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 witches dance their round—­
    Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily,
      Merrily, speeds the ball: 
    The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds,
      Flock to the witches’ carnival.

Abbot. I fear thee not—­hence—­hence—­ Avaunt thee, evil one!—­help, ho! without there!

Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn—­to its peak—­
To its extremest peak—­watch with him there
From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know
He ne’er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him not; and, when the morrow breaks,
Set him down safe in his cell—­away with him!

Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, Convent and all, to bear him company?

Man. No, this will serve for the present.  Take him up.

Ash. Come, friar! now an exorcism or two, And we shall fly the lighter.

      ASHTAROTH disappears with the ABBOT, singing as follows:—­

    A prodigal son and a maid undone,
      And a widow re-wedded within the year;
    And a worldly monk and a pregnant nun,
      Are things which every day appear.

      MANFRED alone.

Man. Why would this fool break in on me, and force
My art to pranks fantastical?—­no matter,
It was not of my seeking.  My heart sickens,
And weighs a fix’d foreboding on my soul;
But it is calm—­calm as a sullen sea
After the hurricane; the winds are still,
But the cold waves swell high and heavily,
And there is danger in them.  Such a rest
Is no repose.  My life hath been a combat. 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr’d
In the immortal part of me—­What now?