Art thus in love with life? the very life Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest! My life is in its last hour, - that I know, Spurn back, and scorn ye! Spirit. Have made thee Man. and skill But thy many crimes What are they to such as thee? Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, A torture which could nothing gain from thine: And its own place and time—its innate sense, Born from the knowledge of its own desert. Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me; [The Demons disappear. Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art-thy lips are white And thy breast heaves - and in thy gasping throat Give thy prayers to Heaven Pray-albeit but in thought, -—but die not thus. But all things swim around me, and the earth But yet one prayer · Alas! how fares it with thee? Man. Old man! 't is not so difficult to die. [MANFRED expires. DYING SPEECH of the doge of (MARINO FALIERO, Act v. Scene 3.) I SPEAK to Time and to Eternity, Of which I grow a portion, not to man. I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit Upon you! Ye blue waves! which bore my banner, And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted I perish, but not unavenged; far ages Float up from the abyss of time to be, And show these eyes, before they close, the doom When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, Shedding so much blood in her last defence As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her, And sold, and be an appanage to those Who shall despise her! - She shall stoop to be A province for an empire, petty town Make their nobility a plea for pity! Then, when the few who still retain a wreck With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, When these and more are heavy on thee, when Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur, Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes! Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods! DEATH OF SALEMENES. (SARDANAPALUS, Act v. Scene 1.) To MYRRHA and BALEA, enter Soldiers, bearing in SALEMENES wounded, with a broken Javelin in his Side: they seat him upon one of the Couches which furnish the Apartment. Myr. Oh, Jove! Bal. Sal. Then all is over. That is false. Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. Myr. Spare him - he 's none: a mere court butterfly, That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. Sal. Myr. Let him live on, then. So wilt thou, I trust. Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here? Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck you, You fell and fainted: 't was his strict command To bear you to this hall. Sal. 'T was not ill done: For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, The sight might shake our soldiers - but 't is vain, I feel it ebbing! |