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 not20 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 them, Herman.be
Her. Come, be friendly;30 Relate me some to while away our watch: I've heard thee darkly speak of an event Which happened hereabouts, by this same tower.
Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember 'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such Another evening:—yon red cloud, which rests On Eigher's pinnacle,163 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;40 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 seemed to love,— As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, The Lady Astarte, his——164 Hush! who comes here?
Enter the Abbot.
Abbot. Where is your master?
Her. Yonder in the tower.
Abbot. I must speak with him.
Manuel. 'Tis impossible; He is most private, and must not be thus50 Intruded on.
Abbot. Upon myself I take The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be— But I must see him.
Her. Thou hast seen him once his eve already.
Abbot. Herman! I command thee,bf Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.
Her. We dare not.
Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald Of my own purpose.
Manuel. Reverend father, stop— I pray you pause.
Abbot. Why so?
Manuel. But step this way, And I will tell you further. Exeunt.
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 Night165 Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned 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,16610 '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 bayed beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Cæsars' palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,167 Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind.168 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach20 Appeared 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 levelled 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.—30 And thou didst shine, thou rolling Moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 'twere 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 rule40 Our spirits from their urns. 'Twas 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.
Enter the Abbot.
Abbot. My good Lord! I crave a second grace for this approach; 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—50 Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should Recall a noble spirit which hath wandered, But is not yet all lost.
Man. Thou know'st me not; My days are numbered, and my deeds recorded: Retire, or 'twill be dangerous—Away!
Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me?
Man. Not I! I simply tell thee peril is at hand, And would preserve thee.
Abbot. What dost thou mean?
Man. Look there! What dost thou see?
Abbot. Nothing.
Man. Look there, I say, And steadfastly;—now tell me what thou seest?60
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:—70 What doth he here?
Man. Why—aye—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 eye169 Glares forth the immortality of Hell— Avaunt!—
