Manfred (With Byron's Biography). Lord Byron

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      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,230

       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 snatched the snake,

       For there it coiled as in a brake;

       From thy own lip I drew the charm

       Which gave all these their chiefest harm;

       In proving every poison known,240

       I found the strongest was thine own.

      By the cold breast and serpent smile,

       By thy unfathomed gulfs of guile,

       By that most seeming virtuous eye,

       By thy shut soul's hypocrisy;

       By the perfection of thine art

       Which passed for human thine own heart;

       By thy delight in others' pain,

       And by thy brotherhood of Cain,

I call upon thee! and compelav250 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 together260

       Hath the word been passed—now wither!

Scene II.—The Mountain of the Jungfrau.—Time, Morning.—Manfred alone upon the cliffs.

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me, The spells which I have studied baffle me, The remedy I recked of tortured me I lean no more on superhuman aid; It hath no power upon the past, and for The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness, It is not of my search.—My Mother Earth!119 And thou fresh-breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright Eye of the Universe,10 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;20 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 withholds, And makes it my fatality to live,— If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of Spirit, and to be My own Soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself— The last infirmity of evil. Aye, Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,30 An Eagle passes. Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, Well may'st thou swoop so near me—I should be Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, With a pervading vision.—Beautiful! How beautiful is all this visible world!120 How glorious in its action and itself! But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit40 To sink or soar, with our mixed 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,50 Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;121 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 enjoyment122—born and dying With the blest tone which made me!

      Enter from below a Chamois Hunter.

      Chamois Hunter. Even so 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 yet hath reached60 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.

Man. (not perceiving the other). To be thus— Grey-haired with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,123 A blighted trunk upon a curséd root, Which but supplies a feeling to Decay— And to be thus, eternally but thus,70 Having been otherwise! Now furrowed o'er With wrinkles, ploughed 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;124 but ye pass, And only fall on things that still would live; On the young flourishing forest, or the hut80 And hamlet of the harmless villager.

      C. Hun. 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.

Man. 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,aw Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, Heaped with the damned like pebbles.—I am giddy.125

      C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near,90 A sudden step will startle him, and he Seems tottering already.

Man. Mountains have fallen, Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up The ripe green valleys СКАЧАТЬ