University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Eve, on one side. Selima, on the other.
Selima.
Behold! my mother comes,—alas! my fears!
I cannot bear to look upon her now.

Eve.
What means this solitude? this silence dread!
Where is my Adam? where my duteous Seth?
Where shall I find my Selima? where are they?
Now let them come to share a mother's joy.
O day of transport, unexpected bliss!
For now I am the happiest of all mothers.

SCENE II.

Seth. Eve.
Seth.
[Without being seen by his mother.]
O grief extreme, anguish ineffable,
Write not your marks upon my visage now,
—Ye pow'rs divine, now in this hour of need
Endue my soul with more than common strength,
That I may bear this shock.

Eve.
Behold my Seth.
Oh my lov'd son, I am of mothers sure
Most blest. Where, where is Adam? lead me to him.
No joy, no transports, ere can equal mine.

Seth.
My father sleeps.

Eve.
Where sleeps he?—I will wake him,
That I may tell him all, and share my bliss.

Seth.
He clos'd his eyes but now.—Oh! I conjure thee,
Wake him not, mother; for some moments yet
Let him enjoy the calmness of repose.

Eve.
No, I will haste; I'll wake him instantly.—
O happiness! O transport!

Seth.
Good mother,
Once more break not his sleep. It is not I,
'Tis Adam sues, and by his special order
I do intreat it of you.

Eve.
Well, let it be;—
His sleep will not be long, and he will wake
To joys exceeding utterance. Adam,
I'm sure, will soon awake.—My son, my son,
I've found thy youngest brother; Sunim's found.
Long time, you know, we have bewail'd his loss.
Bewilder'd in the desart's pathless way,
He sought in vain to reach some brother's bow'r.
A miracle has sav'd his life, and 'tis
A miracle hath brought him hither; but
He shall tell his father all, and in his ear
Pour joyful tidings.—Oh, my lov'd Sunim!
Beats not his breast with quick sensations now?
Does he not long to see, t'embrace his father?
—But I've withheld him yet.—With the three mothers
Who here conduct their infant progeny,
Young blossoms of fair hopes, my Sunim comes.
Then will I fill the measure of my joys,
And to the nuptial bow'r conduct my Selima.
Who could divine, my Sunim should return
To bear the torch before you, my lov'd children.

Seth.
O thou most tender, most belov'd of mothers.

Eve.
But wherefore all these heavy looks of woe?
Why mix ye not your social joys with mine?

Seth.
Think it not grief, but admiration, mother,
Which paints my looks; a thousand diff'rent thoughts
Work in my mind, and I am all amazement.

Eve.
See, where the mothers haste:—come, let me run;
I will awaken Adam.

Seth.
[Apart.]
Wretched Eve!
You seek him there in vain.

Eve.
Where is he then?
Where sleeps he?

Seth.
Near that altar,—there.

Eve.
By Abel's altar?

Seth.
Yes,—he there, himself
Hath chose his place of rest:—there he will sleep.

SCENE III.

Eve. [Lifting up the veil before the altar.]
Eve.
Will not that altar wake his griefs afresh,
And feed remembrance of his Abel's death?
—How's this, my son? his face is cover'd.—Ha!
What means that earth dug up? Has Adam sought
His son's remains? Alas! that cruel sight
Will wound him e'en to death. My child, my Seth!
Thou answer'st not;—speak to thy mother, son.—

Seth.
That which thou look'st on, mother, is—a grave.

Eve.
Cover those bones, my child; wound not my sight
With my son's bones:—alas, I cannot bear it.

Seth.
They are not here.

Eve.
Ah me! they're fall'n to dust.
—Alas, my son, thy father sleeps in pain.
See his breast heaves.—O God! his hands are stain'd
With a wan livid hue.

Seth.
[Looking towards the sun.]
So near already
The cedar forest!—O my dear mother,
I can refrain no more;—'tis Adam's grave.
Behold, it is my father's grave:—before
The sun hath pass'd the forest of the cedars,
Adam shall surely die.—Himself hath seen
Th'angel of death;—I too have heard him.
—He will return, he will return, my mother,
That rock shall all be rent, and then—

[Eve faints at the side of the altar.
[Adam wakes, and uncovers his face.
Adam.
O sleep!
How dreadful art thou now! thou wilt be sure
More soft, and less disturb'd with horrid fears,
When in that grave I close these eyes for ever.—
What hast thou done, my child? why hast thou brought
My Selima?—Be comforted, my child,
Thy mother Eve lives yet.

Eve.
I, I am she:
If thou canst tell the accents of a voice
Trembling and faint with grief, O hear me Adam;
I am not Selima.

Adam.
O death! whose pow'r
Will strike me soon;—now, now I feel indeed,
Thy horrors all.

Seth.
[Embracing his knees.]
Doest thou then die, my father?

Adam.
Hath the rock trembled yet?

Seth.
Not yet.

Eve.
My son,
Support my steps; conduct me to thy father.
—Dost thou not know me, Adam?

Adam.
By thy voice
Thou shouldst be Eve; but these dim eyes, alas!
Discern not ought of well-known feature now.

Eve.
Hath not the angel join'd my name with thine?
Shall I not die with thee? alas! thou knowest
That hope spake comfort in the days of grief,
And soften'd all my anguish.—Was not I
With thee created?—and must I survive
Thy hour of death? abandon'd! lost! alone!

Adam.
Thou best, thou dearest of all wives! O thou,
In this dread time, still dearer to my heart;
Eve my belov'd, my part'ner from creation!
These failing eyes cannot behold thee now,
And only open to pour down their tears.
—Leave me; thy sorrows but embitter mine,
And make e'en death more insupportable.

Seth.
[Aside.]
Heav'ns! the three mothers too!—behold them here.

Adam.
What noise is that? who comes this way, my son?

Seth.
Lo! the three mothers hither bend their steps;
Eman comes with them.

SCENE IV.

Adam, Eve, Seth.
[The three mothers, with their children; Sunim on one side, Selima and Eman on the other.]
Selima.
I will join them;
So will I enter too.—

Eve.
My child, my Selima,
I'll not be parted from thee; but alas!
I scace believe it yet.

First Mother.
Come hither, Sunim.

Second Mother.
What is't I see?

Third Mother.
Is that our father Adam!

Adam.
Oh my lov'd Seth! Go thou before them, son.

Seth
[To the three Mothers.]
Turn not your faces thus on me; avert
Those looks;—they mar all pow'r of speech.
[The first covers her face, the second turns aside, and the third leans upon her young child.
The bitter sorrows I unravel now,
My heart hath been acquainted with too long.
Adam this day, this day shall Adam die.
Before the sun shall to yon cedars slope
His course declining,—he shall die. Th'angel
Of death already hath he seen; agen
That angel shall return; and when the rock,
Which to the bow'r stands neighb'ring, shall be rent,
Adam shall be no more.—There, there's his grave.
—O turn, ye mothers, turn your eyes from thence;
Nor look thus earnest on my father's grave.

Adam.
What voice is that which strikes upon my ear,
Amid these groans distinguishably loud?
They're not familiar sounds:—they come not
From Eman's voice, nor Selima's; nor yet
From any of the mothers.

Seth.
O my father,
In thy last moments taste of comfort yet.—
That voice is Sunim's voice;—thy son is found;
Sunim is found.

Adam.
Alas! full well I know,
In all my life, my Seth hath ne'er deceiv'd me;
Would he deceive me in the hour of death,
And cheat my senses with a gleam of joy?
—My son! my dearest son, for me, alas!
No more of joy remains on earth.

Seth.
My father!

Adam.
But wherefore then keeps Sunim silence now?
O let me hear his voice.

Seth.
Excess of grief
Choaks up all utt'rance.

Adam.
Let him come nearer,
That I may lay my hands upon his hair,
And feel his countenance.

Seth.
Thy child is here.

Adam.
[To Sunim, who embraces his knees.]
Yes,—I perceive thee now; thou art my boy.

Sunim.
I am thy Sunim.

Adam.
Seek thy mother, child.

Eve.
[To Sunim.]
Thy brother, rather; for alas! my son,
Thou hast no mother now.

Seth.
O dread decree
Of death pronounc'd;—leave me, my Sunim, now—
I will be with thee soon.—O my father,
Since hopes are now no more, and grief extreme
Hath reach'd its height, I must,—I must inform thee
The sun declines apace, and the tall cedars
Fade on the eye:—Oh father, father, bless us.

Adam.
The sun already at the cedar's forest!
—Come then, O death, approach; I wait thee now.
—O my lov'd children, how shall I pour forth
My blessings on ye? I! by whose first sin
God's malediction fell on all the earth:—
May your Creator bless you.

All.
We conjure thee,
O father, bless us.

Adam.
Blessing is far from me;
I cannot give it:—Pains unfelt before,
And thousand deadly thoughts of bitter anguish,
Croud on my mind:—e'en now before me rise
The blest ideas of my early days,
And form a contrast that o'erwhelms my soul.
The thought of immortality once more
Springs on my mind, and makes me shudder.—Ha!
—Where am I now? 'tis darkness now no more,
And sight returns agen but to behold
The champain vast distain'd with reeking blood.
Ye ghastly dead, look not with hideous glare
On me.—I hear your cries, O blood of man!
Pale murder'd man:—O dreadful, horrid blood,
Change, change thy purple course, far far from me.
O may the mountains hide thy stains for ever.
—See, see! what mother's that? she beats her breast
All frantic with despair:—her piercing cries
Ascend to heav'n;—and lo, that infant child,—
Death hangs upon his trembling lips: alas!
It was her only child.—See mangled limbs,
And there a trunkless head;—away, away,
Ye fearful objects hence.—Alas, my children,
With pity's soft concern behold your father,
And kindly lead him from those plains of woe.

Seth.
O gracious heav'n, if these my trembling hands
Lift up to thee, if this my bursting heart,
Which shares each deadly pang, that wrings the breast
Of my dear father Adam—

Adam.
My son, my Seth,
Art thou so near me, child? I heard thy voice;
—A sudden calmness overspreads my soul.

Seth.
Eternal pow'rs! He smiles:—Come near him all:
Haste Eve and Eman, Sunim, Selima,
Come all; and ye, ye mothers too, approach,
And tenderly behold this smile, his last.
Behold us, father, here together all
Collected round thee:—O bless us, bless us!

Adam.
Come hither, children,—here;—where art thou Seth?—
Come nearer yet, that I may gently lay
My right hand upon thee; and on thy head,
My faithful Eman, let me place this other:
Let Selima join Eman, Sunim Seth.
Come hither, mothers; bring your children here,
That Eve, with me, may pour her blessings on you.

[They all kneel.
Eve.
[Kneeling behind.]
Let me, O Adam, take thy blessing too.

Adam.
Eve, my best half, wouldst thou, my partner dear,
That I should bless thee too? Alas, 'tis all
Thy Adam now has left to give thee. Thou,
Mother of nations, shortly after me
Created, after me shalt shortly die.
Behold my grave.

Eve.
O Adam, my lov'd lord!
Thy words I feel are now the words of heav'n.

[She rises and supports Adam.
Adam.
I bless you all, my children; and with you,
The children of your children; all mankind.
May God, your father, your creator God,
Who from the earth form'd man, and in that clay
Breath'd an immortal soul; that aweful God,
Who oft, with gracious condescension,
Hath deign'd t'appear before me; who himself
Hath blest me, who hath judg'd me; that dread God,
The king of kings, almighty and eternal,
Sweeten the bitter cup of mortal life:
O may the thought of death and dissolution
Serve but to waken, in the humble mind,
The longings after immortality!
May you so taste the blessings of this earth,
As the parch'd trav'ller, at the limpid rill,
Who slacks his thirst, and strait pursues his journey!
May your souls rise above this earthly spot,
Rich in the love of wisdom and of virtue!
And may you all, with humble resignation,
Learn the importance of your labours here,
And reap the price hereafter! Children all
Love one another, for ye all are breth'ren.
And may the general good of social life
Make up your study and delight on earth.
May there be born amongst you men like Seth,
Still to recal your sluggish minds to God;
And when all-gracious God, in his due time,
Shall send amongst you him who shall unlock
The gates of heav'n, that holy blest Redeemer,
Into whose hands I render up my spirit;
With holy homage lift your eyes to God,
And thank the wisdom that created you;
Be humble and adore;—yet know, my children,
Ye are but dust, and shall to dust return.

[A noise is heard.
Seth.
Hark, the rock shakes!

Eve.
O Adam!

Seth.
Now agen
It shakes, and every shock grows stronger.

Adam.
My judge, my God, behold me here!—O death,
O death, I feel thee now:—I die.

[The rock breaks.