And hold fast by my girdle-softly—well— The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour— And something like a pathway, which the torrent (As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes.) ACT II. SCENE I. A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER. C.HUN. No, no-yet pause-thou must not yet go forth: Thy mind and body are alike unfit To trust each other, for some hours, at least; When thou art better, I will be thy guide But whither ? MAN. It imports not: I do know My route full well, and need no further guidance. C. HUN. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags Look o'er the lower valleys-which of these Which step from out our mountains to their doors, MAN. No matter. C. HUN. Well, sir, pardon me the question, And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; C. HUN. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee. MAN. I say 'tis blood-my blood! the pure warm stream And loved each other as we should not love, Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, Where thou art not—and I shall never be. C. HUN. Man of strange words, and some half-mad dening sin, Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience MAN. Patience and patience! Hence-that word was made For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— I am not of thine order. C. HUN. Thanks to heaven! I would not be of thine for the free fame With the fierce thirst of death-and still unslaked! C. HUN. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. MAN. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, Innumerable atoms; and one desert, Barren and cold, 'on which the wild waves break, But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. C. HUN. Alas! he's mad-but yet I must not leave him. MAN. I would I were-for then the things I see Would be but a distemper'd dream. C. HUN. What is it That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? MAN. Myself, and thee—a peasant of the Alps— Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud and free; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; It matters not-my soul was scorch'd already! C. HUN. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine? MAN. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor ex change My lot with living being: I can bear— However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear— |