« PreviousContinue »
It may be
To do this thy power
Witch. That not in my province; but if thou
Man. I will not swear-Obey! and whom? the spirits
Is this all ?
I have said it.
[The Witch disappears. Man. (alone). We are the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. In all the days of this detested yokeThis vital weight upon the struggling heart, Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, Or joy that ends in agony or faintnessIn all the days of past and future, for In life there is no present, we can number How few-how less than few-wherein the soul Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back As from a stream in winter, though the chill Be but a moment's. I have one resource Still in my science—I can call the dead, And ask them what it is we dread to be : The sternest answer can but be the Grave,
And that is nothing ;-if they answer not-
(MANFRED, Act ii. Scene 4.)
The Hall of Arimanes–Arimanes on his Throne,
a Giok of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. Enter the DESTINIES and NEMESIS; then MANFRED. A Spirit,
What is here?
I do know the man-
know'st thou not Thine and our Sovereign ?-Tremble, and obey ! All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned
clay, Child of the Earth! or dread the worst. Max.
I know it; And yet ye see I kneel not. Fourth Spirit.
'Twill be taught thee. Mar, 'Tis taught already ;-many a night on the earth, On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, And strew'd my head with ashes; I have known The fulness of humiliation, for I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt To my own desolation.
Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare Refuse to Arimanes on his throne
What the whole earth accords, beholding not
Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him,
Crush the worm !
Hence! Avaunt !--he's mine. Prince of the Powers invisible !
Nemesis. What doth he here then ?
Let him answer that.
Nem. What would'st thou ?
Thou canst not reply to me.
Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch
Whom would'st thou Uncharnel ?
Man. One without a tomb-call up Astarte.
Shadow! or Spirit !
Whatever thou art,
The whole or a part
Of the mould of thy clay,
Re-appear to the day !
The heart and the form,
Redeem from the worm.
the midst. Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her
But now I see it is no living hue,