University of Virginia Library

‘As when, from under roof domestic,’—thus
They sang—‘a Son goes forth in ripened years,
Conscious of power, to mingle in the race
Of public competition; Man went forth,
Out of the Garden of Delights, that would,
With unremitting bliss, have lulled the soul
To indolence; proud of his liberty,
And brave to battle in the field, wherein
Salvation might be won, and Heaven obtained.

‘There had he been in idlesse well content,
Within an arbour evermore reclined,
To listen to the descant of the bird,
Morning, and evening; or the murmuring brook;
Or breezes making vocal the green boughs:
Nor known what fountain in his soul of song
He might unseal, that should their warbling shame;
The broken-hearted nightingale, entranced,
On the excelling lyre, by music slain.
—Music; he knows her now, he feels her too;
She kindles, she inspires him, she transports,
And to a better Paradise exalts.
She tells of love; and wooes to soft delight,
To rapturous bliss, the lovely, and the young:
Their glowing eyes, their panting bosoms own,
Their melting hands, their sparkling feet confess,
Their dreams acknowledge, her persuasive power.
She heaps the board, o'erflows the generous wine,
The feast inflames, and gives the banquet joy.
Heroes she makes: War revels, and exults;
And, while she sings, glows beautiful in blood.

‘Not without labour is such art attained,
Nor without praise the artist who attains.
By labour, food, from its concealment drawn,
Strengthens the human heart; and wine, expressed
From the luxuriant grape, the human face
Enlightens. Sweetly to man's listening mind,
High on green bough supported, dusky winged,
Shrills the Cicada's note the livelong day;
While he, complacent, views the millet's ears
Spring bristly with much grain; and, on the vine,
The crude grape ripen in young summer's smile,
The produce of his toil: or—when the thorn
Burns in its glory, yet is not consumed—
The dainty food of goat, or tender flesh
Of infant heifer, or of savoury kid,
Partakes, imbowered in cool; and the brimmed cup,
With dark, and piquant liquor mantling up,
Commends to his pleased lip; and laughs for joy.
—Nor less his joy, when the Autumnal god,
Upon the harvest, in fresh showers descends—
He feels the wheat the creature of his skill,
Whose culture only causes it to be;
Soon, if his providence neglect, extinct:
No second year beyond the harvest sees
Spontaneous produce from the fallen ear;
But, by his tendance nourished, it repays
The earth-tiller, with even more than daily bread;
With rights, and manners; sciences, and arts.

‘For this, that it may flourish, and abound,
Man hastes by day-break to resume the plough;
Its peaceful course still followed by the race
Of Rooks, each eager with short flights to be
The nighest, seizing on the fresh-turned Worm:
They, for the larvæ of the Dor-beetle,
Old mossy grass fields visit, by the scent
Discovered, feeding at the roots of grass;
Destructive tribe, deep in the soil immured.
—Nor shall the song forget to celebrate,
Who, first, into a liquid ore, dissolved
Iron, or brass; thence moulded into tools,
Or what might be in metal fused, or graved.
Hence, fields are cultured; and hence, fields are fought.
The ploughshare, and the pruning-hook we leave—
Hail, to the sword, and spear; hail, glorious arms;
Hail, helm, and casque:—but doubly hail, the shield,
The Shield which Tubalcain for Lamech wrought.
Had Lamech, in his lust, a man, and youth,
Not slain; the second homicide?—As yet,
War had not been: and he his Wives bespake,
Adah, and Zillah; for he greatly feared—
‘Lo, I have to my wounding slain a man,
Yea, and a young man to my periling.
Was Cain avengèd sevenfold? Then, sure,
Shall Lamech be with seventy, and seven.’
Thus solaced he his terrour: but, anon,
The Avengers rose in wrath, and sought his life;
And it returned. ‘All creatures are preserved,’
Lamented he, ‘from perilous approach.
While the unsitting Cock boasts golden hues;
The Hen-bird obvious to the preyer's view,
Or beast, or bird, or man, hath Nature hid
In plumage dull, or coloured like the ground.
Thus cowers the Lark, and squatting Partridge, while
The robber Hawk unconscious hovers o'er.
Or, if both sexes boast like gaudy tints,
Swan, Falcon, Raven, Owl, are strong to strive.
How strong of wing the Pigeon of the wood,
To flee the Hawk; and him despise not too
The agile Swallows, as they clamour round?
Thick hedge, and bush protect the warbling tribes;
Redbreast, and Wren; Linget, and Nightingale:
The Crake, and Quail, long grass, and standing corn.
And him, the Hawk, the brilliance of his eye
Provides with meat. Even for the Cuckoo brood
Cares Nature, and permits an alien nest
Receive them, lest the mother's cry provoke
Despoilers, and direct them where they lie.
Is man less worth than these, that no defence
Avails him, when the wrath of multitudes
Burns against One? How hopeless he alone.’
—Then said his Son, the hero of the forge,
Said Tubalcain; ‘I will an Ægis make,
Of metal most approved, that shall protect
My father's person from all weapon's dint.’
—Soon he began the labour. At the forge
The anvil groans beneath the hammer's stroke,
And the strong fire dissolves the roaring mass,
Gold, brass, or steel. Orb within orb, he forms
The massy buckler; nor his sire's defence
Alone considered: mindful to display
A workman's skill; o'er all its wondrous disk,
The storied shield, impenetrable frame,
Bears the traditions of the days of old.
—First, round the ample verge, a river rolled;
That river which from Eden journied first,
To water, and refresh that garden blest,
Where Adam wooed fair Eve; whence parted, it
Into four heads divided; as they flowed,
Each marking out the limits of a land,
Upon the expanse, and surface of that round.
Lo, at the junction of two rivers stands
A horseman; it is Cain. The fiery steed
Rears at the opposition; and his rider,
With terrour wild, clings to his hairy neck,
While he attempts the passage. Nor in vain:
For, on the further bank, a City stands;
And Cain, with his son Enos, manifest,
There exercise authority, and power.
And, now, the artist Irad celebrates
On that emblazoned field. Of the wild Ass
The tamer he; and therewith he explored
Desert, and wilderness; and such report
Brought home, as since in Amazarah burned,
And in Dudäel built metropolis,
For glory unexcelled. How beautiful
The Ass which, at his bidding, bowed the head
Obedient, and stood still; else swift of foot:
That he might mount upon her streakèd back;
Else silver white; and there in silver wrought.
And who is he, yon orator, who stands
In action eloquent? 'Tis Mehujaël—
Persuasion hovers o'er that multitude,
A radiant angel, seconding his speech;
And keen Conviction, girt as if for speed,
Hastens from man to man; with ardent lips,
And confidential whisper, others' torch
Enkindling with the light she bears herself.
—Of God spake Mehujaël, and proclaimed
The destiny of man; the doom of earth;
Of labour still inventive, still in want.
The evil Mildew eats the stalks of Corn,
And idle Thistle chokes the dying field,
With burrs, and prickly weeds soon overgrown.
What then?—the land with many a harrow work,
Noise-off the birds, and prune the shading boughs.
To human labour must the soil submit,
And Paradise in every spot appear:
For skill shall make a garden of the earth.
—This lore Methusael learned, and well he knew
That earth had charms, and life might be enjoyed,
And should be, since the grave her secrets hid.
Was Death not Hades; dark, and shadowy?
For him the Olive flourished, and the Vine;
For him floods teemed with fish, and air with fowl,
And earth with fruits, and flesh of many kinds.
There sculptured, lo, he revels, as in life
He reveled; with the wine-cup in his hand
Raised high; as if he said—‘Life, if not brief,
Is tedious, or, it may be, both; and death
Remediless. None comes from Hades back.
Chance-born, the dead are as they ne'er had been:
For breath is smoke, the heart-pulse but a spark,
Body to ashes, spirit to air returns;
Time buries names, and man forgets man's works.
Life passes like a cloud, like morning mist—
Its end fast sealed, it ne'er again begins.
Come on, then: let us taste the present good;
Let us with costly wines regale our youth,
With ointments, and the vernal blossoms seize,
And crown our brows with rose-buds, ere they fade.’
—Thus, round the generous board, in jovial mood
Methusael seemed, in festival elate:
And Lamech there, his son, partook his joy;
Eftsoons with terrour paled. For then it was,
The feasters cried;—‘Let none of us depart,
Without his share of our voluptuous mirth;
In every place be tokens of our joy;
This is our portion, and our lot is this.
The poor, though righteous, man who would not scorn?
Why not oppress? the widow who would spare?
Who reverence the grey hair of ancient men?
Strength be the law of Justice; weak to be,
Is to be worthless. Who shall us upbraid?
Lie we in wait for him, though he profess
Knowledge divine, instructed child of God:
Enough, he doth reprove our very thoughts.
O hateful to behold, his life is not
Like other men's; 'tis of another make.
By him as counterfeits we are disesteemed.
Presumptuous: boasts he God, as of his sire?
Prove we his words. He hath pronounced the Just
Blest in his end. See we what then shall chance.
Is he the son of God? him God will help,
And sure deliver from the hands of foes.’
—Thus saying, they arise. Lo, where they haste;
With song, and dance; so livelily his hand,
The artist's hand, hath on the metal traced
The merry crew, the gazer deems they move.
Anon, an old Man, and his Son they meet,
Beside a tent, in prayer; derived from Seth;
But sojourners within the land of Naid,
And with its dwellers leagued by nuptial league;
Yet was the stock they sprang from not forgot
By them, in pious act, or who beheld:
And wanton mischief doomed them to the death.
'Twas Lamech smote them; hence his fear, and hence
The Avengers rose in wrath.

‘Now fears he not—
The shield of Tubalcain o'ershadows him:
The sway of Enos, and the toil of rule,
Left to his sons; . . himself in shades retired,
Far from the city to the plains of Naid;
Adah, and Zillah, comfort, and delight
Methusael's son, even Lamech. Woods, and groves
Are conscious of their loves; and rocks, and caves:
The flowing rivers murmur with their sighs.
—Nor deem exempt from labour their delight:
For art invents new pleasures, and they toil
For new enjoyments, worthy highest song,
Were song not worthy now of highest praise.

‘Song was in Heaven the solace of the gods,
Innumerable ages of repose,
Ere it was known on earth to mortal men:
An inspiration, actual breath divine;
Or lyric rapture, human, yet from heaven;
Brought by the Heroic Angels, when they came,
The prefects, and their hosts, on Ardis down,
And sware, defying all Superior Power,
They would, O Men, your daughters beautiful
Crown with a race, celestially derived.’