Spirit.

Thou 'lt know anon

-Come! Come!

Man.

I have commanded

Things of an essence greater far than thine,
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!

Spirit.

Mortal! thine hour is come — Away! I say.

Man.

I knew, and know my hour is come, but not
To render up my soul to such as thee :

Away! I'll die as I have lived

Spirit.

- alone.

Then I must summon up my brethren. Rise!

Abbot.

[Other Spirits rise up.

Avaunt! ye evil ones! Avaunt! I say,

Ye have no power where piety hath power,
And I do charge ye in the name

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;

Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,

It were in vain: this man is forfeited.

Once more I summon him - Away! away!

Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;

Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath
To breathe my scorn upon ye-earthly strength
To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take
Shall be ta'en limb by limb.

Spirit.

Reluctant mortal!

Is this the Magian who would so pervade
The world invisible, and make himself
Almost our equal? - Can it be that thou
Art thus in love with life? the very life
Which made thee wretched!

Man.

Thou false fiend, thou liest!

My life is in its last hour, that I know,
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour.
I do not combat against death, but thee
And thy surrounding angels; my past power
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew,
But by superior science, penance, daring,

And length of watching, strength of mind, and skill
In knowledge of our fathers when the earth
Saw men and spirits walking side by side
And gave ye no supremacy: I stand

Upon my strength I do defy deny
Spurn back, and scorn ye! -

Spirit.

But thy many crimes

Have made thee

Man.

What are they to such as thee?

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes,
And greater criminals?— Back to thy hell!
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel;
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know:
What I have done is done; I bear within
A torture which could nothing gain from thine.
The mind which is immortal makes itself
Requital for its good or evil thoughts,
Is its own origin of ill and end,

And its own place and time; its innate sense,
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives
No colour from the fleeting things without,
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy,

Born from the knowledge of its own desert.

Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me;

I have not been thy dupe nor am thy prey,

But was my own destroyer, and will be

My own hereafter. - Back, ye baffled fiends!

The hand of death is on me

Abbot.

Alas! how pale thou art

And thy breast heaves

but not yours

!

- thy lips are white
and in thy gasping throat

The accents rattle. Give thy prayers to Heaven

Pray albeit but in thought,

but die not thus.

Man.

'Tis over my dull

eyes can fix thee not:

But all things swim around me, and the earth

He's gone, his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight;
Whither? I dread to think; but he is gone.

TO JOHN MURRAY

ROME, May 9, 1817.

I am delighted with Rome-as I would be with a bandbox, that is, it is a fine thing to see, finer than Greece; but I have not been here long enough to affect it as a residence, and I must go back to Lombardy, because I am wretched at being away from M[ariann]a. I have been riding my saddle-horses every day, and been to Albano, its lakes, and to the top of the Alban Mount, and

to Frascati, Aricia, etc., etc., with an etc., etc., etc., about the city, and in the city: for all which - vide Guide-book. As a whole, ancient and modern, it beats Greece, Constantinople, everything—at least that I have ever seen. But I can't describe, because my first impressions are always strong and confused, and my Memory selects and reduces them to order, like distance in the landscape, and blends them better, although they may be less distinct. There must be a sense or two more than we have, as mortals, which I suppose the Devil has (or t'other); for where there is much to be grasped we are always at a loss, and yet feel that we ought to have a higher and more extended comprehension.

I have had a letter from Moore, who is in some alarm about his poem. I don't see why.

I have had another from my poor dear Augusta,1 who is in a sad fuss about my late illness; do, pray, tell her (the truth) that I am better than ever, and in importunate health, growing (if not grown) large and ruddy, and congratulated by impertinent persons on my robustious appearance, when I ought to be pale and interesting.

I have no thoughts of coming amongst you yet awhile, so that I can fight off business. If I could but make a tolerable sale of Newstead, there would be no occasion for my return; and I can assure you very sincerely, that I am much happier (or, at least, have been so) out of your island than in it.

Yours ever truly,

1 Lady Augusta Leigh, Byron's sister. ·

B.