Of art and its great masters, who could raise What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan;

The fountain of sublimity displays

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of

man

Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions

can.

CLX.

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain-
A father's love and mortal's agony
With an immortal's patience blending :-vain
The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp,
The old man's clench; the long-envenom'd
chain

Rivets the living links,-the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on

gasp.

CLXI.

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,
The God of life, and poesy, and light-
The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight;
The shaft hath just been shot-the arrow
bright

With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might,
And majesty, flash their ful! lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the Deity.
CLXII.

But in his delicate form-a dream of love,
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast
Long'd for a deathless lover from above,
And madden'd in that vision are exprest
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd

The mind with in its most unearthly mood,
When each conception was a heavenly guest-
A ray of immortality-and stood,
Star-like, around, until they gather'd to a god!

CLXIII.

And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory-which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought; And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust-nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.

CLXIV.

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,
The being who upheld it through the past?
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
He is no more-these breathings are his last;
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing:-if he was
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd
With forms which live and suffer let them
pass-

His shadow fades away into destruction's mass,
VOL. II. 41

CLXV.

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all

That we inherit, in its mortal shroud,
And spreads the dim and universal pall
Through which all things grow phantoms; and
the cloud

Between us sinks, and all which ever glow'd,
Till glory's self is twilight, and displays
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd

To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,

CLXVI.

And send us prying into the abyss,

To gather what we shall be when the traine
Shall be resolved to something less than this
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,
And wipe the dust from off the idle name
We never more shall hear,-but never more,
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the

same:

It is enough in sooth that once we bore These fardels of the heart-the heart whose sweat was gore.

CLXVII.

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rend-
ing ground,

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief
Seems royal still, though with her head dis-

crown'd,

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

CLXVIII.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,

Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee

fled

The present happiness and promised joy Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy.

CLXIX.

Peasants bring forth in safety.-Can it be,
O thou that wert so happy, so adored!
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for
thee,

And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard

Her many griefs for ONE; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

But this avail'd not: good or evil, life,
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings,
Have been to me as rain unto the sands,
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread,
And feel the curse to have no natural fear,
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or
wishes,

Or lurking love of something on the earth.-
Now to my task.-

Mysterious Agency!

Ye spirits of the unbounded universe!

Whom I have sought in darkness and in light-
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell
In subtler essence-ye, to whom the tops
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things-
I call upon ye by the written charm

Which gives me power upon you-Rise! appear! [A pause. They come not yet.-Now by the voice of him Who is the first among you-by this sign, Which makes you tremble-by the claims of

him

Who is undying,--rise! appear!-Appear!
[A pause.

If it be so.--Spirits of earth and air,
Ye shall not thus elude me by a power,
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell,
Which had its birth-place in a star condemn'd,
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world,
A wandering hell in the eternal space;
By the strong curse which is upon my soul,
The thought which is within me and around

me,

I do compel ye to my will.-Appear!

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery; it is stationary; and a voice is heard singing.]

FIRST SPIRIT.

Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd,
From my mansion in the cloud,
Which the breath of twilight builds,
And the summer's sunset gilds
With the azure and vermilion,
Which is mix'd for my pavilion;
Though thy quest may be forbidden,
On a star-beam I have ridden;
To thine adjuration bow'd,
Mortal-be thy wish avow'd!

Voice of the SECOND SPIRIT.
Mont-Blanc is the monarch of mountains,
They crown'd him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced,
The avalanche in his hand;
But ere it fall, the thundering ball
Must pause for my command.
The glacier's cold and restless mass
Moves onward day by day;
But I am he who bids it pass,
Or with its ice delay.

I am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his cavern'd baseAnd what with me wouldst thou?

Voice of the THIRD SPIRIT. In the blue depth of the waters, Where the wave hath no strife, Where the wind is a stranger,

And the sea-snake hath life, Where the mermaid is decking

Her green hair with shells; Like the storm on the surface

Came the sound of thy spells; O'er my calm hall of coral

The deep echo roll'dTo the Spirit of Ocean Thy wishes unfold!

FOURTH SPIRIT.

Where the slumbering earthquake
Lies pillow'd on fire,
And the lakes of bitumen

Rise boilingly higher;
Where the roots of the Andes

Strike deep in the earth,
As their summits to heaven
Shoot soaringly forth:
I have quitted my birth-place,
Thy bidding to bide-
Thy spell hath subdued me,
Thy will be my guide!

FIFTH SPIRIT.

I'm the rider of the wind,

The stirrer of the storm; The hurricane I left behind

Is yet with lightning warm; To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea I swept upon the blast: The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 'Twill sink ere night be past.

SIXTH SPIRIT.

My dwelling is the shadow of the night, Why doth thy magic torture me with light!

SEVENTH SPIRIT.

The star which rules thy destiny,
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me:
It was a world as fresh and fair
As e'er revolved round sun in air;
Its course was free and regular,
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star.
The hour arrived-and it became
A wandering mass of shapeless flame.
A pathless comet, and a curse,
The menace of the universe;
Still rolling on with innate force,
Without a sphere, without a course,
A bright deformity on high,

The monster of the upper sky!
And thou! beneath its influence born-
Thou, worm! whom I obey and scorn-
Forced by a power (which is not thine,
And lent thee but to make thee mine)
For this brief moment to descend,
Where these weak spirits round thee bend,
And partly with a thing like thee-
What wouldst thou, child of clay, with me i

Oh God! if it be thus, and thou Art not a madness and a mockery,

Behold!

And we again will be-
I yet might be most happy.-I will clasp thee,

[The figure vanishes.
My heart is crush'd!
[MANFRED falls senseless.

(A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.
When the moon is on the wave,
And the glow-worm in the grass,
And the meteor on the grave,

And the wisp on the morass;
When the falling stars are shooting,
And the answer'd owls are hooting,
And the silent leaves are still
In the shadow of the hill,
Shall my soul be upon thine,
With a power and with a sign.

Though thy slumber may be deep,
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;
There are shades which will not vanish,
There are thoughts thou canst not banish;
By a power to thee unknown,

Thou canst never be alone;

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,
Thou art gather'd in a cloud;