University of Virginia Library

Spirit, that to the mighty of old time—
When men were giants, little less than Gods,
And sole omnipotent, to earth's known end,
Whether in arms, or in the sciences;
That taught the knowledge of the vast unseen,
And pruned the tree of thought, too free,
Luxuriant, in its first-born, wild excess—
Didst lend the power, and living energy,
That made them, spite of rough discourtesy,
And rude adventure of the boorish time,
Give themselves to the spirit of true thought,
And in the mountains, or the bladed fields,
Or in the shadow of the desert, made,
Remote from the intrusion of the world,
A home for higher converse—I implore,
Celestial, thy proud aid and confidence,
That to my theme so lofty, I impart
A something of the tone that should belong
To song adventurous:—after him, who sang—
Him, whose dim eyes, bent innerward, beheld
The God that was within him, blind beside—
I may not tread unaided, nor attempt
The golden tenor of that holy harp,
That spake in the proud voice of prophecy,
And mingled with the mandate of the Lord,
Unearthly melodies, that gave the waste
Perceiving sense, and won the midnight ear
Of silence down, upon th' attentive world.
Spirit, the parent of secur'd success,
Be with me now, and on my argument,
Simple, from thee majestic, be bestow'd
The triumph thou didst shed on it of old!

The earth was now a garden—summer had grain'd
The fields with yellow riches, and the trees,
Bent with their redden'd off'rings, to the ground.
A smile was over all—the sky was fill'd
With a fair countenance, and on the earth,
A pleasant shade was cast, and the sweet beam
Of the young morning had embrac'd it all,
Till it grew palpable to touch and taste,
And gloried in its freshness and its calm.
Eden, with all its wealth, not all denied
To the lone exiles, who had pitch'd their tents,
With sorrowful hearts, not far remote the spot
They had so blindly forfeited and lost—
Repenting all too late, of the deep crime
That, to succeeding ages must enure
In punishment, without the pleasant sin,
Which brought them down, the penalty, not theirs,
Save in endurance.—Eden, the lost, still rose,
While all was turbulent passion in their hearts,
Remorse and sobbing grief, deep, but not loud,
And late Repentance, sorrowing o'er the past,
In a sweet calm—while Night, with sable plume,
Frown'd black upon the wanderers, and spread
His wings between them, and the sweet heart-home,
Fair birthright, they had bargain'd off, for tears—
As if to shut them from the long, last look,
That Innocence would cast upon its home,
Endear'd by all that youth can conjure up,
Yet not surpassing what indulgent heav'n,
Had, from the boundless measure of its wealth,
Portion'd, in kindness, to the first born man!
Sweet earth! what other spot of earth shall be
Like that of childhood? where it first grew up,
And spoke its first entrancing melodies,
And 'plain'd as gently as the delicate leaf,
Ruffled by rude October. Where its sports
Were first familiar with the scene of play,
Its very trees remember'd, and its leaves,
Familiar as cool garments, loosely thrown
Between it and the ever-piercing sun—
Poor tokens, which the heart may never bear
Along with it—that in its lonely hours,
When all the past, like night-winds, slowly comes
Back to the recollection and the sight,
It has no tangible token, it may touch,
And feel its sympathy rejoin'd by tone
Of some thing kindred—as a wak'ning string,
Of sweet harp-voicing, brings the madman home
To reason, and fair quietness, and peace.

And they have bade adieu—a long adieu—
And who can bid adieu, to all its joys,
Its home of childhood, and the cottage floor,
And the broad tree, that overhung with shade,
And canopied the bank, whereon the breeze,
Won by fresh odours of the innocent wild,
Came down and rested—the sweet rude repast,
And fresh ripe fruits, spread out unconsciously,
Pluck'd from the tree o'erhead, and simply plac'd
Before the eye, creating appetite,
Uncharged by dainty preference, nor taught.
By coarse satiety, to seek for aught,
New, as provocative, but simply rude,
In no profusion, spread before the eye,
But, by the providential care of God,
Still un-decreasing, howsoe'er consumed.
Oh! are all these forgotten—can they lose
These blessings of their birthplace, and the joys
Of that superior clime, so near the home,
And dwelling place of peace, and joy, and Heav'n—
Lose all the promise of the morn—the dream,
Shed by the poppied tree, whose leaves bestowed
The couch, whereon, at noontide sultriness,
From the sharp, brazen arrows of the sun,
They slumber'd thro' the hour—can they forget,
The all, that Age remembers of its youth,
Yet weep not? Did they weep—the weary, lost,
The two upon the desert, fearing much,
That in his uttermost extent of wrath,
He, they had so offended, had withdrawn
The hand of his protection, and no more
Look'd on them as his children, nor bestow'd
The presence they had set at nought, but gave
Their fortunes to themselves, and they alone,
Upon a desart—with no succour near—
Eden shut out from sight, and Night with brow,
Cloud-mantled, and with many storms enwrapt,
Between them, and their lately-lost abode—
Before them, an impenetrable vast,
Unknown, and undiscover'd curs'd and dead,
And fruitful only, from the dropping sweat
Of brows, accustom'd to a canopy
Of pleasant breezes, unfatiguing light,
Fair colours, not to dazzle, but delight,
And nothing ruder than a cherub's wing,
To fan the sunset tangles of the hair,
Now doom'd to droop with moisture, wrought by toil,
From hard endurance, bitter felt fatigue,
As all unknown—deep and excessive heat,
Chilling, and wintry breezes, and the wind,
That lifts the desert's sands, and kills the waste,
A fiery ocean, tempest-wing'd and dread.

Oh! did they weep? Look on them as they bend—
The woman, with her hand above her eye,
And outstretch'd neck, and arm around the tall,
And manly form beside her. He, with hands,
Clasp'd mournful on his breast, yet standing firm,
And tho' with earnest look, yet seeming not
O'er-anxious to discern the fading home,
That now shut dim and darkly in the East,
Seemed but a golden strip, lit by the sword
Of winged cherubim, put there to guard,
The dwelling, which their hearts still occupied.

She rests upon him, and the tears come forth,
At last to her relief—the redden'd eyes
Suffus'd, he clasps her to his breast, and she,
Reprov'd, by his look of tenderness,
Lifts the long hair, that on her shoulder hangs,
And wipes them into redness, and affects
A mournful smile, still sadder than her tears—
Then, in a measur'd note of loneliness,
She spoke her sorrows, in his musing ear.

Afflicted, but not wholly desolate,
Adam, one wealth we bore from Paradise;
Not stolen, but afforded to our lot,
Enough to keep in us the love of life,
In all privation—pleasant too, and well
Considered, to become the substitute,
For much of the vast happiness, we've lost!
Hast thou regarded this, or, art thou fix'd,
Determin'd that thy sorrows shall have way,
To keep thee in the practices of grief,
That thou may'st soon receive the benefit,
Awarded us in that dark prophecy,
Which spoke of death, and silence, and the grave—
Privation from all feeling, happiness,
Or anguish, or admixture of them both;
Annihilation for a season, still,
Worse than whole ages of confirmed pain.
Wilt thou not share with me this happiness?—
Then wean thee from thy earnestness of grief,
And kindle up the altar left to us,
Of sacred friendship, and domestic love!
Dost thou not find thy every sense acute,
More comprehensive now? Is not thy fear
Extenuate—thy hope, of what is yet
Unknown in nature, sharper than before—
And hast thou not a feeling less at large,
Directed to one point, and therefore strong;
Unwandering to the many, dear delights,
Of our own lost inheritage in Heav'n.

To which, the man, then answering, thus replied
Oh! gracious kindness of the mighty power,
That we have so offended, thus to give,
His sanction to the feeling, we have brought
A native flow'r of Eden, thus away—
Domestic Love! I feel it in my heart,
I gather it from thy rich accent, Eve,
'Tis strong in every object that I see—
It lives in every feeling of my frame—
'Tis of our life, a vital principle,
A part of our existence, fairest part!
The all of Eden, that we dare to claim—
Yet sweet, as any flower in Eden nurst,
Or on the borders of that sacred wave,
Where He walk'd forth, at morning, to behold
That all in his creation, still was good.
Alas! that he should come, and we should fear
His holy presence, Eve! alas! alas!
Yet has his mercy bless'd us, tho' denied
The home, where first he planted us, with care;
And the pure feeling of affection glows
Warm in my heart, and bids me not despond,
Since it assures us, he beholds us still;
And our first sin, our only sin, tho' deep,
Has made us not the outcasts from his care,
We are from his abode of blessedness—
Unworthy longer to remain, or dwell
In place so holy, yet not all unfit
For his high charge and tender nourishment.
The Earth, that he has given us, to till,
And occupy at last, is not unkind—
For, while stern Justice spoke the bitter curse,
That made it barren in its stubbornness,
Mercy shed many tears, and soften'd it!
To bear with sorrow, is to conquer it,
And patiently, tho' sadly, on the morn,
I will begin my duty, and implore
Our gracious Father—so we call him still,
Albeit, unworthy children, earth to bless,
By making it productive to my hand—
Meanwhile, as Day no longer holds his lamp,
And grief, and many tears have worn thee out,
This turfy bed, is soft, and the green leaves,
Which I will strew upon it, will avail
To make a couch, not all unmeet for us,
To our condition fit, not as it was,
Nor suited then to us, as we were then,
Yet more than just to our condition now.

Thus saying, from the pleasant hill-side, he
Gather'd enough of bushes, to spread forth
The humble, not uncomfortable couch
Of the discarded children—and above.
Some larger leaves upon a bough he put,
To shelter from the dews, that the first time,
The heavenly people wept for their sad lot—
Then on it, did he throw his manly frame,
And she beside him came, and laid her head
Upon his bosom—God who all beheld,
Sent down his messenger of sleep, who spread
His mantle gently o'er them, and watch'd,
Thro' the long night above them, till the morn.
[OMITTED]
A season, told in flow'rs, had pass'd away,
And the high spirit, once again invok'd,
Reveal'd the picture of the infant time,
Before my rapt sense, wondering to perceive,
The circumstance, and beauty of its change.
I stood upon a pleasant spot of earth,
Mark'd, as before, with many incidents,
Strong feature, and development of point,
To fix my recollection, as the same,
Denoted as the outcast's exile place;
Hard by, the walls of adamantine fire,
That blaz'd around their dwelling place, so late—
Lost Eden, to their children lost, thro' them,
'Till He restore them by his own Son's grace!

But else, that spot of exile, were unknown—
So chang'd in that short season to my view,
Where barrenness had cursed it, and the blight
Of an unnatural parent, had foredoom'd
Sterile defiance to the shaft or hand—
Was now, thro' man's good resolution, brought
Obedient, and return'd him sustenance,
Rich fruits, and much abundance. It was now,
Near ev'ning—and the fierce light of the sun,
Was mellow'd into softness, as he sunk
In Eden's bosom—the rich, tinctur'd clouds,
Like cherubims, in garments finely wrought,
Of many colours, and fair seeming hues,
Came after, in attendance. All the sky
Was gay, with the profusion of fair forms;
Some large, and proud of excellence, supreme,
Above their fellows, in attendance, close,
From their great eminence—while some afar,
In more reserved seeming, pressing on,
Modest, yet confident, and winning too,
Albeit, not quite so richly drest, nor full,
In such proportion of great size or shape,
Some delicate and faintly utter'd hues.
All the Eastern sky, (save here and there,
A speck of purple, left as for a gift
Of fond memorial of the by-gone hours)
Seem'd dark and gloomy, as it mourn'd to lose
Its vigorous companion, and first spouse,
Now won to the embraces of the west!
The Earth had grown into a deeper shade,
And pale specks 'gan to steal into the sky
Cautious, and dreading the absorbing sun—
When lo! the man—our father—he, it was,
Returning to his homely dwelling place,
On yonder green slope, where the red light hangs,
As if reluctant to depart, tho' call'd,
Impatient, by the still up-glancing Day.
Some fruits were in his hand—some pleasant fruits—
Sweeter, because the sultry day had wrought
The sweat from his broad forehead, as he toil'd
In that still petulant, and resisting soil!
Yet were there smiles upon his sunburnt brow
That grew from the cheer'd spirit, that within,
Even as the sun went down, had offer'd up
His ev'ning pray'r—accepted—for the form
Of God, stood over 'gainst a pillar'd cloud,
And, with a lightning glance, shot out from thence.
Smil'd on him approbation, mix'd with rule—
Thus mercy tempers Justice—and, yet more,
To warm the wakeful hope, that leapt within
The heart of that lone man, an angel stood,
Beside him, as he left his place of toil,
On his way home, and gave him of new fruits,
Unknown to him before, and pleasant herbs,
And taught him, of their use and appliance,
Culture, and mode of preparation, all,
Simply and sweetly, by which Adam knew,
The God he had offended was his God—
And he, not all unworthy to receive
His care, or favour, doubted of, before,
By conscious weakness—so that Adam came,
To his low cottage, on that swardy waste,
And the deep gloom of his embrowned cheek,
Like a sad sky of cloud, impending rain,
Lit up by sudden sunshine, bursting through,
Was mix'd with tenderness and happy smiles.
He stood by his low cot, and she was there,
The one of his affections—doom'd to share
Their punishment, and with a pleasant look
Of calm, she met him from his labour come;
Rejoicing. In her arms, she gently bore
A pair of chubby infants, hale and flush
Of health, who lay and nestled at her breast,
Inhaling thence, their nourishment and life.
Brown labour had infused into her frame,
A hardiness that mingled in with much
Of her first sweetness of aspect, not lost,
In her sad downfal; and a winning grace
Shone in the calm and patience of her look—
Happy, that from their cottage, discontent,
Driven out, by sweet reliance upon God,
Had fled the little valley where they dwelt!
[OMITTED]
The boys, were boys no longer. They had grown,
In that beneficent clime, that could not be
Else than Hygeian, bounding close upon
The lost abode of purity and bliss,
Up into fair proportion, and much grace—
Vigour Herculean, and a pleasant case
Of limb and outward seeming, not unmeet
To glad the eye, and satisfy the nice,
And close observances of curious taste.
Manliness stood, a native, on the brow
Of him, the first born. In his dark eye shone
Much character—stern fixedness and pride—
A restlessness of that, which bound him down,
As other men, in seeming ignorance,
Yet wiser than the rest of earth beside.

He lov'd not, that his toil should only win
The bread of life; and marvel'd that his thought,
So searching, and far wandering, should return
Without discovery. He look'd beyond
His own horizon, bounded to a span,
And long'd for other regions, unknown lands,
Deeming imprisonment, the close confine,
Of his first birth-place. Thus, with thought like this
And dreams, that won him from himself, away,
What wonder he should leave the compass'd field,
Appointed to his labours. Thus, at eve,
As from the place of toil, returning home.
He spoke at last, with weary heart and sad,
To his old father, in respectful word,
Link'd with a rugged earnestness, that gave
Assurance of determination, made
In cool reflection, therefore worthy note!

I know not well, my father, if my thought,
Be wrong in this, but that it is my thought,
Unforced, and of his own accord, from God,
I may not question. I was never made
To grovel in the earth, and dig for food,
With heart so wrought like mine, that ever springs
Upward to heav'n, and gathering from its flight,
A newer vigour, 'till it onward soars,
From star to star, and thro' each bright abode,
Imagined in rich dreams, that seldom fly,
Discovers its true birth place. It is mine,
I feel it in my soul, that it is mine—
Else, why this anxiousness to soar above
This dull dim earth, this barren dwelling place,
Accursed, even by our toil, accurs'd—
And more than curs'd by him who gave it us,
Accursed be it then, as 'tis accurs'd.

But Adam, all impatient, stay'd his speech,
With interruption brief—
Accursed not—
Earth! be thou blessed, even with our tears,
And labour. Hear not, Oh God, this boy—
Spare him, for ignorant and vain, his pray'r
Is wrung from childish spirit, that is clipt
In its observance, and beyond the time,
Sees not thy glorious Providence and will!
Kneel, impious boy, kneel Abel—kneel with me,
And let thy humble pray'r undo thy rash,
And ill-advised temper; that thou may'st
Stand before Heaven, nor feel thy idle curse,
Come multiplied, untemper'd on thy head,
That call'd it down, on that which gives us life,
But for our labour, which improves the good,
By teaching us its value.
I will kneel,
My father with you now, return'd the boy,
And offer up my pray'r for every good,
It may be, that you would be thankful for:
And chiefly for the blessing, which has made,
Spite of your destiny—that rugged fate,
Which I am free to say, I covet not,
So well content. I would it were my lot,
To own a spirit, so much like to thine,
That, whatsoe'er its own adventure, wrong,
And wantonly-enforced suffering,
I might put down my head, and in the dust,
Lift the fine ashes from our clay-built hearth,
And wrap me in a cloud of it, and cry
For other punishment; and smile and pray,
To find the pray'r accepted, and new pain
Sent down to gratify the humble heart!—
But for a wrong which I have never done,
I may not seek forgiveness. I have stood
Upon yon mountain, by the ev'ning light,
Where thou art now to offer sacrifice,
And if I pray'd, I pray'd not for myself,
For I had nought to pray for. But I pray'd,
That He, the almighty, powerful, severe,
Inflexible in judgment, should not hold
The cloudy front of his full countenance,
Upon you and my mother, and the young boy
That stands beside you, with enclasped hands,
And eye of upturn'd tenderness, and calm—
I pray'd that you might feel, as now you feel,
Contented with your lot, and not like me,
Be doom'd to inborn conflict with the soul,
Too proud to own allegiance, or bow down
For privilege to labour and to sweat,
For bread, whose sweetest sustenance is—tears;
And meat of lambs, that cry with plaintive tone,
More sad and tender than your saddest pray'r,
When you do rob them from the piteous dam,
Whose bleatings fill the tent, e'en while the feast,
At her poor heart's expence, is going on.
What I have pray'd for then, I'll pray for now—
Your happiness, my mother's, brother's, mine,
Whate'er that happiness may be. 'Tis well
That we should thus, conciliate the power,
Since 'tis the pow'r alone that bids us pray,
To whom we can oppose, nor force nor guile,
Nor arbitration strong—but all submit,
In quietude and meekness—mercy comes
Alone from power, my father bids me say—
We ask no mercy, where we see no power,
And own no crime, where punishment is none,
Or else defiance strong, we offer up,
In token of our hardihood of heart,
And utter shamelessness and scorn—kneel down
Abel, my brother, we will kneel and pray.

Thus saying, knelt he, by his brother's side,
And Adam bow'd his head—awhile they pray'd
Aloud. Adam, unto his first-born, at the close,
Thus, his fond thought deliver'd.
Cain, my son,
The air is tainted thou abidest in—
Nor is that purer, that encircles us,
And thus we need the incense, to remove
And purify our evil dwelling-place.
Bad spirits are about us, day and night,
Watching our guardlessness, and still alert
In momentary absence, to entrap,
And rob us of our future heritage—
Therefore the name of God should be a spell,
Borne with us in our solitude—his word
A sacred garment, wrapt about.
Our else unguarded loins; and gentle thoughts,
And purity and faith should fill our hearts,
To fit us for the company of God,
And the pure angels, that we sometimes meet,
Beside us, in the forest—such as he
That sent thy mother roots, by Abel's hand,
When she was sick, which wrought her health again.
Forbear thy thoughts, my son—thy evil thoughts,
For pride is evil, and the proud in heart,
Bow down in shame, unless they guard themselves.
Let us upon our away—the winds of eve,
That wait upon, and usher in the night,
Are bringing us the perfume of the flow'rs,
That grow in Eden—and the song of birds—
Ye hear my boys, that lonely one, that seems
To sing apart, from all the merry ones—
Now, do ye hear the melancholy strain?
O! ever thus, that gentle-toned, sad bird,
Would, sound at night, the warning note, that shut
The delicate young flow'rs, and warn'd us two,
Thy mother and myself, to seek the shade
Of our o'er-canopied, secluded bow'r.
I cannot now, so far forget my wont—
Tho' long, since it was taught to meet my ear,
And tell me of my duties—but even now,
With that sweet song, I shut the day-light out,
And woo the cheering sleep, and dream of Eden.