To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The 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 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.
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 vet 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.
MANFRED (not perceiving the other.)
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 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.
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.
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,
Heaped with the damn'd like pebbles.—I am giddy.
I must approach him cautiously; if near,
A sudden step will startle him, and he
Seems tottering already.
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?
Your next step may be fata!!-for the love
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink!
MANFRED (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 roks
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 retains him with a sudden grasp.)
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.
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?
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 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 done-
You should have been a hunter.-Follow me.
( As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the
scene clases.)
A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps.
MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.
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?
It imports not: I do know
My route full well, and need no further guidance.
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 door,
I know from childhood-which of these is thine?
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