C. HUN. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 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 Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 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! was made Hence-that word 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, Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 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 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, 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 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, Canst thou be black with evil?—say not so. Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge Upon his enemies? MAN. Oh! no, no, no! |