_Manuel_. 'Tis impossible; He is most private, and must not be thus 50 Intruded on. _Abbot_. Upon myself I take The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be-- But I must see him. _Her_. Thou hast seen him once his eve already. _Abbot_. Herman! I command thee,[bf] Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. _Her_. We dare not. _Abbot_. Then it seems I must be herald Of my own purpose. _Manuel_. Reverend father, stop-- I pray you pause. _Abbot_. Why so? _Manuel_. But step this way, And I will tell you further. [_Exeunt_. SCENE IV.--_Interior of the Tower_. MANFRED _alone_. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.--Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night[165] Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering,--upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall,[166] 10 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Cæsars' palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,[167] Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind.[168] Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 20 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.-- 30 And thou didst shine, thou rolling Moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not--till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the Great of old,-- The dead, but sceptred, Sovereigns, who still rule 40 Our spirits from their urns. 'Twas such a night! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time;