Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

Is as an Anchorite’s — were it but holy.

  Man. And what are they who do avouch these things?

  Abbot. My pious brethren — the scaréd peasantry —

  Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee

  With most unquiet eyes. Thy life’s in peril!

  Man. Take it.

  Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy:

  I would not pry into thy secret soul;

  But if these things be sooth, there still is time

  For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 50

  With the true church, and through the church to Heaven.

  Man. I hear thee. This is my reply — whate’er

  I may have been, or am, doth rest between

  Heaven and myself — I shall not choose a mortal

  To be my mediator — Have I sinned

  Against your ordinances? prove and punish!

  Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment,

  But penitence and pardon; — with thyself

  The choice of such remains — and for the last,

  Our institutions and our strong belief 60

  Have given me power to smooth the path from sin

  To higher hope and better thoughts; the first

  I leave to Heaven, — ”Vengeance is mine alone!”

  So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness

  His servant echoes back the awful word.

  Man. Old man! there is no power in holy men,

  Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form

  Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast,

  Nor agony — nor, greater than all these,

  The innate tortures of that deep Despair, 70

  Which is Remorse without the fear of Hell,

  But all in all sufficient to itself

  Would make a hell of Heaven — can exorcise

  From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense

  Of its own sins — wrongs — sufferance — and revenge

  Upon itself; there is no future pang

  Can deal that justice on the self — condemned

  He deals on his own soul.

  Abbot. All this is well;

  For this will pass away, and be succeeded

  By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 80

  With calm assurafice to that blessed place,

  Which all who seek may win, whatever be

  Their earthly errors, so they be atoned:

  And the commencement of atonement is

  The sense of its necessity. Say on —

  And all our church can teach thee shall be taught;

  And all we can absolve thee shall be pardoned.

  Man. When Rome’s sixth Emperor was near his last,

  The victim of a self-inflicted wound,

  To shun the torments of a public death 90

  From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier,

  With show of loyal pity, would have stanched

  The gushing throat with his officious robe;

  The dying Roman thrust him back, and said —

  Some empire still in his expiring glance —

  “It is too late — is this fidelity?”

  Abbot. And what of this?

  Man. I answer with the Roman —

  “It is too late!”

  Abbot. It never can be so,

  To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,

  And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope? 100

  ‘Tis strange — even those who do despair above,

  Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth,

  To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.

  Man. Aye — father! I have had those early visions,

  And noble aspirations in my youth,

  To make my own the mind of other men,

  The enlightener of nations; and to rise

  I knew not whither — it might be to fall;

  But fall, even as the mountain-cataract,

  Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 110

  Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,

  (Which casts up misty columns that become

  Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,)

  Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past,

  My thoughts mistook themselves.

  Abbot. And wherefore so?

  Man.I could not tame my nature down; for he

  Must serve who fain would sway; and soothe, and sue,

  And watch all time, and pry into all place,

  And be a living Lie, who would become

  A mighty thing amongst the mean — and such 120

  The mass are; I disdained to mingle with

  A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves,

  The lion is alone, and so am I.

  Abbot. And why not live and act with other men?

  Man. Because my nature was averse from life;

  And yet not cruel; for I would not make,

  But find a desolation. Like the Wind,

  The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,

  Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o’er

  The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 130

  And revels o’er their wild and arid waves,

  And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,

  But being met is deadly, — such hath been

  The course of my existence; but there came

  Things in my path which are no more.

  Abbot. Alas!

  I ‘gin to fear that thou art past all aid

  From me and from my calling; yet so young,

  I still would — —

  Man. Look on me! there is an order

  Of mortals on the earth, who do become

  Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 140

  Without the violence of warlike death;

  Some perishing of pleasure — some of study —

  Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness, —

  Some of disease — and some insanity —

  And some of withered, or of broken hearts;

  For this last is a malady which slays

  More than are numbered in the lists of Fate,

  Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.

  Look upon me! for even of all these things

  Have I partaken; and of all these things, 150

  One were enough; then wonder not that I

  Am what I am, but that I ever was,

  Or having been, that I am still on earth.

  Abbot. Yet, hear me still —

  Man. Old man! I do respect

  Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem

  Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain:

  Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself,

  Far more than me, in shunning at this time

  All further colloquy — and so — farewell.

  [Exit Manfred.

  Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: he 160

  Hath all the energy which would have made

  A goodly frame of glorious elements,

  Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,

  It is an awful chaos — Light and Darkness —

  And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts

  Mixed, and contending without end or order, —

  All dormant or destructive. He will perish —

  And yet he must not — I will try once more,

  For such are worth redemption; and my duty

  Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 170

  I’ll follow him — but cautiously, though surely.

  [Exit Abbot.

  Scene II. — Another Chamber.

  Manfred and Herman.

  Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset:

  He sinks behind the mountain.

  Man. Doth he so?

  I will look on him.

  [Man
fred advances to the Window of the Hall.

  Glorious Orb! the idol

  Of early nature, and the vigorous race

  Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons

  Of the embrace of Angels, with a sex

  More beautiful than they, which did draw down

  The erring Spirits who can ne’er return. —

  Most glorious Orb! that wert a worship, ere

  The mystery of thy making was revealed! 10

  Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,

  Which gladdened, on their mountain tops, the hearts

  Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poured

  Themselves in orisons! Thou material God!

  And representative of the Unknown —

  Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief Star!

  Centre of many stars! which mak’st our earth

  Endurable and temperest the hues

  And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!

  Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes, 20

  And those who dwell in them! for near or far,

  Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee

  Even as our outward aspects; — thou dost rise,

  And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!

  I ne’er shall see thee more. As my first glance

  Of love and wonder was for thee, then take

  My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one

  To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been

  Of a more fatal nature. He is gone —

  I follow. [Exit Manfred.

  Scene III. — The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at some distance — A Terrace before a Tower. — Time, Twilight.

  Herman, Manuel, and other dependants of Manfred.

  Her. ‘Tis strange enough! night after night, for years,

  He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,

  Without a witness. I have been within it, —

  So have we all been oft-times; but from it,

  Or its contents, it were impossible

  To draw conclusions absolute, of aught

  His studies tend to. To be sure, there is

  One chamber where none enter: I would give

  The fee of what I have to come these three years,

  To pore upon its mysteries.

  Manuel. ’Twere dangerous; 10

  Content thyself with what thou know’st already.

  Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,

  And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle —

  How many years is’t?

  Manuel. Ere Count Manfred’s birth,

  I served his father, whom he nought resembles.

  Her. There be more sons in like predicament!

  But wherein do they differ?

  Manuel. I speak not

  Of features or of form, but mind and habits;

  Count Sigismund was proud, but gay and free, —

  A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not 20

  With books and solitude, nor made the night

  A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,

  Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks

  And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside

  From men and their delights.

  Her. Beshrew the hour,

  But those were jocund times! I would that such

  Would visit the old walls again; they look

  As if they had forgotten them.

  Manuel. These walls

  Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen

  Some strange things in them, Herman.

  Her. Come, be friendly; 30

  Relate me some to while away our watch:

  I’ve heard thee darkly speak of an event

  Which happened hereabouts, by this same tower.

  Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember

  ‘Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such

  Another evening: — yon red cloud, which rests

  On Eigher’s pinnacle, so rested then, —

  So like that it might be the same; the wind

  Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows

  Began to glitter with the climbing moon; 40

  Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, —

  How occupied, we knew not, but with him

  The sole companion of his wanderings

  And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things

  That lived, the only thing he seemed to love, —

  As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do,

  The Lady Astarte, his — —

  Hush! who comes here?

  Enter the Abbot.

  Abbot. Where is your master?

  Her. Yonder in the tower.

  Abbot. I must speak with him.

  Manuel. ’Tis impossible;

  He is most private, and must not be thus 50

  Intruded on.

  Abbot. Upon myself I take

  The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be —

  But I must see him.

  Her. Thou hast seen him once

  his eve already.

  Abbot. Herman! I command thee,

  Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.

  Her. We dare not.

  Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald

  Of my own purpose.

  Manuel. Reverend father, stop —

  I pray you pause.

  Abbot. Why so?

  Manuel. But step this way,

  And I will tell you further. [Exeunt.

  Scene IV. — Interior of the Tower.

  Manfred alone.

  The stars are forth, the moon above the tops

  Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful!

  I linger yet with Nature, for the Night

  Hath been to me a more familiar face

  Than that of man; and in her starry shade

  Of dim and solitary loveliness,

  I learned the language of another world.

  I do remember me, that in my youth,

  When I was wandering, — upon such a night

  I stood within the Coliseum’s wall, 10

  ‘Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;

  The trees which grew along the broken arches

  Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars

  Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar

  The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and

  More near from out the Cæsars’ palace came

  The 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 breach 20

  Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood

  Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt,

  And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst

  A grove which springs through levelled 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. — 30

  And thou didst shine, thou rolling Moon, upon

  All this, and cast a wide and tender light,

  Which softened down the hoar austerity

  Of rugged desolation, and filled up,

  As ‘twere anew, the gaps of centuries;

  Leaving that beautiful which still was so,

  And making that which was not — till the place

  Became religion, and the heart ran o’er

  With silent worship of the Great of old, —

  The dead, but sceptred, Sovereigns, who still rule 40

  Our spirits from their urns.

  ‘Twas s
uch a night!

  ‘Tis strange that I recall it at this time;

  But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight

  Even at the moment when they should array

  Themselves 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 offend

  By its abruptness — all it hath of ill

  Recoils on me; its good in the effect

  May light upon your head — could I say heart — 50

  Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should

  Recall 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 thou mean?

  Man. Look there!

  What dost thou see?

  Abbot. Nothing.

  Man. Look there, I say,

  And steadfastly; — now tell me what thou seest? 60

  Abbot. That which should shake me, — but I fear it not:

  I see a dusk and awful figure rise,

  Like an infernal god, from out the earth;

  His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form

  Robed as with angry clouds: he stands between

  Thyself and me — but I do fear him not.

  Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — but

  His 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: — 70

  What doth he here?

  Man. Why — aye — what doth he here?

  I did not send for him, — he is unbidden.

  Abbot. Alas! lost Mortal! what with guests like these

  Hast 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 brow

  The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye

  Glares forth the immortality of Hell —

  Avaunt! —

  Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission?

  Spirit. Come!

  Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer! — speak! 80

  Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come!’tis time.

  Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny

  The Power which summons me. Who sent thee here?

  Spirit. Thou’lt know anon — Come! come!

  Man. I have commanded

  Things of an essence greater far than thine,

  And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!

  Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come — Away! I say.