 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 whirlSpinning 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 me—Place your foot here—here, take this staff, and clingA moment to that shrub—now give me your hand,And hold fast by my girdle—softly—well—The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour-Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing,And something like a pathway, which the torrentHath wash'd since winter.—Come, 'tis bravely done—You should have been a hunter.— Follow me.(As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes.)
END OF ACT THE FIRST.