Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me?

Man:

I simply tell thee peril is at hand,

And would preserve thee.

Not I;

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! 'tis 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.

Spirit.

Reluctant mortal!

Is this the Magian who would so pervade
The world invisible, and make himself
Almost our equal?-Can it be that thou
Art thus in love with life? the very life
Which made thee wretched!

Man.

Thou false fiend, thou liest! My life is in its last hour,—that I know, Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; I do not combat against death, but thee And thy surrounding angels; my past power Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, But by superior science-penance—daringAnd length of watching-strength of mind-and skill 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-denySpurn 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 thoughts-
Is its own origin of ill and end-

And its own place and time—its innate sense,
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives
No colour 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 prey-
But 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 Heaven— Pray-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! 'tis not so difficult to die.

[MANFRED expires.

DYING SPEECH OF THE DOGE OF
VENICE.

(MARINO FALIERO, Act v. Scene 3.)

I SPEAK to Time and to Eternity,

Of which I grow a portion, not to man.
Ye elements in which to be resolved

I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit

Upon you! Ye blue waves! which bore my banner,
Ye winds which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it,
And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted
To many a triumph! Thou, my native earth,
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth,
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound!
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but
Reek up to Heaven! Ye skies, which will receive it!
Thou sun! which shinest on these things, and Thou!
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns !—Attest !

I am not innocent-but are these guiltless?
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
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse

On her and hers for ever!—Yes, the hours
Are silently engendering of the day,

When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark,
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield
Unto a bastard Attila, without

Shedding so much blood in her last defence
As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her,
Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought
And sold, and be an appanage to those
Who shall despise her !—She shall stoop to be
A province for an empire, petty town

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates,
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people!
Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces,
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his!
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need
Make their nobility a plea for pity!
Then, when the few who still retain a wreck
Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn
Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent,
Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns,
Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign,
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung
From an adulteress boastful of her guilt

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier,
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph
To the third spurious generation ;—when
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being,