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.)

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 notI 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—
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 closes.)

END OF ACT THE FIRST.

26

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Cottage amongst 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;

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-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.

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,
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.

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 desart,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,

But nothing rests, save carcases 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

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 AlpsThy 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,
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph;
This do I see-and then I look within-

It matters not-my soul was scorch'd already!

C. HUN. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for

mine?

MAN. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor ex

change