Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Man. Mountains have fallen,

  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 crushed 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?

  C. Hun. Friend! have a care, 100

  Your next step may be fatal! — for the love

  Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink!

  Man. (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 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 —

  You 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.

  C. Hun. Hold, madman! — though aweary of thy life, 110

  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 am 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 staff, and cling

  A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand,

  And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 120

  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 washed since winter. — Come,’tis bravely done —

  You should have been a hunter. — Follow me.

  [As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes.

  ACT II

  Scene I. — A Cottage among the Bernese Alps. — Manfred and the Chamois Hunter.

  C. Hun. 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?

  Man. It imports not: I do know

  My route full well, and need no further guidance.

  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; 10

  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! 20

  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,

  Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from Heaven,

  Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 30

  C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-maddening sin,

  Which makes thee people vacancy, whate’er

  Thy dread and sufferance be, there’s comfort yet —

  The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience — —

  Man. Patience — and patience! Hence — that word was made

  For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey!

  Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, —

  I am not of thine order.

  C. Hun. Thanks to Heaven!

  I would not be of thine for the free fame

  Of William Tell; but whatsoe’er thine ill, 40

  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 age

  Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 50

  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,

  Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

  C. Hun. Alas! he’s mad — but yet I must not leave him.

  Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 60

  Would be but a distempered 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,

  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, 70

  And thy grandchildren’s love for epitaph!

  This do I see — and then I look within —

  It matters not — my Soul was scorched already!

  C. Hun. And would’st thou then exchange thy lot for mine?

  Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange

  My lot with living being: I can bear —

  However wretchedly, ‘tis still to bear —

  In life what others could not brook to dream,

  But perish in their slumber.

  C. Hun. And with this —

  This cautious feeling for another’s pain, 80

  Canst thou be black with evil? — say not so.

  Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaked revenge

  Upon his enemies?

  Man. Oh! no, no, no!

  My injuries came down on those who loved me —

  On those whom I best loved: I never quelled

  An enemy, save in my just defence —

  But my embrace was fatal.

  C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest!

  And Penitence restore thee to thyself;

  My prayers shall be for thee.

  Man. I need them not,<
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  But can endure thy pity. I depart — 90

  ‘Tis time — farewell! — Here’s gold, and thanks for thee —

  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, 10

  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, —

  Carnationed like a sleeping Infant’s cheek,

  Rocked by the beating of her mother’s heart,

  Or the rose tints, which Summer’s twilight leaves 20

  Upon the lofty Glacier’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 glassed serenity of Soul,

  Which of itself shows immortality,

  I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son

  Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit

  At times to commune with them — if that he 30

  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 maddened me, and I

  Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 40

  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? ‘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 upwards 50

  My Spirit walked not with the souls of men,

  Nor looked 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 me

  Was there but One who — but of her anon.

  I said with men, and with the thoughts of men, 60

  I held but slight communion; but instead,

  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

  Flit 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, 70

  The stars and their development; or catch

  The 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, — crossed 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, 80

  Searching its cause in its effect; and drew

  From withered bones, and skulls, and heaped up dust

  Conclusions most forbidden. Then I passed —

  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 peopled Infinite, I made

  Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 90

  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 prolonged 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 100

  Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being,

  With whom I wore the chain of human ties;

  If I had such, they seemed 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 softened all, and tempered into beauty:

  She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,

  The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 110

  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 loved her, and destroyed her!

  Witch. With thy hand?

  Man. Not with my hand, but heart, which broke her heart;

  It gazed on mine, and withered. I have shed

  Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed; 120

  I saw — and could not stanch 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 forego

  The
gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink’st back

  To 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, 130

  But peopled with the Furies; — I have gnashed

  My teeth in darkness till returning morn,

  Then cursed myself till sunset; — I have prayed

  For madness as a blessing — ’tis denied me.

  I have affronted Death — but in the war

  Of elements the waters shrunk from me,

  And fatal things passed harmless; the cold hand

  Of an all-pitiless Demon held me back,

  Back by a single hair, which would not break.

  In Fantasy, Imagination, all 140

  The affluence of my soul — which one day was

  A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep,

  But, like an ebbing wave, it dashed me back

  Into the gulf of my unfathomed thought.

  I plunged amidst Mankind — Forgetfulness

  I 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 be 150

  That I can aid thee.

  Man. To do this thy power

  Must 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 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!

  Witch. Is this all? 160

  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 — 170

  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