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ACT III.

SCENE I.—A Hall in the Castle of Manfred.

Manfred and Herman.

Man. What is the hour?
Her.

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

It wants but one till sunset, With the true church, and through the church to heaven.

And promises a lovely twilight. Man.

Say,

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[Exit Herman.

Man.(alone). There is a calm upon me-
Inexplicable stillness! which till now
Did not belong to what I knew of life.
If that I did not know philosophy
To be of all our vanities the motliest,
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear

From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem
The golden secret, the sought "Kalon," found,
And seated in my soul. It will not last,
But it is well to have known it, though but once:
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,
And I within my tablets would note down
That there is such a feeling. Who is there?
Re-enter Herman.

Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves To greet your presence.

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice.

Abbot.
Peace be with Count Manfred!
Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these
walls;

Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those
Who dwell within them.

Abbot.
Would it were so, Count!-
But I would fain confer with thee alone.
Man. Herman, retire.-What would my reverend
guest?

Abbot. Thus, without prelude:-Age and zeal, my office,

And good intent, must plead my privilege;
Our near, though not acquainted neighborhood,
May also be my herald. Rumors strange,
And of unholy nature, are abroad,
And busy with thy name; a noble name
For centuries: may he who bears it now
Transmit it unimpair'd!

Man.

Proceed, I listen.

Abbot. "Tis said thou holdest converse with the things

Which are forbidden to the search of man;
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,
The many evil and unheavenly spirits
Which walk the valley of the shade of death,
Thou communest. I know that with mankind,
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy.

Man. And what are they who do avouch these things?

Abbot. My pious brethren-the scared peasantryEven thy own vassals-who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. Man. Take it.

* Otho, being defeated in a general engagement near Brixellum, stabbed himself. Plutarch says, that, though he lived full as badly as Nero, his last moments were those of a philosopher. He comforted his soldiers who lamented his fortune, and expressed his concern for their safety, when

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

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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
From 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.

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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.

I answer with the RomanIt 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 fantasy on earth,
To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.
Man. Ay-father! I have had those earthly

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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 columns that become
Clouds raining from the reascended skies),
Lies low but mighty still.-But this is past,
My thoughts mistook themselves.
Abbot.

And wherefore so? Man. I could not tame my nature down; for he Must serve who fain would sway-and soothe-and

sue

And watch all time-and pry into all place-
And be a living lie-who would become

A mighty thing amongst 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 insanity *-
And 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 earth.
Abbot. Yet, hear me still-
Man.
Old man! I do respect
Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain:
Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself,
Far more than me, in shunning at this time
All further colloquy-and so-farewell.+

[Exit Manfred. Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: he Hath all the energy which would have made A goodly frame of glorious elements,

*This speech has been quoted in more than one of the sketches of the poet's own life. Much earlier, when only twenty-three years of age, he had thus prophesied :-"It seems as if I were to experience in my youth the greatest misery of old age. My friends fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely tree before I am withered. Other men can always take refuge in their families. I have no resource but my own reflections, and they present no prospect, here or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my betters. I am, indeed, very wretched. My days are listless, and my nights restless. I have very seldom any society; and when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity." -Byron Letters, 1811.

"Of the immortality of the soul, it appears to me that there can be little doubt-if we attend for a moment to the action of mind. It is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt

Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,
It is an awful chaos-light and darkness-

| And mind and dust-and passions and pure thoughts,

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.
[Exit Abbot.

SCENE II.-Another Chamber.

Manfred and Herman.

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset: He sinks behind the mountain. Man. Doth he so?

I will look on him.

[Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall. Glorious orb! the idol Of early nature, and the vigorous race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 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 Dependents 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 oft-times: but from it,

it--but reflection has taught me better. How far our future state will be individual; or, rather, how far it will at all resemble our present existence, is another question; but that the mind is eternal seems as probable as that the body is not so."-Byron Diary, 1821.—“I have no wish to reject Christianity without investigation; on the contrary, I am very desirous of believing; for I have no happiness in my present unsettled notions on religion.”—Byron Conversations with Kennedy, 1823.

"And it came to pass, that the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair," etc.-"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown."-Genesis, ch. vi., verse 2 and 4.

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Some strange things in them, Herman.
Her.
Come, be friendly;
Relate me some to while away our watch:
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower.
Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remem-
ber

'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such
Another evening;-yon red cloud, which rests
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,-
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-

SCENE IV.—Interior of the Tower.

Manfred alone.

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.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
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 stars
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
Began 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 its 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 Cæsar's 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 rugged 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
With silent worship of the great of old,-
The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.

"T was such a night! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order.

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Hush! who comes here? I crave a second grace for this approach;

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But yet let not my humble zeal offend
By its abruptness-all it hath of ill
Recoils on me; its good in the effect
May light upon your head-could I say heart-
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd;
But is not yet all lost.

Man.

Thou know'st me not;
My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded':
Retire, or 't will be dangerous-Away!
Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me?
Man.

I simply tell thee peril is at hand,
And would preserve thee.

Abbot. Man.

Abbot.

Man.

What dost thou see?

Not I;

What dost mean?

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And steadfastly;-now tell me what thou seest. Abbot. That which should shake me,—but I fear

it not:

I see a dusk and awful figure rise,

Like an infernal god, from out the earth;

His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form
Robed as with angry clouds: he stands between
Thyself and me-but I do fear him not.

Man. Thou hast no cause-he shall not harm thee -but

His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy.
I say to thee-Retire!

Abbot.
And I reply-
Never-till I have battled with this fiend:-
What doth he here?
Man.

Why-ay-what doth he here?
I did not send for him,-he is unbidden.
Abbot. Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like
these

Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake:
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him?
Ah! he unveils his aspect: on his brow
The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye
Glares forth the immortality of hell-
Avaunt!-

Man. Pronounce-what is thy mission?
Spirit.
Come!
Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer!
-speak!

Spirit. The genius of this mortal.-Come! 't is time.

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny The power which summons me. Who sent thee here?

Spirit. Thou 'lt know anon-Come! come!
Man.
I have commanded
Things of an essence greater far than thine,
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!
Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come-Away! I say.
Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but
not

To render up my soul to such as thee:
Away! I'll die as I have lived-alone.

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.-
Rise!
[Other Spirits rise up.
Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones!-Avaunt! I say;
Ye have no power where piety hath power,
And I do charge ye in the name-

Spirit.

Old man!

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,

It were in vain: this man is forfeited."
Once more I summon him-Away! away!

Man. I do defy ye,-though I feel my soul
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;

Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath
To breathe my scorn upon ye-earthly strength
To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take
Shall be ta en limb by limb.

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In knowledge of our fathers-when the earth
Saw men and spirits walking side by side,
And gave ye no supremacy: I stand
Upon my strength-I do defy-deny-
Spurn back, and scorn ye!-
Spirit.
Have made thee-
Man.

But thy many crimes

What are they to such as thee? Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, And greater criminals?-Back to thy hell! Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel; Thou never shalt possess me, that I know: What I have done is done; I bear within A torture which could nothing gain from thine; The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughtsIs its own origin of ill and endAnd its own place and time: its innate sense, When stripp'd of this mortality, derives No color from the fleeting things without, But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert. Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt

me;

I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy preyBut was my own destroyer, and will be My own hereafter.-Back, ye baffled fiends! The hand of death is on me-but not yours! [The Demons disappear. Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art-thy lips are white

And thy breast heaves-and in thy gasping throat The accents rattle: Give thy prayers to HeavenPray-albeit but in thought,-but die not thus.

Man. 'Tis over-my dull eyes can fix thee not; But all things swim around me, and the earth Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee wellGive me thy hand. Abbot. Cold-cold-even to the heartBut yet one prayer-Alas! how fares it with thee? Man. Old man! 't is not so difficult to die. [Manfred expires. Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta'en his earth

less flight

Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone.

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MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE:

An Historical Tragedy, in Five Acts.*

"Dux inquieti turbidus Adria."-HORACE.

PREFACE.

HE conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of guage. The moderns, Daru, Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly

singular government, city, and people of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Everything about Venice is, or was, extraordinary-her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The story of this doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in the "Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. (See Appendix, Notes 43 and 44.) It is simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes which can be founded upon the subject.

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents and of courage. I find him commander-in-chief of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the king of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same time in check; an exploit to which I know none similar in history, except that of Cæsar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa and Rome,-at which last he received the news of his election to the dukedom; his absence being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his own succession at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto of his having, many years before, when podesta and captain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square; but he does not tell us whether he was punished or rebuked by the senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of count, by Lorenzo, Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the account of the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his Monumenti Veneziani di varia Letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have looked over in the original lan

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* On the original MS. sent from Ravenna, Lord Byron has written:-"Begun April 4, 1820-completed July 16, 1820finished copying August 16, 17, 1820. It was published in the

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the conspiracy to his jealousy; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that "Altri scrissero che . . . . . dalla gelosa suspizion di esso doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," etc., etc.; but this appears to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto, or by Navagero; and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that "per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alla congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelava a farsi principe independente." The first motive appears to have been excited by the gross affront of the words written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who was one of their "tre Capi." The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been directed towards one of her damsels, and not to the "dogaressa" herself, against whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion), that the doge was actuated by jealousy of his wife; but rather by respect for her, and for his own honor, warranted by his past services and present dignity. I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an observer of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marlborough of his command, and led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht-that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most desolating wars, because his minister was nettled at his finding fault with a window, and wished to give him another occupation-that Helen lost Troy-that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins from Rome-and that Cava brought the Moors to Spain-that an insulted husband led the Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome-that a single verse of Frederic II. of Prussia on the Abbé de Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of

end of the same year; and, to the poet's great disgust, and in spite of his urgent and repeated remonstrances, was produced on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre early in 1821.

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