University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Selima and Seth.
Selima.
Hail happy day! sacred to wedded love!
How pure and calm shines out thy chearful light!
What happiness, surpassing all the joys
My childish years have known, I taste this day!
To view the labours of the virgin train
Which deck my bridal bow'r, our mother Eve
Hastes all delighted, and with hand maternal
Entwines the clust'ring foliage. I mean-time
Come forth to gather fruits of taste delicious,
Which I have plac'd upon the tender grass,
That so my brethren and my sisters, from
The nuptial bow'r returning, may relieve
Their toil with exquisite repast; around
The ready fruits I've set the luscious grape;
The sweetest shall be Eman's; for his taste
Alone I pluck'd it, and have strew'd it o'er
With shelt'ring leaves yet glist'ning with the dew.
O happiness sincere! the virtuous Eman
Deigns to make me his choice; yes Eman loves me.
When the bright sun shall slope his western course
Beneath th'horizon, then, for the first time,
Shall Adam's daughters bring their infant sons
Of three years growth, unto their genial sire,
That he may bless them; that holy office done,
Th'enraptur'd father, with a heart-felt joy,
Shall lead us to the bow'r, and nuptial bed—
My brother! why that downcast look of care?
Why fades the smile upon thy lips?

Seth.
O Selima!
The thought of thy approaching happiness
Fills all thy brother's social breast; that thought
Possesses me entire; and wherefore then
Seem I to thee to wear the brow of grief?

Selima.
Alas! you answer in a tone of voice,
Spite of yourself betraying secret woe.

Seth.
Know I a secret I'd conceal from thee?
—It shall be so.—I had resolv'd indeed,
To mourn in silence;—but my own frank nature,
Thy tears, thy grief, and soft anxiety,
Have wrench'd it from me. Yet, dearest sister,
Let not this sorrow overwhelm thy soul.
—Thou know'st how tenderly I love my father—
Alas! while at the entrance of the bow'r
Thy fond regards pursued our mother Eve,
I saw him prostrate at the altar's foot
Which Abel rais'd. Distress, and grief extreme,
O'erspread his visage; and his troubled mind
Seem'd labouring with uncommon weight of woe.
—But without cause perhaps my tenderness
Alarms me, and creates fantastic fears.

Selima.
Shall I go see him? With endearment kind
I'll hang upon him, press his hands with mine,
I'll look upon him with the looks of love
And filial duty, I'll beseech, conjure him,
To master all his woes.—O my dear brother!
Alas! what means that sudden gush of tears,
That course each other down your manly cheek?
—Something of greater woe remains untold.

Seth.
Ah me! my sister, why from thy lov'd bow'r
Linger thy steps so long?—O thou hast rent
My very soul. My resolution faints;
And to conceal the secret in my breast,
I strive in vain;—already it escapes me.
—Ne'er did my eyes, O Selima, behold
My father such as he appears to-day.
He pass'd me near; and all his countenance
Seem'd faded. A dire paleness overspread it;
His footsteps totter'd, and with efforts weak,
He scarcely dragg'd his trembling limbs along.
His eyes were fix'd immoveable on me,
And yet he saw me not; he enter'd strait,
And to the altar urg'd his feeble way.
I heard him pray aloud; I saw him tremble
With horror's agony; his struggling words,
Choak'd up with grief in frequent broken sighs,
Scarce forc'd a passage.—Since you came here,
I have not heard him.—'Twas your request, and I
Have nought concealed;—but listen, Selima,
Dost thou not hear his steps? 'Tis he; this way
The sire of men approaches.