University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Adam. Seth.
Adam.
[Leaning upon the altar before his grave.]
How dreadful looks this earth, my son! no more
That fertile earth, which I of late beheld
O'erspread with roses, or in whose deep bosom
The branching cedars struck fantastic root.
Here must I render up my body, I
Made by the hand of God himself, to dust;
I who was born not of a mortal woman!
I feel the fatal moment not far off.
My eyes grow dim, my arm trembles unnerv'd,
My feet forget their office, and my breath
Labours incessant. Death's cold hand is on me,
And o'er my body, throughout all its folds,
Stamps its own seal. I feel, alas! I feel,
By all the heaviness about my heart,
By this strange chilness which benumbs my veins,
Now, now I die the death,—for 'tis no more that sleep
Which locks up all the senses for a time
In sweet refreshment.—Now, while I speak,
Darkness falls thicker on my eyes, and horror
Spreads an universal night before me.
Come, come my child, or ere this world to me
Shall be no more, fain, fain would I profit
Of that dull glimmering light which yet remains,
And cast once more my last sad looks
On more extensive space than this my grave.
Open the bow'r, and on that side which looks
Tow'rds Eden's garden, let these eyes once more
Contemplate that delightful spot; once more
O let me breathe the chearful air of life.

Seth.
Yonder are Eden's mountains.

Adam.
Alas! my child,
I see them not. The sun perhaps, with clouds,
Is darken'd o'er.

Seth.
The clouds are thick; yet shade not
All the sun's brightness.

Adam.
From the cedar's forest,
Seems it far distant yet?—but tell me not,
That I shall know full soon.

Seth.
Behold those clouds;
See how he hides his beams.

Adam.
Alas! my son;
When in meridian glory he shall shine;
When he shall glow with purer radiance—
—'Tis past. I never shall behold it more.
Return we to the grave; there will I fix
My eyes.—Lend me thy hand; support me, son.

Seth.
Ah, my father!

Adam.
[Looking towards Eden.]
O ye happy plains,
Ye lofty mountains, where a thousand springs
Rise; and, with streams luxurious, pour down
The steep declivities; ye vales eternal,
With cooling shades and laughing verdure crown'd;
Ye numerous plants, that, to the docil foot
Of traveller, bow your low heads, and ye
Who proudly thrust your summits in the skies;
Ye blest delicious plains, once held so dear;
Where, in such sweet tranquillity, my days
Pass'd sinless; where I beheld, delighted,
My children all, with thousand other beings,
Throng round about me.—Garden of Eden!
Seat of delights! my gushing tears, perforce,
Burst forth when I remember all thy bliss.
O sacred place! I will no more profane thee
By these my tears. This day, this last to me,
I bid a sad farewel; farewel for ever.
Alas! thy fair abodes shall still preserve
The trace of evils, which th'Eternal's curse
On thee, on me pronounc'd.—Let us depart,
My son; my feeble sight can scarce discern
Distinctly ought, nor from the river's stream
Knows the firm earth. Ah me, what torment then
Shall inly rend my torn and bursting heart,
When these sad eyes, of light entire bereft,
Shall know this best of sons no more?—But see,
My words appal him, and he shakes with horror;
I'll strive to give him courage.—Son, my child,
I fear th'approach of Selima; the sight
Of her affliction were a shock indeed.

Seth.
Father, I will not smother ought. I saw
Destruction and despair prey on my sister.
Her steps at hazard rov'd; but now she sought
The bow'r impatient: soon she enter'd there.

Adam.
Thinkst thou, from her I can conceal this state
Of wretchedness? Bear I the marks of death?
Appear they on my countenance? Thou turn'st
Thine eyes averse.

Seth.
Thy words affright me, father,
And wound my inmost soul. A horrid paleness
Dims all thy face. I saw not Abel die;
But I beheld of late, to you unknown,
A child expire in life's just opening bloom.

Adam.
Then I shall find another of my sons
With Abel. How many of my children
Have died their deaths to me unknown! But tell me,
Tell me, my son, of him thou sawst expire:
Fear'd he the Lord Almighty?

Seth.
His meek soul
Was spotless; upon his countenance death
Impress'd no horrors; whilst a heav'nly smile,
In his last moments, spake a tranquil mind.
Yet, dead! alas! my eyes, aghast, turn'd from
The shocking spectacle.—My sire.—Lo! Selima.

Adam.
Ah me! most wretched of all fathers! Sunim,
My youngest born, hath disappear'd; and search,
Alas, is made in vain.—Perhaps he lives not.

SCENE II.

Adam, Seth, Selima.
Selima.
Father, against your orders I return,
Imploring your paternal goodness; list!
O I conjure you deign to list!—A man,—
His like I ne'er beheld,—prouls round the bow'r,
Menaces me, and would confer with you.
E'en yet I stand dismay'd—Beyond a doubt,
In other regions there exists a race
Of men, who're not thy children;—no, 'tis certain,
This is no son of Adam.

Adam.
What's his air,
And what his features, say!

Selima.
His stature's tall,
Dreadful his air, and from his hollow eyes
He rolls confusion and dismay; his limbs
Are cover'd with a shining speckled hide;
And in his hand he bears a massy club,
Knotted all o'er: his face is pale and sun-burnt;
But ah! his paleness is not like to yours.
O father, O father!

Adam.
Was his forehead bare?

Selima.
Scarce durst I cast my fearful looks upon him;
Yet on his forehead I descried a sign,—
Such as I can't describe;—I know not what,
Of terrible and dreadful.

Adam.
It is Cain;
O Seth, 'tis Cain. The Lord hath sent him now,
To render death more bitter to me. Go!
Go Seth, and see if it be true that God
Hath sent him; tell him to depart in peace.
Tell him to fly my presence!—but if still
He will appear before me, let him come.—
'Tis God who sends him; I have well deserv'd it.
Cover the altar, that the guiltless blood
Of his poor brother, whom he massacred,
Wound not his eyes!

SCENE III.

Adam, Selima.
Selima.
My father, Why that pit
Just dug at foot of th'altar?

Adam.
O my child!
Didst never see a grave?

Selima.
A grave? my father!

Adam.
[Apart.]
O day too bitter! Cain will soon approach,
And Selima is here.

Selima.
O answer me!
Say, is my father angry with his Selima?
Alas! there was a time, wherein you deign'd
To call me your dear Selima.

Adam.
Still most dear;
Still my beloved child.

Selima.
You said but now,
That Cain was come to render death more bitter;
Alas! I scarce can breathe; my voice too fails:
Ah, my dear father, mean you now to die?

Adam.
Grieve not, my daughter, death is due to all:
From dust we came, and shall to dust return.
So God himself hath order'd, and you know it.
Long time before those eyes of yours, my child,
Were open'd on the light, had hoary age
Whiten'd my locks.—But Cain—

Selima.
O father, father,
[Embracing his knees.
By your paternal tenderness, by that
Love which you once bore Abel, and which now
Eman and Seth partake; by those dear babes
Who shall to-day take blessings from your hand,
Live, I conjure you; O, my father, live!
Do not die yet.

Adam.
O daughter of my heart,
Arise; behold them here!

SCENE IV.

Adam, Cain, Seth, Selima.
Cain.
Is't Adam that I see?
Adam, thou wert not wont to turn so pale
At sight of men, thy crime hath render'd wretched.

Adam.
Hold, I conjure thee! look on that young girl,
Whose eyes o'erflow with tears: respect her grief,
Nor stain with blasphemies her innocence.

Cain.
Her innocence! Has that remain'd on earth,
Since Adam has had children?

Adam.
Selima,
Retire; and Seth in due time shall recal you.

SCENE V.

Adam, Cain, Seth.
Adam.
Cain!
Why hast thou disobey'd me? Why return'd
To this abode of peace?

Cain.
Inform me first,
Who's he has brought me now before you?

Adam.
Seth;
My second son.

Cain.
Insult me not with pity!
I ask for none. He is thy third son, Adam.
—I am now come to take full vengeance on thee.

Seth.
Inhuman! Wouldst thou then, with thy own hands,
Murder thy father?

Cain.
[To Seth.]
Long e'er thou wast born,
I was already wretched.—Let us talk;
Father, I mean not to attempt your life.

Adam.
And what's the injury you would revenge?

Cain.
The injury of having given me life.

Adam.
My first born child, does that excite your vengeance?

Cain.
Yes,—I'll revenge the murder I committed;
I'll revenge Abel's murder; he whose blood
Goes up to heav'n, and cries for vengeance on me;
I will revenge myself, for that I am
The most unhappy of all children born;
And of all such as shall be born hereafter.
Sunk with the weight of guilt and misery,
An outcast and a wanderer, every where
I bear my steps, and find no rest on earth;
Without a hope of finding it in heav'n.
That, that's my cause of vengeance.

Adam.
Ere I first
Commanded you to come no more before me,
Thy mouth an hundred times hath vomited
The same reproaches, which I've often answer'd.
But never did your words or ravings strike
So near upon my heart, as on this day,
Most cruel and most dreadful of my life.

Cain.
I was ne'er satisfied with those your answers.
But if perchance to-day, the force of truth
Strikes deeper on the soul, believe not that
My vengeance shall stop there.—O sole amends
For all the woes I suffer, great revenge,
Whose flame consumes me! Many an age I've sworn it,
I'll satiate thee,—and now thy hour is come.

Seth.
Wretch! if thy fury has not dimm'd thy eyes,
Cast but a look on those grey hairs.—

Cain.
And what
Are they to me? I am the most unhappy
Of all his children: he gave me that life
Which now I drag in mis'ry, and I will
Punish him home for't. Nought I see, or feel,
But my own wretchedness and my despair.
I will have vengeance.

Adam.
[To Seth.]
Our dread judge hath sent him.
How wilt have vengeance on me?

[To Cain.
Cain.
I will curse thee.

Adam.
O son! this is too much; curse not thy father!
Now in the name of mercy, and that pardon
For which you still may hope, I do conjure thee,
Curse not thy father Adam!

Cain.
I will curse thee.

Adam.
Come hither then, and I'll point out the place
Where you may launch your malediction on me.
Come, follow me!—look there!—thy father's grave!
There, curse him there!—I am to die to-day:
Th'angel of death appear'd to tell my fate.

Cain.
And what's that altar?

Seth.
O Cain, O most sinful
And most unhappy of mankind! that altar
Is Abel's altar: look upon the blood
Wherewith 'tis stained: it is thy brother's blood.

Cain.
See!—from the bosom of the black abyss,
Anger and fury raise their crests against me!
—That altar; Oh! that fatal altar there,
Crushes me like a rock:—where am I?—where
Is Adam?—Adam, lend an ear!—My curse
Begins to fall upon thee on this day;
This day, thy last: Oh, may thy agony
Be all made up of fear, despair, and horror;
The agony of agonies!—The dread image
Of vile corruption still be present.—

Adam.
Hold!
My first-born son! O hold! appalling sentence
Of death denounced! now first I comprehend
Thy aweful meaning! cease, my son; Oh cease
To aggravate my grief and my misfortunes.

Cain.
Ah wretch! What have I done!—I've shed the blood
Of my own father.—Ha!—Where am I?—Who
Will snatch me from this horrid place? O who
Will plunge me headlong down the dark abyss?
—But I behold my father.—Is it he?
Is it a shadow? Is't a phantom? Oh,
My father, turn those looks away.—Ah who
Will drag me far, far from thee?

[Excit raving.

SCENE VI.

Adam. Seth.
Adam.
His dread cries,
Have struck ev'n to the bottom of my soul;
Follow him, Seth. Alas! he too's my son.
Go, tell him he has not committed ought
Of violence against me, and his rage
I pardon; above all, take special heed
Not to recal it to his memory,
That this day is the day wherein I die.

SCENE VII.

Adam.
[Solus.]
What is the conflict then this day I feel?
My mis'ry's at its height, and I am calm.
O torments, which already I've endur'd,
Can you grow stronger at approach of death?
If so, thou deadly calm, in thy dull sleep
Wrap all my faculties, chain up my senses,
And, like a victim to the altar brought,
Crown'd with fresh garlands, lead me to the grave.
O grave, which silence and her sister death
Inhabit, like a worn-out traveller,
Thou shalt receive me to thy cold dank bosom,
Thence never to return.—And thou, blest soul,
Soul of my child, my Abel, in this hour
Wand'rest, perhaps, around thy father's grave.—
If thou wert present, my beloved son,
When God Almighty, in his just decree,
Charg'd the dread angel to announce aloud,
My hour of death: O come before my soul
When it shall hover o'er my trembling lips,
And these dim eyes fall sightless dark for ever.
O Abel! Oh, how different thy death
From mine! all bath'd in blood, thou heav'dst but thrice
A parting groan, and then thy death was sleep.

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.