_Abbot._ Thus, without prelude:--Age and zeal, my office, And good intent, must plead my privilege; Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, May also be my herald. Rumours strange, And of unholy nature, are abroad, And busy with thy name--a n.o.ble name For centuries; may he who bears it now Transmit it unimpair'd.

_Man._ Proceed,--I listen.

_Abbot._ 'Tis said thou boldest 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 peasantry-- Even thy own va.s.sals--who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril.

_Man._ Take it.

_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 With the true church, and through the church to heaven.

_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![1]

_Abbot._ Then, hear and tremble! For the headstrong wretch Who in the mail of innate hardihood Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal--

_Man._ Charity, most reverend father, Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, That I would call thee back to it; but say, What wouldst thou with me?

_Abbot._ It may be there are Things that would shake thee--but I keep them back, And give thee till to-morrow to repent.

Then if thou dost not all devote thyself To penance, and with gift of all thy lands To the monastery--

_Man._ I understand thee,--well!

_Abbot._ Expect no mercy; I have warned thee.

_Man._ (_opening the casket._) Stop-- There is a gift for thee within this casket.

[MANFRED _opens the casket, strikes a light, and burns some incense._

Ho! Ashtaroth!

_The_ DEMON ASHTAROTH _appears, singing as follows:--_

The raven sits On the raven-stone, And his black wing flits O'er the milk-white bone; To and fro, as the night-winds blow, The carca.s.s of the a.s.sa.s.sin swings; And there alone, on the raven-stone[2], The raven flaps his dusky wings.

The fetters creak--and his ebon beak Croaks to the close of the hollow sound; And this is the tune by the light of the moon To which the witches dance their round-- Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily, Merrily, speeds the ball: The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds, Flock to the witches' carnival.

_Abbot._ I fear thee not--hence--hence-- Avaunt thee, evil one!--help, ho! without there!

_Man._ Convey this man to the Shreckhorn--to its peak-- To its extremest peak--watch with him there From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know He ne'er again will be so near to heaven.

But harm him not; and, when the morrow breaks, Set him down safe in his cell--away with him!

_Ash._ Had I not better bring his brethren too, Convent and all, to bear him company?

_Man._ No, this will serve for the present. Take him up.

_Ash._ Come, friar! now an exorcism or two, And we shall fly the lighter.

ASHTAROTH _disappears with the_ ABBOT, _singing as follows:--_

A prodigal son and a maid undone, And a widow re-wedded within the year; And a worldly monk and a pregnant nun, Are things which every day appear.

MANFRED _alone._

_Man._ Why would this fool break in on me, and force My art to pranks fantastical?--no matter, It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens, And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul; But it is calm--calm as a sullen sea After the hurricane; the winds are still, But the cold waves swell high and heavily, And there is danger in them. Such a rest Is no repose. My life hath been a combat.

And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd In the immortal part of me--What now?

_Re-enter_ 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...o...b..[3] the idol Of early nature, and the vigorous race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons Of the embrace of angels, with a s.e.x More beautiful than they, which did draw down The erring spirits who can ne'er return.-- Most glorious...o...b.. 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 G.o.d!

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 II.

_The Mountains--The Castle of Manfred at some distance--A Terrace before a Tower--Time, Twilight._

HERMAN, MANUEL, _and other dependants of_ MANFRED.

_Her._ 'Tis 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, Or its contents, it were impossible To draw conclusions absolute of aught His studies tend to. To be sure, there is One chamber where none enter; I would give The fee of what I have to come these three years, To pore upon its mysteries.

_Manuel._ 'Twere dangerous; Content thyself with what thou know'st already.

_Her._ Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle-- How many years is't?

_Manuel._ Ere Count Manfred's birth, I served his father, whom he nought resembles.

_Her._ There be more sons in like predicament.

But wherein do they differ?

_Manuel._ I speak not Of features or of form, but mind and habits: Count Sigismund was proud,--but gay and free,-- A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not With books and solitude, nor made the night A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside From men and their delights.

_Her._ Beshrew the hour, But those were jocund times! I would that such Would visit the old walls again; they look As if they had forgotten them.

_Manuel._ These walls Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen Some strange things in these few years.[4]