Manfred, a dramatic poem/Act 3 Scene 4
SCENE IV.
Interior of the Tower.
Manfred alone.
Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the topsOf the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful!I linger yet with Nature, for the nightHath been to me a more familiar faceThan that of man; and in her starry shadeOf dim and solitary loveliness,I learn'd the language of another world.I do remember me, that in my youth,When I was wandering,—upon such a nightI stood within the Coloseum's wall,'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;The trees which grew along the broken archesWaved dark in the blue midnight, and the starsShone through the rents of ruin; from afarThe watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber; andMore near from out the Cæsars' palace cameThe owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind.Some cypresses beyond the time—worn breachAppeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stoodWithin a bowshot—where the Cæsars dwelt,And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidstA grove which springs through levell'd battlements,And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;—But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.—And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, uponAll this, and cast a wide and tender light,Which soften'd down the hoar austerityOf rugged desolation, and fill'd up,As 'twere, anew, the gaps of centuries;Leaving that beautiful which still was so,And making that which was not, till the placeBecame religion, and the heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the great of old!—The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns.—'Twas such a night! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time;But I have found our thoughts take wildest flightEven at the moment when they should arrayThemselves in pensive order.
Enter the Abbot.
Abbot.My good Lord!I crave a second grace for this approach;But yet let not my humble zeal offendBy its abruptness—all it hath of illRecoils on me; its good in the effectMay light upon your head—could I say heart—Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I shouldRecall a noble spirit which hath wandered;But is not yet all lost.
Man.Thou know'st me not;My days are numbered, and my deeds recorded:Retire, or 'twill be dangerous—Away!
Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me?
Man.Not I;I simply tell thee peril is at hand,And would preserve thee.
Abbot.What dost mean?
Man.Look there!What dost thou see?
Abbot.Nothing.
Man.Look there, I say,And steadfastly;—now tell me what thou seest?
Abbot. That which should shake me—but I fear it not—I see a dusk and awful figure riseLike an infernal god from out the earth;His face wrapt in a mantle, and his formRobed as with angry clouds; he stands betweenThyself and me—but I do fear him not.
Man. Thou hast no cause—he shall not harm thee—butHis sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy.I say to thee—Retire!
Abbot.And, I reply—Never—till I have battled with this fiend—What doth he here?
Man.Why—ay—what doth he here?I did not send for him,—he is unbidden.
Abbot. Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like theseHast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake;Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him? Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his browThe thunder-scars are graven; from his eyeGlares forth the immortality of hell—Avaunt!———
Man.Pronounce—what is thy mission?
Spirit.Come!
Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer!—speak!
Spirit. The genius of this mortal.—Come! 'tis time.
Man. I am prepared for all things, but denyThe power which summons me. Who sent thee here?
Spirit. Thou'lt know anon—Come! come!
Man.I have commandedThings of an essence greater far than thine,And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!
Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come—Away! I say.
Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but notTo render up my soul to such as thee:Away! I'll die as I have lived—alone.
Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.—Rise![Other Spirits rise up.
Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones!—Avaunt! I say,—Ye have no power where piety hath power,And I do charge ye in the name———
Spirit.Old man!We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,It were in vain; this man is forfeited.Once more I summon him—Away! away!
Man. I do defy ye,—though I feel my soulIs ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breathTo breathe my scorn upon ye—earthly strengthTo wrestle, though with spirits; what ye takeShall be ta'en limb by limb.
Spirit.Reluctant mortal!Is this the Magian who would so pervadeThe world invisible, and make himselfAlmost our equal?—Can it be that thouArt thus in love with life? the very lifeWhich made thee wretched!
Man.Thou false fiend, thou liest!My life is in its last hour,—that I know,Nor would redeem a moment of that hour;I do not combat against death, but theeAnd thy surrounding angels; my past powerWas purchased by no compact with thy crew, But by superior science—penance—daring—And length of watching—strength of mind—and skillIn knowledge of our fathers—when the earthSaw men and spirits walking side by side,And gave ye no supremacy: I standUpon my strength—I do defy—deny—Spurn back, and scorn ye!—
Spirit.But thy many crimesHave made thee———
Man.What are they to such as thee?Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes,And greater criminals?—Back to thy hell!Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel;Thou never shalt possess me, that I know:What I have done is done; I bear withinA torture which could nothing gain from thine:The mind which is immortal makes itselfRequital for its good or evil thoughts—Is its own origin of ill and end—And its own place and time—its innate sense,When stripp'd of this mortality, derivesNo colour from the fleeting things without;But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert.Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me;I have not been thy dupe nor am thy prey—But was my own destroyer, and will beMy own hereafter.—Back, ye baffled fiends!The hand of death is on me—but not yours![The Demons disappear.
Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art—thy lips are white—And thy breast heaves—and in thy gasping throatThe accents rattle—Give thy prayers to heaven—Pray—albeit but in thought,—but die not thus.
Man. 'Tis over—my dull eyes can fix thee not;But all things swim around me, and the earthHeaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well—[Manfred expires.Give me thy hand.
Abbot.Cold—cold—even to the heart—But yet one prayer—alas! how fares it with thee?—He's gone—his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight—Whither? I dread to think—but he is gone.