SCENE IV. The Hall of Arimanes—Arimanes on his
Throne, a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits.
Hymn of the SPIRITS.

Hail to our Master!-Prince of Earth and Air!
Who walks the clouds and waters-in his hand
The sceptre of the elements, which tear

Themselves to chaos at his high command!
He breatheh-and a tempest shakes the sea;

He speaketh-and the clouds reply in thunder;
He gazeth-from his glance the sunbeams flee;
He moveth-earthquakes rend the world asunder.
Beneath his footsteps the volcanos rise;

His shadow is the Pestilence; his path
The comets herald through the crackling skies;
And planets turn to ashes at his wrath.
To him War offers daily sacrifice;

To him Death pays his tribute; Life is his,
With all its infinite of agonies-

And his the spirit of whatever is !

Enter the DESTINIES and NEMESIS. First Des. Glory to Arimanes! on the earth His power increaseth-both my sisters did His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty!

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes! we who bow The necks of men, bow down before his throne! Third Des. Glory to Arimanes! we await His nod!

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns! we are thine, And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, And most things wholly so; still to increase Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, And we are vigilant-Thy late commands Have been fulfill'd to the utmost.

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,

As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such
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

Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her

cheek;

But now I see it is no living hue,

But a strange hectic-like the unnatural red

W

Even thy own vassals-who do look on thee
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril.
Man. Take it.
Abbot.

I come to save, and not destroy-
I would not pry into thy secret soul;
But if these things be sooth, there still is time
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee

With the true church, and through the church to heaven.
Man. I hear thee. This is my reply; whate'er
I may have been, or am, doth rest between
Heaven and myself.-I shall not choose a mortal
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd
Against your ordinances? prove and punish!

Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment,
But penitence and pardon;-with thyself
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
Frem 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.

Abbot.
All this is well;
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 on-
And 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 was near his last,
The victim of a self-inflicted wound,

To shun the torments of a public death
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier,
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd
The gushing throat with his officious robe;
The dying Roman thrust him back and said-
Some empire still in his expiring glance,
"It is too late-is this fidelity?"

Abbot. And what of this?
Man.

"It is too late!"

Abbot.

And watch all time-and pry into all place-
And be a living lie-who would become
A mighty thing among 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,
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 of insanityAnd 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 carth. Abbot. Yet, hear me stillMan.

Old man! I do respect

It never can be so,

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,

And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope? 'T is strange-even those who do despair above,

Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth,

To which frail twig they cling like drowning men.
Man. Ay-father! 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 columus that become
Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,)
Lies low but mighty still. But this is past,
My thoughts mistook themselves.

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.

[Exil ABBOT

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. He is gone :
I follow.

[Exit MANFRED. SCENE III.-The Mountains-The Castle of Manfred at some distance-A Terrace before a Tower. -Time, Twilight.

HERMAN, MANUEL, and other Dependants of MANFRED.

Her. "T is 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 ofttimes, but from it,

Or its contents, it were impossible

To draw conclusions absolute, of aught

His studies tend to. To be sure, there is

One chamber where none enter: I would give

The fee of what I have to come these three years,
To pore upon its mysteries.

Manuel.

'T were dangerous;

Content thyself with what thou know'st already.

Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,

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――

Hush! who comes here
Enter the ABBOT.
Abbot. Where is your master?
Her.

Abbot. I must speak with him.
Manuel.

Yonder in the tower.

'T is impossible;

He is most private, and must not be thus Intruded on.

Abbot.

Upon myself I take

Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops

Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful!

I linger yet with Nature, for the night

Hath been to me a more familiar face

Than that of man; and in her starry shade

Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learn'd the language of another world.

castle

When I was wandering,-upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star
Shone through the rents of ruin ;"from afar
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cæsars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time worn breach
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot-Where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levell'd battlements,
And twines it roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;-

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!

While Cæsars' chambers and the Augustan halls,
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.-
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugg'd desolation, and fill'd up,
As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries,
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
|Became religion, and the heart ran o'er