University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII

Adam. Seth.
Seth.
Cain, I o'ertook, my father;—stretch'd at length
I found him on the ground. As from afar
He saw me, strait he rais'd his head, and cry'd
Aloud, I die.—O bring me of that stream
A little draught to quench the thirst that burns me.
Instant I drew him water; gave it him;
He drank, refresh'd:—and then I told him all
As you commanded:—strait he started up,
And fix'd at once his steady eyes on me:
—It seem'd he would have wept, but could not;
Then cry'd at length,—yes,—he is my father;—
He pardons me:—well,—heav'n so pardon him.

Adam.
It is enough, my son.

Seth.
To me, my sire,
Thou seemst more calm.

Adam.
And, trust me, so I am.

Seth.
The cause I know not, but within me too
Tranquillity revives; say, Is it faintness?
Is it a power supernatural,
Which now sustains me?

Adam.
Let us prove, my son,
If this serenity hath taken root
Deep in the soul, or if its falsely flatt'ring;
Answer me, Seth;—as thou returnedst hither,
Didst thou behold the sun?

Seth.
'Twas half o'erspread
With clouds, and more than half its course it hath
Perform'd already.

Adam.
Already! O my son,
Look up;—grow the clouds light, and fade away?
Comes thy dear mother here?—Agen, agen,
This deadly sorrow preys upon my soul.
Wretched, if I behold her looks agen;
More wretched still, to see that face no more.
—Shall I send for her?—Shall I shut the bow'r
Against her, and preclude her from all entrance?

Seth.
The clouds still thicken, and my eyes as yet
See not her footsteps hitherways advance.

Adam.
What can I do?—to thy eternal will,
O pow'r supreme, who rulest the radiant sun,
Who didst thyself commission thy dread angel
T'announce my death, I bow all lowly;
Thy will be done.—My child, my eldest born;
For Cain hath curs'd me; Abel is no more;
When thou shalt bow beneath the weight of age,
And thy white locks be silver'd o'er by time,
The children of my children, and their race,
Shall gather round thee, and bespeak thee thus.
Thou who didst see our father Adam die,
Tell us the words which in his last sad moments
Our general parent spake;—and thou, alas!
Tormenting thought! shalt answer thus; on me,
Just at the fatal moment of his death
Leaning, all woe—begone, he cry'd.—My children,
That curse, that dreadful curse which follows me,
Hang's o'er ye all; and I, your father, I
Have pull'd it on ye.—The just eternal pow'r,
Which from the first created me immortal,
Placed life and death before me, with free-will
To chuse.—Fool that I was! I grasp'd at more,
More than immortal sought to be, and chose
Death!—But hark!—What is't I hear? the mountains
Send hideous cries, and echo loud lamentings.
Distress stalks o'er the vale beneath.—See, see
The father.—Sight of horror, sight distracting!
Buries his daughter, and the desperate mother
For her own son prepares the grave;—and there
Children attend their mother to the tomb.—
Mark! how yon widow round the ghastly corpse
Of her lov'd husband, clings disconsolate;—
And see a sister, with her social tears,
Bedews a brother's tomb;—and there a friend,
O'er his half-self, scatters the mould'ring dust.
The plighted wife, here digs the grave for him
Her vows were plighted to.—O children, children,
If ye behold my grave, turn not your eyes,
Nor o'er my ashes, and my memory, heap
Your dreadful curses:—let rememb'rance rather
Of this your wretched father, let the sight
Of this his grave, awaken all your pity.
Will ye refuse me that, which God made man,
The day spring from on high, and glad salvation
To all mankind shall not refuse?—He, he
Will have pity on me.—Tell them, my son,
But for a blest Redeemer, I had been
Crush'd with the weight of death, and in the sight
Of my Creator, a mere, mere nothing.

[He sits upon the altar, near the grave.
Seth.
See, his head droops; his eyes are closed;—alas!
He dies.—O Adam, O my father, yet
Breath'st thou this air.

Adam.
Leave me;—e'en in the midst
Of death's attacks, I feel, I know not what,
Of pleasing languor steal upon my soul.—
Ah me, this sleep will be my last.

Seth.
How sudden
Falls the calm sleep upon him! his eyes are
Clos'd in sweet tranquillity:—let me,
With pious reverence, shroud that aged head.
No good old man, thou best of fathers, I
Will not pour curses on thy memory.—Ha,
What is't I see—The sun almost hath reach'd
His course.—O sight distracting!—what's this too?
My mother!—but alone she comes not ever,
Her children always throng about her steps.
—'Tis she,—'tis she herself;—burst, burst my heart.
Crush'd down to earth with my own weight of griefs,
Shall I yet feel more agonizing pain?
I will retire to recollect my strength,
And steel my bosom for this last dread shock.