Manfred

Manfred alone.—Scene, a Gothic Gallery.—Time, Midnight.

Man. The lamp must be replenished, but even then It will not burn so long as I must watch: My slumbers—if I slumber—are not sleep, But a continuance, of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men. But Grief should be the Instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. Philosophy and science, and the springs Of Wonder, and the wisdom of the World, I have essayed, and in my mind there is A power to make these subject to itself— But they avail not: I have done men good, And I have met with good even among men— But this availed not: I have had my foes, And none have baffled, many fallen before me— But this availed 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!