Man. To do this thy power Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. Do so—in any shape—in any hour— With any torture—so it be the last.
Witch. That is not in my province; but if thou Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes.
Man. I will not swear—Obey! and whom? the Spirits Whose presence I command, and be the slave Of those who served me—Never!
Witch. Is this all?160 Hast thou no gentler answer?—Yet bethink thee, And pause ere thou rejectest.
Man. I have said it.
Witch. Enough! I may retire then—say!
Man. Retire! 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 yoke— This vital weight upon the struggling heart, Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, Or joy that ends in agony or faintness—170 In 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 chillba 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—180 The buried Prophet answered to the Hag Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit An answer and his destiny—he slew That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, And died unpardoned—though he called in aid The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused The Arcadian Evocators to compel The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, Or fix her term of vengeance—she replied190 In words of dubious import, but fulfilled.138 If I had never lived, that which I love Had still been living; had I never loved, That which I love would still be beautiful, Happy and giving happiness. What is she? What is she now?—a sufferer for my sins— A thing I dare not think upon—or nothing. Within few hours I shall not call in vain— Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare: Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze200 On spirit, good or evil—now I tremble, And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. But I can act even what I most abhor, And champion human fears.—The night approaches. Exit.
Scene III.—The summit of the Jungfrau Mountain.
Enter First Destiny.
The Moon is rising broad, and round, and bright;
And here on snows, where never human foot139 Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, And leave no traces: o'er the savage sea, The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, We skim its rugged breakers, which put on The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, Frozen in a moment140—a dead Whirlpool's image: And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, The fretwork of some earthquake—where the clouds10 Pause to repose themselves in passing by— Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils; Here do I wait my sisters, on our way To the Hall of Arimanes—for to-night Is our great festival141—'tis strange they come not.
A Voice without, singing.
The Captive Usurper,
Hurled down from the throne,
Lay buried in torpor,
Forgotten and lone;
I broke through his slumbers,20
I shivered his chain,
I leagued him with numbers—
He's Tyrant again!
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care,
With a Nation's destruction—his flight and despair!142
Second Voice, without.
The Ship sailed on, the Ship sailed fast,
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast;
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck,
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck;
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair,30
And he was a subject well worthy my care;
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea—143 But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me!
First Destiny, answering.
The City lies sleeping;
The morn, to deplore it,
May dawn on it weeping:
Sullenly, slowly,
The black plague flew o'er it—
Thousands lie lowly;
Tens of thousands shall perish;40
The living shall fly from
The sick they should cherish;
But nothing can vanquish
The touch that they die from.
Sorrow and anguish,
And evil and dread,
Envelope a nation;
The blest are the dead,
Who see not the sight
Of their own desolation;50
This work of a night—
This wreck of a realm—this deed of my doing—
For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing!
Enter the Second and Third Destinies.
The Three.
Our hands contain the hearts of men,
Our footsteps are their graves;
We only give to take again
The Spirits of our slaves!
First Des. Welcome!—Where's Nemesis?
Second Des. At some great work; But what I know not, for my hands were full.
Third Des. Behold she cometh.
Enter
