The Works of Lord Byron

Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours
When we were in our youth, and had one heart,
And loved each other as we should not love,
And this was shed: but still it rises up,
Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven,
Where thou art no-and I shall never be.

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-

Man. (not hearing him.) Such would have been for The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience-

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 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 re-
tains 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 an 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 me-
Place your foot here-here, take this stuff, and cling
A moment to that shrub-now give me your hand,
And hold fast by my girdle--softly—well-
The Chalet will be gained within an hour-
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing,
And something like a pathway, which the torrent
Hath wash'd since winter.-Come, 'tis bravely
You should have been a hunter.-Follow me.
[2s they descend the rocks with difficulty the scene closes.

ACT II.

Man. Patience and patience! Hence-that word

was made

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.
Man. Do I not bear it ?-Look on me--I live.
C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
Man. I tell thee, man' I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages-ages-
Space and eternity-and consciousness,
With the fierce thirst of death-and still unslaked!
C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle ago
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, done-Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

SCENE I-A Cottage among the Bernese Alps.
MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.

C. Hun. No, no-yet pause-thou must not yet
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. 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?
Man. Myself, and thee-a peasant of the Alps-
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home,

go And spirit patient, pious, proud and free;
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts;
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils,
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave,
With cross and garland over its green turf,
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph;
This do I see-and then I look within-

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;
My way of life leads me but rarely down

To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls,
Carousing with the vassals; but the paths,
Which step from out our mountains to their doors,
I know from childhood—which of these is thine?
Man. No matter.

C. Hun.
Well, sir, pardon me the question,
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine;
'Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day

T has thawed my veins among our glaciers now
Let it do thus for thine-Come, pledge me fairly.

Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the brim!
Will it then never-never sink in the earth?

C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee.

Man. I say 'tis blood -ay blood! the pure warm

stream

[graphic][ocr errors][subsumed][merged small][merged small]

But can endure thy pity. I depart

Was there but one who-but of her anon.

I said with men, and with the thoughts of men

"T is time-farewell!-Here's gold and thanks for thee-I held but slight communion; but instead,

No words--it is thy due.-Follow me not-
I know my path--the mountain peril's past :
And once again, I charge thee, follow not!

[Exit MANFRED. SCENE II.-A lower Valley in the Alps. A Cataract. Enter MANFRED.

It is not noon--the sunbow's rays still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column
O'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 eyes
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness;
I should be sole in this sweet solitude,
And with the Spirit of the place divide
The 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 sunbeam
of the torrent.

Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form
The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow
To an unearthly stature, in an essence
Of 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 leaves
Upon the lofty glazier's virgin snow,

The blush of earth embracing with her heaven,—
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame

The 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 Son
Of Earth, whom the abtruser powers permit
At times to commune with them--if that he
Avail 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 would'st thou with me?
Man. To look upon thy beauty-nothing further.
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce
To the abodes of those who govern her-
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought
From them what they could not bestow, and now
I search no further.

Witch. What could be the quest

Which is not in the power of the most powerful,
The rulers of the invisible?

Man.

A boon;

But why should I repeat it? 't were in vain.
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it.
Man. Well, though it torture me, 't is but the same,
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards
My 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 joy, 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 me

My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top,
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing
Fit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or
To follow through the night the moving moon,
The stars and their development; or catch
The dazzlinglightnings till my eyes grew dim;
Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd 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 drew
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust,
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd
The nights of years in sciences untaught,
Save in the old time; and with time and toil,
And terrible ordeal, and such penance
As in itself hath power upon the air,
And spirits that do compass air and earth.
Space, and the people infinite, I made
Mine eyes familiar with Eternity,
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised
Eros and Anteros at Gadara,

As I do thee;-and with my knowledge grew
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy
Of this most bright intelligence, until-
Witch. Proceed.

Man.
Oh! I but thus prolong'd my words,
Boasting these idle attributes, because
As I approach the core of my heart's grief-
But to my task. I have not named to thee
Father 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 mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, 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 lov'd her, and destroy'd her!
Witch.

With thy hand?

Or watch my watchings-Come and sit by me!
My solitude is solitude no more,

But peopled with the Furies;-I have gnash'd
My teeth in darkness till returning morn,
Then cursed myself till sunset ;-I have pray'd
For madness as a blessing-'t is denied me.
I have affronted death-but in the war
Of elements the waters shrunk from me,
And fatal things pass'd harmless-the cold hand
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back,
Back by a single hair, which would not break.
In phantasy, imagination, all

The affluence of my soul-which one day was
A Croesus in creation-I plunged deep,
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back
Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought.
I plunged amidst mankind-Forgetfulness
I sought in all, save where 't is to be found,
And that I have to learn-my sciences,
My long pursued and super-human art,
Is mortal here--I dwell in my despair-
And live-and live for ever.

Witch. That is not in my province; but if thou Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do

My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes.

Man. I will not swear-Obey! and whom? the spirits
Whose presence I command, and be the slave
Of those who served me-Never!

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:
Days

Steal 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, for
In life there is no present, we can number
How few-how less than few--wherein the soul
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment's. I have one resource
Still 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 answer'd to the Hag
Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit
An answer and his destiny--he slew
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew,
And died unpardon'd--though he call'd in aid
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused
The Arcadian Evocators to compel
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath,
Or fix her term of vengeance-she replied
In words of dubious import, but fulfilled.3
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had 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 1-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 gaze
On spirit, good or evil--now 1 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.

| Exil SCENE III.-The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. Enter FIRST DESTINY.

The moon is rising broad and round, and bright;
And here on snows, where never human foot
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread,
And leave no traces; o'er the savage sea,
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice,
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam,
Frozen in a moment-a dead whirlpool's image;
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle,

The fretwork of some earthquake--where the clous
Pause to repose themselves in passing by-

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils;
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night

Is our great festival-'tis strange they come not.
A Voice without, singing.
The Captive Usurper,
Hurl'd down from the throne,
Lay buried in torpor,
Forgotten and lone;

I broke through his slumbers,
I shiver'd his chain,

I leagued him with numbers—
He's Tyrant again!

With the blood of a million he'll answer my care,
With a nation's destruction-his flight and despair.
Second Voice, without.
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast,
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast;
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck,
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ;
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair,
And he was a subject well worthy my care;
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea-
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me
FIRST DESTINY, answering.
The city lies sleeping;
The morn, to deplore it,
May dawn on it weeping:
Sullenly, slowly,

The black plague flew o'er it,-
Thousands lie lowly;
Tens of thousands shall perish-
The living shall fly from
The sick they should cherish;
But nothing can vanquish
The touch that they die from.
Sorrow and anguish,
And evil and dread,
Envelope a nation-
The blest are the dead,
Who see not the sight

Of their own desolation--
This work of a night-

This wreck of a realm-this deed of my doing. -
For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing!

Enter the SECOND and THIRD DESTINIES.
The Three.
Our hands contain the hearts of men,
Our footsteps are their graves;

We only give to take again

The spirits of our slaves!

« 前へ次へ »

ブックス

The Works of Lord Byron: In Verse and Prose. Including His Letters, Journals ...