Man. Oh God! if it be thus, and thou Art not a madness and a mockery, I yet might be most happy, I will clasp thee,

And we again will be

[The figure vanishes.

My heart is crush'd!
[MANFRED falls senseless.

(A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.)

When the moon is on the wave,

And the glow-worm in the grass,
And the meteor on the grave,

And the wisp on the morass;
When the falling stars are shooting,
And the answer'd owls are hooting,
And the silent leaves are still
In the shadow of the hill,
Shall my soul be upon thine,
With a power and with a sign.

Though thy slumber may be deep
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;

There are shades which will not vanish,
There are thoughts thou canst

banish;

By a power to thee unknown,

Thou canst never be alone;

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,
Thou art gather'd in a cloud;
And for ever shalt thou dwell
In the spirit of this spell.

Though thou seest me not pass by,.
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye
As a thing that, though unseen,
Must be near thee, and hath been ;
And when in that secret dread
Thou hast turn'd around thy head,
Thou shalt marvel I am not
As thy shadow on the spot,
And the power which thou dost feel
Shall be what thou must conceal.

not

And a magic voice and verse
Hath baptized thee with a curse;
And a spirit of the air
Hath begirt thee with a snare;
In the wind there is a voice
Shall forbid thee to rejoice;
And to thee shall night deny
All the quiet of her sky;

And the day shall have a sun,
Which shall make thee wish it done.

From thy false tears I did distil

An essence which hath strength to kill;
From thy own heart I then did wring
The black blood in its blackest spring;
From thy own smile I snatch'd the
snake,

For there it coil'd as in a brake;
From thy own lip I drew the charm
Which gave all these their chiefest
harm;

In proving every poison known,

I found the strongest was thine own.

By thy cold breast and serpent smile,
By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile,
By that most seeming virtuous eye,
By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ;
By the perfection of thine art
Which pass'd for human thine own
heart;

By thy delight in others' pain,
And by thy brotherhood of Cain,
I call upon thee! and compel
Thyself to be thy proper Hell!

And on thy head I pour the vial
Which doth devote thee to this trial;
Nor to slumber, nor to die,

Shall be in thy destiny;

Though thy death shall still seem near
To thy wish, but as a fear;

Lo! the spell now works around thee,
And the clankless chain hath bound thee;
O'er thy heart and brain together
Hath the word been pass'd-now wither!

It is not of my search. My mother Earth!

And thou fresh breaking Day, and you,

ye Mountains,

Why are ye beautifui? I cannot love ye.
And thou, the br ght eye of the universe,
That openest over all, and unto all
Art a delight-thou shin'st not on my
heart.

And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge

I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath

Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs

In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring

My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To 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 with

holds,

Yet pierces downward, onward,or above, With 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 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 saun-
tering 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.
Chamois Hunter.

Even so

C. Hun.

question,

Well, sir, pardon me the

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine :

"Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers

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-my blood! the pure warm stream 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, Coloring the clouds, that shut me out

from heaven,

Man. Do I not bear it?-Look on meI 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 age

Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Man. Think'st thou existence doth

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?

Man. Myself, and thee-a peasant of

the Alps

Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free;

Thy self-respect. grafted on innocent thoughts:

The 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 withinIt matters not-my soul was scorch'd already!

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine?

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 love-
liness:

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 into the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the WITCH OF THE ALPS rises beneath the arch of the sunbow 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 glacier's virgin snow, The blush of earth embracing with her heaven

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make