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The Mountain of the Jungfrau.—Time, Morning. MANFRED alone upon the Cliffs. | |
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| Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me, | |
| The spells which I have studied baffle me, | |
| The remedy I reck’d of tortured me; | |
| I lean no more on superhuman aid, | 5 |
| It hath no power upon the past, and for | |
| The future, till the past be gulf’d in darkness, | |
| It is not of my search.—My mother Earth! | |
| And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, | |
| Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. | 10 |
| And thou, the bright eye of the universe, | |
| That openest over all, and unto all | |
| Art a delight—thou shin’st not on my heart. | |
| And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge | |
| I stand, and on the torrent’s brink beneath | 15 |
| Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs | |
| In dizziness of distance; when a leap, | |
| A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring | |
| My breast upon its rocky bosom’s bed | |
| To rest for ever—wherefore do I pause? | 20 |
| I feel the impulse—yet I do not plunge; | |
| I see the peril—yet do not recede; | |
| And my brain reels—and yet my foot is firm. | |
| There is a power upon me which withholds, | |
| And makes it my fatality to live; | 25 |
| If it be life to wear within myself | |
| This barrenness of spirit, and to be | |
| My own soul’s sepulchre, for I have ceased | |
| To justify my deeds unto myself— | |
| The last infirmity of evil. Ay, | 30 |
| Thou winged and cloud—cleaving minister, [An eagle passes. | |
| Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, | |
| Well may’st thou swoop so near me—I should be | |
| Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone | |
| Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine | 35 |
| Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, | |
| With a pervading vision.—Beautiful! | |
| How beautiful is all this visible world! | |
| How glorious in its action and itself! | |
| But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, | 40 |
| Half dust, half deity, alike unfit | |
| To sink or soar, with our mix’d essence make | |
| A conflict of its elements, and breathe | |
| The breath of degradation and of pride, | |
| Contending with low wants and lofty will, | 45 |
| Till our mortality predominates, | |
| And men are—what they name not to themselves, | |
| And trust not to each other. Hark! the note, [The Shepherd’s pipe in the distance is heard. | |
| The natural music of the mountain reed | |
| (For here the patriarchal days are not | 50 |
| A pastoral fable) pipes in the liberal air, | |
| Mix’d with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; | |
| My soul would drink those echoes.—Oh, that I were | |
| The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, | |
| A living voice, a breathing harmony, | 55 |
| A bodiless enjoyment—born and dying | |
| With the blest tone which made me! | |
Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTER | |
| Chamois Hunter. Even so | |
| This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet | 60 |
| Have baffled me; my gains to—day will scarce | |
| Repay my break—neck travail.—What is here? | |
| Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach’d | |
| A height which none even of our mountaineers, | |
| Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb | 65 |
| Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air | |
| Proud as a freeborn peasant’s, at this distance— | |
| I will approach him nearer. | |
| Man. (not perceiving the other). To be thus— | |
| Grey—hair’d with anguish, like these blasted pines. | 70 |
| Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, | |
| A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, | |
| Which but supplies a feeling to decay— | |
| And to be thus, eternally but thus, | |
| Having been otherwise! Now furrow’d o’er | 75 |
| With wrinkles, plough’d by moments, not by years | |
| And hours—all tortured into ages—hours | |
| Which I outlive!—Ye toppling crags of ice! | |
| Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down | |
| In mountainous o’erwhelming, come and crush me! | 80 |
| I hear ye momently above, beneath, | |
| Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, | |
| And only fall on things that still would live; | |
| On the young flourishing forest, or the hut | |
| And hamlet of the harmless villager. | 85 |
| C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley; | |
| I’ll warn him to descend, or he may chance | |
| To lose at once his way and life together. | |
| Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds | |
| Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, | 90 |
| Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, | |
| Whose every wave breaks on a living shore | |
| Heap’d with the damn’d like pebbles.—I am giddy. | |
| C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near, | |
| A sudden step will startle him, and he | 95 |
| Seems tottering already. | |
| Man. Mountains have fallen, | |
| Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock | |
| Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up | |
| The ripe green valleys with destruction’s splinters; | 100 |
| Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, | |
| Which crush’d the waters into mist and made | |
| Their fountains find another channel—thus, | |
| Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg— | |
| Why stood I not beneath it? | 105 |
| C. Hun. Friend! have a care, | |
| Your next step may be fatal!—for the love | |
| Of him who made you, stand not on that brink! | |
| Man. (not hearing him). Such would have been for me a fitting tomb; | |
| My bones had then been quiet in their depth; | 110 |
| They had not then been strewn upon the rocks | |
| For the wind’s pastime—as thus—thus they shall be— | |
| In this one plunge.—Farewell, ye opening heavens! | |
| Look not upon me thus reproachfully— | |
| Ye were not meant for me—Earth! take these atoms! [As MANFRED is in act to spring from the cliff, the CHAMOIS HUNTER seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp. | 115 |
| C. Hun. Hold, madman!—though aweary of thy life, | |
| Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood! | |
| Away with me—I will not quit my hold. | |
| Man. I am most sick at heart—nay, grasp me not— | |
| I am all feebleness—the mountains whirl | 120 |
| Spinning around me—I grow blind—What art thou? | |
| C. Hun. I’ll answer that anon.—Away with me! | |
| The clouds grow thicker—there—now lean on me— | |
| Place your foot here—here, take this staff, and cling | |
| A moment to that shrub—now give me your hand, | 125 |
| And hold fast by my girdle—softly—well— | |
| The Chalet will be gain’d within an hour. | |
| Come on, we’ll quickly find a surer footing, | |
| And something like a pathway, which the torrent | |
| Hath wash’d since winter.—Come, ’tis bravely done; | 130 |
| Your should have been a hunter.—Follow me. [As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes. | |
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