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First Des.

Crush the worm!

Hence! Avaunt!-he's mine. Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man

Is of no common order, as his port

And presence here denote; his sufferings
Have been of an immortal nature, like

Our own; his knowledge and his powers and will,
As far as is compatible with clay,

Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such
As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth,
And they have only taught him what we know—
That knowledge is not happiness, and science
But an exchange of ignorance for that
Which is another kind of ignorance.
This is not all the passions, attributes

Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being,

Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt,
Have pierced his heart; and in their consequence
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not,
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine,

And thine, it may be; be it so, or not,
No other Spirit in this region hath

A soul like his- or power upon his soul.
Nem. What doth he here then?
First Des.

Let him answer that.

Man. Ye know what I have known; and without

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Man.

Hear me, hear me-
Astarte my beloved! speak to me:

I have so much endured- -so much endure-
Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee more
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me
Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made
To torture thus each other, though it were
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved.
Say that thou loath'st me not-that I do bear
This punishment for both-that thou wilt be
One of the blessed-and that I shall die;
For hitherto all hateful things conspire
To bind me in existence-in a life
Which makes me shrink from immortality-
A future like the past. I cannot rest.

I know not what I ask, nor what I seek:
I feel but what thou art- and what I am;

And I would hear yet once before I perish
The voice which was my music- - Speak to me!
For I have call'd on thee in the still night,
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd
boughs,

And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name,
Which answer'd me-many things answer'd me—
Spirits and men-but thou wert silent all.
Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars,
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee.
Speak to me! I have wander'd o'er the earth,
And never found thy likeness - Speak to me!
Look on the fiends around-they feel for me:
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone —
Speak to me! though it be in wrath; - but say —
I reck not what-but let me hear thee once-
This once-once more!

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[Over this fine drama, a moral feeling hangs like a sombrous thunder cloud. No other guilt but that so darkly shadowed out could have furnished so dreadful an illustration of the hideous aberrations of human nature, however noble and majestic, when left a prey to its desires, its passions, and its imagination. The beauty, at one time so innocently adored, is at last soiled, profaned, and violated. Affection, love, guilt, horror, remorse, and death, come in terrible succession, yet all darkly linked together. We think of Astarte as young, beautiful, innocent guilty-lost-murdered buried judged pardoned; but still, in her permitted visit to earth, speaking in a voice of sorrow, and with a countenance yet pale with mortal trouble. We had but a glimpse of her in her beauty and innocence; but, at last, she rises up before us in all the mortal silence of a ghost, with fixed, glazed, and passionless eyes, revealing death, judgment, and eternity. The moral breathes and burns in every word, in sadness, misery, insanity, desolation, and death. The work is "instinct with spirit," and in the agony and distraction, and all its dimly imagined causes, we behold, though broken up, confused, and shattered, the elements of a purer existence. - WILSON.] 2 [The third Act, as originally written, being shown to Mr. Gifford, he expressed his unfavourable opinion of it very distinctly and Mr. Murray transmitted this opinion to Lord Byron. The result is told in the following extracts from his letters:

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Inexplicable stillness! which till now
Did not belong to what I knew of life.
If that I did not know philosophy

To be of all our vanities the motliest,

The merest word that ever fool'd the ear

From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem
The golden secret, the sought "Kalon," found,
And seated in my soul. It will not last,
But it is well to have known it, though but once:
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,
And I within my tablets would note down
That there is such a feeling. Who is there?

Re-enter HERMAN.

Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves To greet your presence.

Enter the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE.

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred! Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls; Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those Who dwell within them.

Abbot.

Would it were so, Count!

But I would fain confer with thee alone.
Man. Herman, retire.

guest?

What would my reverend

Abbot. Thus, without prelude:-Age and zeal, my office,

And good intent, must plead my privilege;
Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood,

"Venice, April 14, 1817. The third Act is certainly d-d bad, and, like the Archbishop of Grenada's homily, (which savoured of the palsy,) has the dregs of my fever, during which it was written. It must on no account be published in its present state. I will try and reform it, or re-write it altogether; but the impulse is gone, and I have no chance of making any thing out of it. The speech of Manfred to the Sun is the only part of this Act I thought good myself; the rest is certainly as bad as bad can be, and I wonder what the devil possessed me. I am very glad indeed that you sent me Mr. Gifford's opinion without deduction. Do you suppose me such a booby as not, to be very much obliged to him? or that I was not, and am not, convinced and convicted in my conscience of this same overt act of nonsense? I shall try at it again; in the mean time, lay it upon the shelf- the whole Drama I mean.- Recollect not to publish, upon pain of 1 know not what, until I have tried again at the third act. I am not sure that I shall try, and still less that I shall succeed if I do."

Rome, May 5. I have re-written the greater part, and returned what is not altered in the proof you sent me. The Abbot is become a good man, and the Spirits are brought in at the death. You will find, I think, some good poetry in this new Act, here and there; and if so, print it, without sending me farther proofs, under Mr. Gifford's correction, if he will have the goodness to overlook it."]

1

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Which are forbidden to the search of man;

That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,
The many evil and unheavenly spirits

Which walk the valley of the shade of death,

Thoc communest. I know that with mankind,
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy.

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

Abbot. My pious brethren-the scared peasantryEven thy own vassals-who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. Man. Take it.

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The DEMON ASHTAROTH appears, singing as follows : — The raven sits

On the raven-stone,

And his black wing flits

O'er the milk-white bone;

To and fro, as the night-winds blow,
The carcass of the assassin swings;
And there alone, on the raven-stone,*

The raven flaps his dusky wings.

The fetters creak- and his ebon beak

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound;

And this is the tune, by the light of the moon,

To which the witches dance their round

Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily,

Merrily, speeds the ball:

The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds, Flock to the witches' carnival.

"Raven-stone (Rabenstein), a translation of the German word for the gibbet, which in Germany and Switzerland is permanent, and made of stone."

The choice of such remains-and for the last, Our institutions and our strong belief

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,
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-condemn'd
He deals on his own soul.

All this is well;

Abbot. For this will pass away, and be succeeded By an auspicious hope, which shall look up With calm assurance 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 onAnd all our church can teach thee shall be taught; And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. Man. When Rome's sixth emperor 2 was near his last,

The victim of a self-inflicted wound,

To shun the torments of a public death 3

Abbot. I fear thee not- hence henceAvaunt thee, evil one! - help, ho! without there! Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn to its peak — To its extremest peak-watch with him there From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. But harm him not; and, when the morrow breaks, Set him down safe in his cell-away with him! Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, Convent and all, to bear him company?

Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take him up. Ash. Come, friar! now an exorcism or two,

And we shall fly the lighter.

ASHTAROTH disappears with the ABBOT, singing as follows :—

A prodigal son, and a maid undone,

And a widow re-wedded within the year;
And a worldly monk, and a pregnant nun,
Are things which every day appear.

MANFRED alone.

Man. Why would this fool break in on me, and force
My art to pranks fantastical?- no matter,
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens,
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul :
But it is calm calm as a sullen sea
After the hurricane; the winds are still,
But the cold waves swell high and heavily,
And there is danger in them. Such a rest
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat,
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd
In the immortal part of me. What now?"]

2 Otho, being defeated in a general engagement near Brixellum, stabbed himself. Plutarch says, that, though he lived full as badly as Nero, his last moments were those of a philosopher. He comforted his soldiers who lamented his fortune, and expressed his concern for their safety, when they solicited to pay him the last friendly offices. Martial says: "Sit Cato, dum vivit, sane vel Cæsare major, Dum moritur, numquid major Othone fuit?" public death.

3 ["To shun {not loss of life, but

the torments of a Choose between them."- MS.]

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And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope? "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. Ay-father! I have had those earthly 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,
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.

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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
The mass are; I disdain'd 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,
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves,

[This speech has been quoted in more than one of the sketches of the Poet's own life. Much earlier, when only twenty-three years of age, he had thus prophesied :-" It seems as if I were to experience in my youth the greatest misery of old age. My friends fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely tree before I am withered. Other men can always take refuge in their families I have no resource but my own reflections, and they present no prospect, here or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my betters. indeed, very wretched. My days are listless, and my nights restless. I have very seldom any society; and when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity."Byron Letters, 1811.]

I am,

2 [" Of the immortality of the soul, it appears to me that there can be little doubt if we attend for a moment to the action of mind. It is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt it -but reflection has taught me better. How far our future state will be individual; or, rather, how far it will at all resemble our present existence, is another question; but that the mind is eternal seems as probable as that the body is not so."- Byron Diary, 1821. "I have no wish to reject Christianity without investigation, on the contrary, I am very desirous of believing; for I have no happiness in my present unsettled notions on religion."- Byron Conversations with Kennedy, 1823.]

3 [There are three only, even among the great poets of modern times, who have chosen to depict, in their full shape and vigour, those agonies to which great and meditative

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,
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 — 1
And some of wither'd or of broken hearts;
For this last is a malady which slays
More than are number'd 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,
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. 2

[Exit MANFRED.
Abb. This should have been a noble creature 3: he
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,
Mix'd, 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.
I'll follow him- but cautiously, though surely.
[Exit ABBOT.

intellects are, in the present progress of human history, exposed by the eternal recurrence of a deep and discontented scepticism. But there is only one who has dared to represent himself as the victim of those nameless and undefinable sufferings. Goethe chose for his doubts and his darkness the terrible disguise of the mysterious Faustus. Schiller, with still greater boldness, planted the same anguish in the restless, haughty, and heroic bosom of Wallenstein. But Byron has sought no external symbol in which to embody the inquietudes of his soul. He takes the world, and all that it inherit, for his arena and his spectators; and he displays himself before their gaze, wrestling unceasingly and ineffectually with the demon that torments him. At times, there is something mournful and depressing in his scepticism; but oftener it is of a high and solemn character, approaching to the very verge of a confiding faith. Whatever the poet may believe, we, his readers, always feel ourselves too much ennobled and elevated, even by his melancholy, not to be confirmed in our own belief by the very doubts so majestically conceived and uttered. His scepticism, if it ever approaches to a creed, carries with it its refutation in its grandeur. There is neither philosophy nor religion in • those bitter and savage taunts which have been cruelly thrown out, from many quarters, against those moods of mind which are involuntary, and will not pass away; the shadows and spectres which still haunt his imagination may once have disturbed our own; -through his gloom there are frequent flashes of illumination: -and the sublime sadness which to him is breathed from the mysteries of mortal existence, is always joined with a longing after immortality, and expressed in language that is itself divine. - WILSON.]

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MANFRED advances to the Window of the Hall.
Glorious Orb! the idol

Of early nature, and the vigorous race
Of andiseased mankind, the giant sons 1

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 reveal'd!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,

Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd
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,
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. 2 He is gone:
I follow.

SCENE III.

[Exit MANFRED.

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,

And it came to pass, that the Sons of God saw the Caughters of men, that they were fair," &c." There were ants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they are children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown."- Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4.

2

Pray, was Manfred's speech to the Sun still retained in Act third I hope so: it was one of the best in the thing, and

better than the Coliseum."- Byron Letters, 1817.]

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["Some strange things in these few years." - MS.]

[The remainder of the third Act, in its original shape, ran

thus:Her.

Look-look-the tower

The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth! what sound, What dreadful sound is that? [A crash like thunder.

Manuel. Help, help, there!-to the rescue of the Count,The Count's in danger,-what ho! there! approach!

[The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach, stupified with terror. If there be any of you who have heart

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These walls

Oh! I have seen

Come, be friendly;

Must change their chieftain first.
Some strange things in them, Herman. 3
Her.
Relate me some to while away our watch:
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower.
Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember
"T was 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;
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 seem'd to love, —
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do,
The Lady Astarte, his- ——4

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