Manfred

From my youth upwards My Spirit walked not with the souls of men, Nor looked upon the earth with human eyes; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine; My joys—my griefs—my passions—and my powers, Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, Nor midst the Creatures of Clay that girded me Was there but One who—but of her anon. I said with men, and with the thoughts of men, I held but slight communion; but instead, My joy was in the wilderness—to breathe The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, Where the birds dare not build—nor insect's wing Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge Into the torrent, and to roll along On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave Of river-stream, or Ocean, in their flow. In these my early strength exulted; or To follow through the night the moving moon, The stars and their development; or catch The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered leaves, While Autumn winds were at their evening song. These were my pastimes, and to be alone; For if the beings, of whom I was one— Hating to be so—crossed me in my path, I felt myself degraded back to them, And was all clay again. And then I dived, In my lone wanderings, to the caves of Death, Searching its cause in its effect; and drew From withered bones, and skulls, and heaped up dust Conclusions most forbidden. Then I passed— The nights of years in sciences untaught, Save in the old-time; and with time and toil, And terrible ordeal, and such penance As in itself hath power upon the air, And spirits that do compass air and earth, Space, and the peopled Infinite, I made Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, Such as, before me, did the Magi, and He who from out their fountain-dwellings raised Eros and Anteros, at Gadara, As I do thee;—and with my knowledge grew The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy Of this most bright intelligence, until—— Oh! I but thus prolonged my words, Boasting these idle attributes, because As I approach the core of my heart's grief— But—to my task. I have not named to thee Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, With whom I wore the chain of human ties; If I had such, they seemed not such to me— Yet there was One—— She was like me in lineaments—her eyes— Her hair—her features—all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But softened all, and tempered into beauty: She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the Universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears—which I had not; And tenderness—but that I had for her; Humility—and that I never had. Her faults were mine—her virtues were her own— I loved her, and destroyed her! Not with my hand, but heart, which broke her heart; It gazed on mine, and withered. I have shed Blood, but not hers—and yet her blood was shed; I saw—and could not stanch it. Credits: Reprinted from Lord Byron: Six Plays. Lord Byron. Los Angeles: Black Box Press, 2007.    

5 minutes