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And penitence restore thee to thyself;
My prayers shall be for thee.

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"Tis time-farewell!- Here's gold, and thanks for thee

No words—it is thy due.-Follow me not-
I know my path—the mountain peril's past:
And once again, I charge thee, follow not!

SCENE II.

[Exit MANFRED.

A lower Valley in the Alps.-A Cataract.(1)

Enter MANFRED.

It is not noon- -the sunbow's rays (2) 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,

(1) [This scene is one of the most poetical and most sweetly written in the poem. There is a still and delicious witchery in the tranquillity and seclusion of the place, and the celestial beauty of the being who reveals herself in the midst of these visible enchantments. — JEFFREY.]

(2) This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower part of the Alpine torrents: it is exactly like a rainbow come down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk into it: this effect lasts till noon. — [“ Before ascending the mountain, went to the torrent; the sun upon it, forming a rainbow of the lower part of all colours, but principally purple and gold; the bow moving as you move: I never saw any thing like this; it is only in' the sunshine."-Swiss Journal.]

As told in the Apocalypse. (1) 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 sun-
bow 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,-
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek,
Rock'd 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. (2)

' (1) [" Arrived at the foot of the Jungfrau; glaciers; torrents: one of these torrents nine hundred feet in height of visible descent; heard an avalanche fall, like thunder; glaciers enormous; storm came on-thunder, lightning, hail; all in perfection, and beautiful. The torrent is in shape curving over the rock, like the tail of a white horse streaming in the wind, such as it might be conceived would be that of the 'pale horse' on which Death is mounted in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor water, but a something between both; its immense height gives it a wave or curve, a spreading here or condensation there, wonderful and indescribable.". Swiss Journal.];

(2) [In all Lord Byron's heroes we recognise,' though with infinite modifications, the same great characteristics—a high and audacious conception of the power of the mind,— -an intense sensibility of passion,

Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow,
Wherein is glass'd 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?

an almost boundless capacity of tumultuous emotion,—a haunting admiration of the grandeur of disordered power, and, above all, a soul-felt, blood-felt delight in beauty. Parisina is full of it to overflowing; it breathes from every page of the "Prisoner of Chillon;" but it is in "Manfred" that it riots and revels among the streams, and waterfalls, and groves, and mountains, and heavens. There is in the character of Manfred more of the self-might of Byron than in all his previous productions. He has therein brought, with wonderful power, metaphysical conceptions into forms, and we know of no poem in which the aspect of external nature is throughout lighted up with an expression at once so beautiful, solemn, and majestic. It is the poem, next to "Childe Harold," which we should give to a foreigner to read, that he might know something of Byron. Shakspeare has given to those abstractions of human life and being, which are truth in the intellect, forms as full, clear, glowing, as the idealised forms of visible nature. The very words of Ariel picture to us his beautiful being. In "Manfred," we see glorious but immature manifestations of similar power. The poet there creates, with delight, thoughts and feelings and fancies into visible forms, that he may cling and cleave to them, and clasp them in his passion. The beautiful Witch of the Alps seems exhaled from the luminous spray of the cataract, -as if the poet's eyes, unsated with the beauty of inanimate nature, gave spectral apparitions of loveliness to feed the pure passion of the poet's soul. -PROFESSOR WILSON.]

Man. To look upon thy beauty-nothing further. (1) The face of the earth hath madden'd 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? 't were 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 walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd 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

(1) [There is something exquisitely beautiful in all this passage; and both the apparition and the dialogue are so managed, that the sense of their improbability is swallowed up in that of their beauty; and, without actually believing that such spirits exist or communicate themselves, we feel for the moment as if we stood in their presence. -JEFFREY.]

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 scatter'd 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,—cross'd 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 wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust,
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd
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, (1) at Gadara,

(1) The philosopher Jamblicus. The story of the raising of Eros and

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