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A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. | |
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MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER. | |
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| C. Hun. No, no, yet pause, thou must not yet go forth: | |
| Thy mind and body are alike unfit | |
| To trust each other, for some hours, at least; | 5 |
| When thou art better, I will be thy guide— | |
| But whither? | |
| Man. It imports not; I do know | |
| My route full well and need no further guidance. | |
| C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage— | 10 |
| One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags | |
| Look o’er the lower valleys—which of these | |
| May call thee lord? I only know their portals; | |
| My way of life leads me but rarely down | |
| To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, | 15 |
| Carousing with the vassals; but the paths, | |
| Which step from out our mountains to their doors, | |
| I know from childhood—which of these is thine? | |
| Man. No matter. | |
| C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question, | 20 |
| And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; | |
| ’Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day | |
| ’T has thaw’d my veins among our glaciers, now | |
| Let it do thus for thine. Come, pledge me fairly. | |
| Man. Away, away! there’s blood upon the brim! | 25 |
| Will it then never—never sink in the earth? | |
| C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee. | |
| Man. I say ’tis blood—my blood! the pure warm stream | |
| Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours | |
| When we were in our youth, and had one heart, | 30 |
| And loved each other as we should not love, | |
| And this was shed: but still it rises up, | |
| Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, | |
| Where thou art not—and I shall never be. | |
| C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half—maddening sin, | 35 |
| Which makes thee people vacancy, whate’er | |
| Thy dread and sufferance be, there’s comfort yet— | |
| The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience— | |
| Man. Patience and patience! Hence—that word was made | |
| For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; | 40 |
| Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— | |
| I am not of thine order. | |
| C. Hun. Thanks to heaven! | |
| I would not be of thine for the free fame | |
| Of William Tell; but whatsoe’er thine ill, | 45 |
| It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. | |
| Man. Do I not bear it?—Look on me—I live. | |
| C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. | |
| Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years, | |
| Many long years, but they are nothing now | 50 |
| To those which I must number: ages—ages— | |
| Space and eternity—and consciousness, | |
| With the fierce thirst of death—and still unslaked! | |
| C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age | |
| Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. | 55 |
| Man. Think’st thou existence doth depend on time? | |
| It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine | |
| Have made my days and nights imperishable, | |
| Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, | |
| Innumerable atoms; and one desert, | 60 |
| Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, | |
| But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, | |
| Rocks, and the salt—surf weeds of bitterness. | |
| C. Hun. Alas! he’s mad—but yet I must not leave him. | |
| Man. I would I were, for then the things I see | 65 |
| Could be but a distemper’d dream. | |
| C. Hun. What is it | |
| That thou dost see, or think thou look’st upon? | |
| Man. Myself, and thee—a peasant of the Alps, | |
| Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, | 70 |
| And spirit patient, pious, proud and free; | |
| Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; | |
| Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, | |
| By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes | |
| Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, | 75 |
| With cross and garland over its green turf, | |
| And thy grandchildren’s love for epitaph; | |
| This do I see—and then I look within— | |
| It matters not—my soul was scorch’d already! | |
| C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine? | 80 |
| Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee nor exchange | |
| My lot with living being: I can bear— | |
| However wretchedly, ’tis still to bear— | |
| In life what others could not brook to dream, | |
| But perish in their slumber. | 85 |
| C. Hun. And with this— | |
| This cautious feeling for another’s pain, | |
| Canst thou be black with evil?—say not so. | |
| Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak’d revenge | |
| Upon his enemies? | 90 |
| Man. Oh! no, no, no! | |
| My injuries came down on those who loved me— | |
| On those whom I best loved: I never quell’d | |
| An enemy, save in my just defence— | |
| But my embrace was fatal. | 95 |
| C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest! | |
| And penitence restore thee to thyself; | |
| My prayers shall be for thee. | |
| Man. I need them not, | |
| But can endure thy pity. I depart— | 100 |
| ’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! [Exit MANFRED. | |
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