Life of Lord Byron, Vol. IV | Page 6

the whole space by which he before fell short
of perfection,--all these circumstances, connected with the production
of this grand poem, lay open to us features, both of his disposition and
genius, in the highest degree interesting, and such as there is a pleasure,
second only to that of perusing the poem itself, in contemplating.
As a literary curiosity, and, still more, as a lesson to genius, never to
rest satisfied with imperfection or mediocrity, but to labour on till even
failures are converted into triumphs, I shall here transcribe the third Act,
in its original shape, as first sent to the publisher:--
ACT III.--SCENE I.
A Hall in the Castle of Manfred.
MANFRED and HERMAN.
_Man._ What is the hour?
_Her._ It wants but one till sunset, And promises a lovely twilight.
_Man._ Say, Are all things so disposed of in the tower As I directed?
_Her._ All, my lord, are ready: Here is the key and casket.
_Man._ It is well: Thou may'st retire. [Exit HERMAN.
_Man._ (_alone._) There is a calm upon me-- Inexplicable stillness!
which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. If that I did not
know philosophy To be of all our vanities the motliest, The merest
word that ever fool'd the ear From out the schoolman's jargon, I should
deem The golden secret, the sought 'Kalon,' found, And seated in my
soul. It will not last, But it is well to have known it, though but once: It
hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, And I within my tablets
would note down That there is such a feeling. Who is there?
_Re-enter_ HERMAN.
_Her._ My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves To greet your

presence.
Enter the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE.
_Abbot._ Peace be with Count Manfred!
_Man._ Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls; Thy presence
honours them, and blesseth those Who dwell within them.
_Abbot._ Would it were so, Count! But I would fain confer with thee
alone.
_Man._ Herman, retire. What would my reverend guest?
[Exit HERMAN.
_Abbot._ Thus, without prelude:--Age and zeal, my office, And good
intent, must plead my privilege; Our near, though not acquainted
neighbourhood, May also be my herald. Rumours strange, And of
unholy nature, are abroad, And busy with thy name--a noble name For
centuries; may he who bears it now Transmit it unimpair'd.
_Man._ Proceed,--I listen.
_Abbot._ 'Tis said thou boldest converse with the things Which are
forbidden to the search of man; That with the dwellers of the dark
abodes, The many evil and unheavenly spirits Which walk the valley of
the shade of death, Thou communest. I know that with mankind, Thy
fellows in creation, thou dost rarely Exchange thy thoughts, and that
thy solitude Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy.
_Man._ And what are they who do avouch these things?
_Abbot._ My pious brethren--the scared peasantry-- Even thy own
vassals--who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in
peril.
_Man._ Take it.

_Abbot._ I come to save, and not destroy-- I would not pry into thy
secret soul; But if these things be sooth, there still is time For penitence
and pity: reconcile thee With the true church, and through the church to
heaven.
_Man._ I hear thee. This is my reply; Whate'er I may have been, or am,
doth rest between Heaven and myself.--I shall not choose a mortal To
be my mediator. Have I sinn'd Against your ordinances? prove and
punish![1]
_Abbot._ Then, hear and tremble! For the headstrong wretch Who in
the mail of innate hardihood Would shield himself, and battle for his
sins, There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal--
_Man._ Charity, most reverend father, Becomes thy lips so much more
than this menace, That I would call thee back to it; but say, What
wouldst thou with me?
_Abbot._ It may be there are Things that would shake thee--but I keep
them back, And give thee till to-morrow to repent. Then if thou dost
not all devote thyself To penance, and with gift of all thy lands To the
monastery--
_Man._ I understand thee,--well!
_Abbot._ Expect no mercy; I have warned thee.
_Man._ (_opening the casket._) Stop-- There is a gift for thee within
this casket.
[MANFRED _opens the casket, strikes a light, and burns some
incense._
Ho! Ashtaroth!
The DEMON ASHTAROTH _appears, singing as follows:--_
The raven sits On the raven-stone, And his black wing flits O'er the
milk-white bone; To and fro, as the night-winds blow, The carcass of

the assassin swings; And there alone, on the raven-stone[2], The raven
flaps his dusky wings.
The fetters creak--and his ebon beak Croaks to the close of the hollow
sound; And this is the tune by the light of the moon To which the