Manfred, a dramatic poem/Act 2 Scene 2
SCENE II.
A lower Valley in the Alps.—A Cataract.
Enter Manfred.It is not noon—the sunbow's rays still archThe torrent with the many hues of heaven,And roll the sheeted silver's waving columnO'er the crag's headlong perpendicular,And fling its lines of foaming light along,And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail,The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,As told in the Apocalypse. No eyesBut mine now drink this sight of loveliness;I should be sole in this sweet solitude,And with the Spirit of the place divideThe homage of these waters.—I will call her. (Manfred takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch of the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent.) Man. Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form The charms of Earth's least mortal daughters growTo an unearthly stature, in an essenceOf purer elements; while the hues of youth,—Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek,Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart,Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leavesUpon the lofty glacier's virgin snow,The blush of earth embracing with her heaven,—Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tameThe beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee.Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow,Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul,Which of itself shows immortality,I read that thou wilt pardon to a SonOf Earth, whom the abstruser powers permitAt times to commune with them—if that heAvail him of his spells—to call thee thus,And gaze on thee a moment.
Witch.Son of Earth!I know thee, and the powers which give thee power;I know thee for a man of many thoughts,And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both,Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.I have expected this—what wouldst thou with me?
Man. To look upon thy beauty—nothing further. The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and ITake refuge in her mysteries, and pierceTo the abodes of those who govern her—But they can nothing aid me. I have soughtFrom them what they could not bestow, and nowI search no further.
Witch. What could be the questWhich is not in the power of the most powerful,The rulers of the invisible?
Man.A boon;But why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain.
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it.
Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same;My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwardsMy spirit walk'd not with the souls of men,Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes;The thirst of their ambition was not mine,The aim of their existence was not mine;My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded meWas there but one who———but of her anon.I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, I held but slight communion; but instead,My joy was in the Wilderness, to breatheThe difficult air of the iced mountain's top,Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wingFlit o'er the herbless granite; or to plungeInto the torrent, and to roll alongOn the swift whirl of the new breaking waveOf river-stream, or ocean, in their flow.In these my early strength exulted; orTo follow through the night the moving moon,The stars and their developement, or catchThe dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered leaves,While Autumn winds were at their evening song.These were my pastimes, and to be alone;For if the beings, of whom I was one,—Hating to be so,—cross'd me in my path,I felt myself degraded back to them,And was all clay again. And then I dived,In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,Searching its cause in its effect; and drewFrom wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust,Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'dThe nights of years in sciences untaught, Save in the old-time; and with time and toil,And terrible ordeal, and such penanceAs in itself hath power upon the air,And spirits that do compass air and earth,Space, and the peopled infinite, I madeMine eyes familiar with Eternity,Such as, before me, did the Magi, andHe who from out their fountain dwellings raisedEros and Anteros, at Gadara,As I do thee;—and with my knowledge grewThe thirst of knowledge, and the power and joyOf this most bright intelligence, until———
Witch. Proceed.
Man. Oh! I but thus prolonged my words,Boasting these idle attributes, becauseAs I approach the core of my heart's grief—But to my task. I have not named to theeFather or mother, mistress, friend, or being,With whom I wore the chain of human ties;If I had such, they seem'd not such to me—Yet there was one———
Witch. Spare not thyself—proceed.
Man. She was like me in lineaments—her eyes,Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mindTo comprehend the universe: nor theseAlone, but with them gentler powers than mine,Pity, and smiles, and tears—which I had not;And tenderness—but that I had for her;Humility—and that I never had.Her faults were mine—her virtues were her own—I loved her, and destroy'd her!
Witch.With thy hand?
Man. Not with my hand, but heart—which broke her heart—It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shedBlood, but not hers—and yet her blood was shed—I saw—and could not staunch it.
Witch.And for this—A being of the race thou dost despise,The order which thine own would rise above,Mingling with us and ours, thou dost foregoThe gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st backTo recreant mortality—Away!
Man. Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour— But words are breath—look on me in my sleep,Or watch my watchings—Come and sit by me!My solitude is solitude no more,But peopled with the Furies,—I have gnash'dMy teeth in darkness till returning morn,Then cursed myself till sunset;—I have pray'dFor madness as a blessing—'tis denied me.I have affronted death—but in the warOf elements the waters shrunk from me,And fatal things pass'd harmless—the cold handOf an all—pitiless demon held me back,Back by a single hair, which would not break.In phantasy, imagination, allThe affluence of my soul—which one day wasA Crœsus in creation—I plunged deep,But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me backInto the gulf of my unfathom'd thought.I plunged amidst mankind—ForgetfulnessI sought in all, save where 'tis to be found,And that I have to learn—my sciences,My long pursued and superhuman art,Is mortal here—I dwell in my despair—And live—and live for ever.
Witch.It may beThat I can aid thee.
Man.To do this thy powerMust wake the dead, or lay me low with them.Do so—in any shape—in any hour—With any torture—so it be the last.
Witch. That is not in my province; but if thouWilt swear obedience to my will, and doMy bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes.
Man. I will not swear—Obey! and whom? the spiritsWhose presence I command, and be the slaveOf those who served me—Never!
Witch.Is this all?Hast thou no gentler answer?—Yet bethink thee,And pause ere thou rejectest.
Man.I have said it.
Witch. Enough!—I may retire then—say!
Man.Retire! [The Witch disappears.
Man. (alone) We are the fools of time and terror: DaysSteal on us and steal from us; yet we live,Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.In all the days of this detested yoke—This vital weight upon the struggling heart,Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,Or joy that ends in agony or faintness— In all the days of past and future, forIn life there is no present, we can numberHow few—how less than few—wherein the soulForbears to pant for death, and yet draws backAs from a stream in winter, though the chillBe but a moment's. I have one resourceStill in my science—I can call the dead,And ask them what it is we dread to be:The sternest answer can but be the Grave,And that is nothing—if they answer not—The buried Prophet answered to the HagOf Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drewFrom the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spiritAn answer and his destiny—he slewThat which he loved unknowing what he slew,And died unpardon'd—though he call'd in aidThe Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia rousedThe Arcadian Evocators to compelThe indignant shadow to depose her wrath,Or fix her term of vengeance—she repliedIn words of dubious import, but fulfill'd.
If I had never lived, that which I loveHad still been living; had I never loved, That which I love would still be beautiful—Happy and giving happiness. What is she?What is she now?—a sufferer for my sins—A thing I dare not think upon—or nothing.Within few hours I shall not call in vain—Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:Until this hour I never shrunk to gazeOn spirit, good or evil—now I tremble,And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart,But I can act even what I most abhor,And champion human fears.—The night approaches.[Exit.