The clouds grow thicker. -there-now lean on
Place your foot here-here, take this staff, and cling
A moment to that shrub-now give me your hand,
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-
You should have been a hunter.- Follow me.

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty,
the scene closes.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps.

MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.

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 ;
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

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,
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, And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; 'Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day

"Thas thawed 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! 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,
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 halfmaddening sin,

Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er

Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yetThe 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;
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,

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
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.
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,

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 Would 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 AlpsThy humble virtues, hospitable home,

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,
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 would'st thou then exchange thy
lot for mine?

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.

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?

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.

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–

'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!

SCENE II.

[Exit MANFREd.

A lower Valley in the Alps.-A Cataract.(1)

Enter MANFred.

It is not noon-the sunbow's rays (2) still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular,
And fling its lines of foaming light along,
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail,
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,

(1) [This scene is one of the most poetical and most sweetly written in the poem. There is a still and delicious witchery in the tranquillity and seclusion of the place, and the celestial beauty of the being who reveals herself in the midst of these visible enchantments. — JEFFREY.]

(2) This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower part of the Alpine torrents: it is exactly like a rainbow come down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk into it: this effect lasts till noon.- ["Before ascending the mountain, went to the torrent; the sun upon it, forming a rainbow of the lower part of all colours, but principally purple and gold; the bow moving as you move: I never saw any thing like this; it is only in the sunshine."-Swiss Journal.]