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! I simply tell thee peril is at hand, Not I; Abbot. What dost thou mean? Look there, I say, 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 :- 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 Man. Pronounce-what is thy mission? Come ! Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer!-speak! The power which summons me. Who sent thee here? Man. I have commanded Things of an essence greater far than thine, Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.-Rise! [Other Spirits rise up. Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones!-Avaunt! I say; Spirit. Old man ! We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; It were in vain: this man is forfeited. Once more I summon him-Away! Away! Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath Reluctant mortal! Spirit. Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest! And length of watching, strength of mind, and skill And gave ye no supremacy: I stand Upon my strength-I do defy-deny- Spirit. Have made thee But thy many crimes What are they to such as thee? Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, And its own place and time: 31 its innate sense, 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; But was my own destroyer, and will be [The Demons disappear. Man. 'Tis over-my dull eyes can fix thee not; Abbot. [MANFRED expires. Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight; Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone.33 NOTES TO MANFRED. 1.-Page 5, line 1. [In Manfred, we recognise at once the gloom and potency of that so! which burned and blasted and fed upon itself, in Harold, and Conrad, and Lara-and which comes again in this piece, more in sorrow than in anger -more proud, perhaps, and more awful than ever-but with the fiercer traits of its misanthropy subdued, and quenched in the gloom of a deeper despondency. Manfred does not, like Conrad and Lara, wreak the anguish of his burning heart in the dangers and daring of desperate and predatory war-nor seek to drown bitter thoughts in the tumult of perpetual contention; nor yet, like Harold, does he sweep over the peopled scenes of the earth with high disdain and aversion, and make his survey of the business, and pleasures, and studies of man an occasion for taunts and sarcasms, and the food of an unmeasurable spleen. He is averse, indeed, from mankind, and scorns the low and frivolous nature to which he belongs; but he cherishes no animosity or hostility to that feeble race. Their concerns excite no interest-their pursuits no sympathy--their joys no envy. It is irksome and vexatious for him to be crossed by them in his melancholy musings,-but he treats them with gentleness and pity; and, except when stung to impatience by too importunate an intrusion, is kind and considerate to the comforts of all around him. To delineate his character-to render conceivable his feelings-is the whole scope and design of the poem; and the conception and execution are, in this respect, equally admirable. It is a grand and terrific vision of a being invested with superhuman attributes, in order that he may be capable of more than human sufferings, and be sustained under them by more than human force and pride. To object to the improbability of the fiction, is to mistake the end and aim of the author. His object was, to produce effect-to exalt and dilate the character through whom he was to interest or appal us-and to raise our conception of it, by all the helps that could be derived from the majesty of nature, or the dread of superstition. It is enough, therefore, if the situation in which he has placed him is conceivable, and if the supposition of its reality enhances our emotions and kindles our imagination. There are great faults, it must be admitted, but it is undoubtedly a work of great genius and originality. Its worst fault, perhaps, is that it fatigues and overawes us by the uniformity of its terror and solemnity. Another, is the painful and offensive nature of the circumstance on which its distress is ultimately founded. The lyrical songs of the Spirits are too long, and not all excellent. There is something of pedantry in them now and then; and even Manfred deals in classical allusions a little too much. If we were to consider it as a proper drama, or even as a finished poem, we should be obliged to add, that it is far too indistinct and unsatisfactory. But this we take to be according to the design and conception of the author. Its obscurity is a part of its grandeur;-and the darkness that rests upon it, and the smoky distance in which it is lost, are all devices to increase its majesty, to stimulate our curiosity, and to impress us with deeper awe. Ir. the tone and pitch of the composition, as well as in the character of the diction in the more solemn parts, Manfred reminds us much more of the 'Prometheus' of Eschylus, than of any more modern performance. The tremendous solitude of the principal person-the supernatural beings with whom alone he holds communion-the guilt-the firmness-the misery-are all points of resemblance, to which the grandeur of the poetic imagery only gives a more striking effect. The chief differences are, that the subject of the Greek poet was sanctified and exalted by the established belief of his country, and that his terrors are nowhere tempered with the sweetness which breathes from so many passages of his English rival.-JEFFREY. Lord Byron acknowledged the truth of the critic's comparison. "Of the 'Prometheus,"" he says, "I was passionately fond as a boy; it was one of the Greek plays we read thrice a year at Harrow: indeed, that and the 'Medea' were the only ones except the 'Seven before Thebes,' which ever much pleased me. The 'Prometheus,' if not exactly in my plan, has always been so much in my head, that I can easily conceive its influence over all or any thing that I have written."] 2.-Page 6, line 6. Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe! Ye spirits of the immortal Universe!"-Original MS.] 3.-Page 6, line 10. Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 4.-Page 6, line 32. Which is mix'd for my pavilion; 5.-Page 10, line 30. (A voice is heard in the Incantation which foliows.) [These verses were written in Switzerland, in 1816, and transmitted to England for publication, with the third canto of "Childe Harold." "As they were written," says Mr. Moore, " immediately after the last fruitless attempt at a reconciliation with Lady Byron, it is needless to say who was in the poet's thoughts while he penned some of the opening stanzas."] |