Manfred (Act 2 Scene 2)

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, 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 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 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 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 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, 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, 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, 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, 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 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 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; 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, 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 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.[az] Witch.                 It may be 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? 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— 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 Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back As from a stream in winter, though the chill Be but a moment's. I have one resource Still in my science—I can call the dead, And ask them what it is we dread to be: The sternest answer can but be the Grave, And that is nothing: if they answer not— The buried Prophet answered to the Hag Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit An answer and his destiny—he slew That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, And died unpardoned—though he called in aid The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused The Arcadian Evocators to compel The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, Or fix her term of vengeance—she replied In words of dubious import, but fulfilled. If I had never lived, that which I love Had still been living; had I never loved, That which I love would still be beautiful, Happy and giving happiness. What is she? What is she now?—a sufferer for my sins— A thing I dare not think upon—or nothing. Within few hours I shall not call in vain— Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare: Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze On spirit, good or evil—now I tremble, And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. But I can act even what I most abhor, And champion human fears.—The night approaches.                                 [Exit