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

Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill,
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.
MAN. Do I not bear it?-Look on me-I live.
C. HUN. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
MAN. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages-ages-
Space and eternity-and consciousness,

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 desart,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcases 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 distempered dream.

C. HUN.

What is it

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?

MAN. Myself, and thee-a peasant of the AlpsThy humble virtues, hospitable home,

And spirit patient, pious, proud and free;

Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes

Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave,

With cross and garland over its green turf,
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph;

This do I see-and then I look within

It matters not-my soul was scorch'd already! C. HUN. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for mine?

MAN. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor

exchange

My lot with living being: I can bear

However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear

In life what others could not brook to dream,

But perish in their slumber.

C. HUN.

And with this

This cautious feeling for another's pain,

Canst thou be black with evil?-say not so.

Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge Upon his enemies?

MAN.

Oh! no, no, no!

My injuries came down on those who loved me-
On those whom I best loved: I never quell'd

An enemy, save in my just defence

But my embrace was fatal.

C. HUN.

Heaven give thee rest!

And penitence restore thee to thyself;

My prayers shall be for thee.

ΜΑΝ.

I need them not,

But can endure thy pity. I depart―

'Tis time-farewell!-Here's gold, and thanks for

thee

No words—it is thy due.-Follow me not

I know my path-the mountain peril's past:-
And once again, I charge thee, follow not!

[Exit MANFRED.

SCENE II.

A lower Valley in the Alps.-A Cataract.

Enter MANFRED.

It is not noon-the sunbow's rays1 still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular,
And fling its lines of foaming light along,
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail,
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes

But mine now drink this sight of loveliness;
I should be sole in this sweet solitude,