And on thy head I pour the vial
Which doth devote thee to this trial;
Nor to slumber, nor to die,
Shall be in thy destiny;
Though thy death shall still seem

near

To thy wish, but as a fear; Lo! the spell now works around thee,

And the clankless chain hath bound thee;

O'er thy heart and brain together Hath the word been passed now wither!

BYRON.

MANFRED.

THE spirits I have raised abandon

me

The spells which I have studied baffle me

The remedy I recked of tortured me;

I lean no more on superhuman aid, It hath no power upon the past, and for

The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness,

It is not of my search. My mother earth! And thou, fresh breaking day, and you, ye mountains,

Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.

And thou, the bright eye of the universe,

That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight, - thou shinest not on my heart. And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge

I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath

How beautiful is all this visible world!

How glorious in its action and itself

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mixed essence make

A conflict of its elements, and breathe

The breath of degradation and of pride, Contending with low wants and lofty will

Till our mortality predominates, And men are— - what they name not to themselves,

And trust not to each other. Hark! the note, [The shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard.] The natural music of the mountain reed,

For here the patriarchal days are not A pastoral fable,- pipes in the liberal air, Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;