University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

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.

SCENE II.

Adam, Seth, Selima.
Adam.
What sight is this?
My son! my daughter! Seth with Selima!
[Aside.
This is a day of darkness and of terror;
To you it will be golden, Selima;
Go seek your mother, and, with her delighted,
Cull flowrets sweet to deck thy fragrant bow'r,
And dress thee gaily for thy nuptial day.
Tell her, 'tis I command it; and moreover,
That in submission to thy father's will,
Thou wilt forbear the customary rites
Of pairs new wedded for this day.

Selima.
O father!
I obey.

SCENE III.

Adam. Seth.
Adam.
Excellent child! dear Selima!
She has indeed a soul of virtue.
Saw'st thou not, son, when thus compell'd to leave me,
What tenderness and care unutterable
Her looks, her gestures spake?—May righteous heav'n
Pour down its choicest gifts of blessings on her!
—O my son! the time, the moment is at hand,
When I shall never look upon her more.—
Such as she is to day, in that blest time
Ere heav'n had curst the earth, such then was Eve.
—On her, thou God Almighty, pow'r thy blessings.
My son, my best of sons, attend my words;
Thou know'st,—I know thou dost, the pow'r supreme,
Creator of all beings, and reverest his laws.
Thou art a man, and I dare prove thy virtues:
Thou shalt know all,—come hither,—nearer yet,—
Seth! my child!
[Embraces him.
I die to-day.

Seth.
O Adam! O my father!

Adam.
Dread amazement
Clogs up expression.—He is silent.—
How soon shall death, in adamantine silence,
Close up my mouth, and that for ever! Seth,
Look up, be more collected; thy sorrow
Strikes heavily upon me, and I feel my heart
Already bursting.—With attentive ear
List to my words; a more tremendous voice
Will wound thy father's ear, when he shall hear
The name, the dreadful name of death:—thou alone
Of all my children wilt behold me die.
Thou wilt alone perform the last kind office.
—Yes,—I'm as certain I shall die to-day
As I was certain of my life, when first
I rose from earth, and with erected visage
Turn'd up my wond'ring eyes to gracious heav'n.
As at the entrance of my verdant bow'r
I sat, in calm tranquillity reflecting
On the fond loves of Selim and of Eman,
And to secure their bliss by wedded rites,
A sudden shock daz'd all my senses;—no emotion
Of awful fear, or pang of desperate grief;—
No,—'twas th'approach, the sure approach of death.
Death like a torrent rush'd thro' all my veins,
And seem'd to crumble all my bones. To this shock
An universal languor strait succeeded;
Which, had it lasted, would have chain'd my tongue up
As thine at present; nor grief found utt'rance
But in half words, and sobbings inarticulate.
—O Seth, my child, my well-beloved son,
Brother of Abel!—yet I complain not
Of my lost state;—Complaint is not for Adam.
—From the dread moment of that fatal shock,
The thought of death immediately possess'd me.
This day, said I, will be my last; nor yet
Can I shake off the black idea from me;
It harrows up my soul:—where'er I go,
Fear still pursues me, rushes thro' my veins,
And paints strange fancies to my wand'ring eyes.
But more remains behind, as yet untold.
The sad rememb'rance of a dread event,
To you unknown, now doubles all my woe.
When now th'Eternal's terrible decree
Had fixt my doom, and terror's keen sensations
Scarce found a respite; lo! before me stood
A spirit sent by God's permissive will,
Th'angel of death! and with terrific voice
Address'd me trembling thus:—“Remember, Adam,
“Me thou shalt see again; and in that day
“When thou shalt comprehend thy sentence past,
“I will revisit thee.”—O my dear son,
With strange affright I wait this messenger,
More dreadful still, if not announc'd before.
Lift up thy eyes, my child, to gracious heav'n;
The God, who is his wrath remembers mercy,
Will with the bitter of my sorrows here
Mingle some sweet.—This prediction horrible,
As yet, I know, is not at full accomplish'd;
As yet, the meaning of those dreadful words
I comprehend not, “Thou shalt die the death.”
What torment 'tis, thou wilt be witness of;
'Tis not mere death appals me; ages now
Have roll'd, nor ever found me unprepar'd;
But 'tis the horror of a thing unknown,
That agitates my soul.

Seth.
Oh my father!
Oh heaven! will you then die?

Adam.
Flesh of my flesh! blood of my blood! my children!
Oh! with what joy I could remain amongst you.

Seth.
Stay then, my father, midst your children stay;
Live happy long, nor have a will to die.

Adam.
Leave me, my child, my soul is link'd to thine;
And all the soft emotions of thy breast
Strike with redoubled force on mine.—Leave me,
And let us, with submissive awe, adore
The judge whose sentence will'd my death.

Seth.
Prais'd, prais'd be his name;—but, my dear father,
Your children know your tenderness extreme,
And love parental; fear of separation
Makes you regard that sudden shock of nature,
As the fore-runner of approaching death,
Which might arise but from the strength of health,
That health robust which has resisted still,
Vigorous and firm, and flourish'd many ages.

Adam.
Aside.]
How can I answer to such filial love!
Aloud.]
O wretched, wretched Adam, perhaps e'en now
Th'angel of death is near me; now perhaps
He comes in terrors to announce my time,
The dreadful moment which appals my soul.—
Thou minister of terrors, dreadful angel,
Appear not yet, nor with thy fearful aspect
Shock my best, duteous child.—Seth, my son,
Behold that shrine, thy brother Abel's altar;
You see it stain'd with blood:—there turn thy steps,
Lift up thy hands, thy soul to heav'n; if a day
A single day be added to my years,
That day thy pray'rs shall gain.

Seth.
Father, I obey.

SCENE IV.

Adam
, solus.
He's gone;—but were his pray'rs more fervent still,
Great God! thou wilt not deign to grant them.
—What dreadful horrors shake my soul agen!
The faintness ceases, and o'er all my heart
Rush wild affright and terrible dismay,
And in their rear bring death.—I feel it now.—
As yet, with trembling steps, I walk the earth;
Soon to be mixt with it agen for ever.
But should my dearest Eve, my children too;—
Should they behold my death.—O dreadful thought!
A thousand times more dreadful, than the image
Of my corrupt and livid body.—Eve,
My soul's best darling; soft, affectionate
Companion of creation; thou perhaps
With me created, with me too shalt die.
That knowest thou alone, O God supreme,
Thou whose just vengeance pour'd the wrathful doom;
Whose rigours I shall straitly undergo.

SCENE V.

Adam. Seth.
Adam.
My son! return'd already! have thy pray'rs
With suppliant zeal besought th'almighty God?

Seth.
My soul ne'er felt such fervency before;
For O! my thoughts were loaded with distress,
And horror dwelt within me.

Adam.
Hear me, Seth;
Eve with her daughters,—should they here perchance
Surprize us,—they would see me die. Go, haste,
Tell 'em, my child, I mean this day to offer
Holy sacrifice, and would be alone,
Till the bright sun withdraw his chearful beams
Beneath the neighb'ring mountains.

Seth.
No, my sire,
I cannot leave thee; from my earliest days,
Thou know'st with filial duty I've obey'd thee.
But now to leave thee in this dreadful time,
Startles imagination with ideas
Fraught with strange horror.—But now thy Selima
Departed from thee, overwhelmed with care,
And plung'd in all the bitterness of woe.
My sorrowing looks, alas! escaped her not.
She wept, and wish'd to know the cause; her tears
Perforce o'ercame me, and I told her all.
Told her the sight these aching eyes beheld,
When I observ'd thee trembling, weak, and pale,
With tott'ring steps approach the sacred altar.

Adam.
O heav'n! and will they come!—well,—let it be;
My griefs will do their work the sooner.

Seth.
I hear
The tread of hasty steps this way approaching;
And see,—'tis Selima herself.

Adam.
So soon!
My children! O my children! O father,
Most wretched of all fathers!

SCENE VI.

Adam, Seth, Selima.
Adam.
Aside.]
Her countenance is sickley'd o'er with death.
How pale she looks! Such was my Abel's hue
When I beheld him at the altar's foot,
Stretch'd wan and lifeless.—O my daughter,
Why are thy looks aghast! Whence all that horror!
Calm thy disturbed soul, my child.

Selima.
My father,
If I have swerv'd from duty, nor obey'd
Thy late commands, for pity's sake forgive
Thy daughter. As at thy bidding, forth I went
To join my mother Eve, reflecting oft
On Seth's sad story; quick, as light'ning's blaze,
A shock unfelt before beat at my heart;
My eyes were dimm'd; 'twas darkness all around me,
And all my senses seem'd at once suspended.
When I awoke from this strange sleep, I found
Myself, unknowing, stretch'd upon the turf.
—Kind parent, chide me not; have pity rather,
If my weak steps ne'er reach'd the bow'r. O sire,
Comfort the mind of thy distracted Selima;
Assuage her griefs.—O speak to me; shall I now
Pluck freshest leaves? with filial tender care
I'll strew them lightly o'er your favourite seat,
Which in the summer yields you lov'd repose.
I'll place it in the shade, and there refresh'd,
You may behold your children gather round you.

Adam.
Rise, Selima, my dearest daughter, rise;
Calm your distress;—but leave us now alone.
I have, of import, much to talk with Seth.
Our bow'r of late I noted;—it wants dressing.
The straggling vine curls not its tendrils round
Yon spreading elm, which asks thy gentle care.
Go, my dear child, it is my favourite tree;
The goodliest of the place. Go, Selima;
Be comforted, my child.

SCENE VII.

Adam, Seth, The Angel of Death.
Adam.
A little while,
And these fond eyes shall ne'er behold her more.
Thou know'st not what I feel, my son; how sorely
This deep affliction tugs at my heart-strings.
She too, my Selima, that lovely flow'r,
Just in its spring of days, shall wither,
Reft of its bloom, and tumble into dust.
Not she alone;—her children's children too
Shall all return to dust like her. Thou know'st,
And best of all my sons, hast comprehended,
The things I told thee following my creation.
Then, then I died; and all my race of children,
To latest time, shall after me die also.
—I shake with horror.—O grief tormenting!
Distracting thought! which presses down my heart
Like a vast rock. Go, go, my son, and kindly
Pour comfort's balm on thy afflicted sister.
For me, near Abel's altar will I dig
The grave shall hold my frail mortality.

Seth.
No, no, my sire, I will not, cannot, leave thee;
Thou shalt not dig thy grave; in his great name
Who rules omnipotent, I do conjure thee,
O my dear father, dig not thy own grave.

Adam.
Here Abel rests, and I will rest with him.
Or had you rather, son, behold this body
Corruption's prey, and crumbling into worms
Before your eyes.

Seth.
O most tremendous God!
To what dire proofs hast thou reserv'd us!

Adam.
Now, now,—horror, affright, stalk from their thrones,
And compass me on all sides; I cannot
Look upon thee, son; my eyes turn backward;
And,—O heav'n! what dire convulsive shock
Shakes all my bones and nerves together! O day
Of darkness, day of horror! hear'st thou, son,
The rocks from all their deep foundations tremble.
—Hither he bends his way;—tow'rds us he strides;—
Thou hear'st him;—hark!—the hill which near the bow'r
Rises aloft, shakes terrible:—already
Th'angel of death hath stopt:—thou seest him, son;
Dost thou not, child?

[The stage is darken'd.
Seth.
Encompass'd all around,
With gloomy horrors and the shades of night,
I nought perceive; but listen all attention.

Adam.
Hear me then; hear the dreadful angel.
—Minister of terrors, I perceive thee now.
Angel of death, exterminating angel,
Behold me here.

Angel of Death.
O man, of earth created,
Hear thy Creator's will: before the sun
Shall to the forest of the cedars slope
His course declining, “Thou shalt die the death.”
The death which waits thy race, shall sometimes fall
Like sleep upon them; sometimes be agony
Distorting: for thee, thou shalt die the death.
At that last moment, thou shalt surely know
My near approach; o'er these same rocks my steps
Shall thunder; I will shake them horrible
To their foundations deep; thy faculties
Of sight shall all be daz'd.—Thou shalt see nought,
But the huge rock's convulsive shake, a noise,
Like thunder's crash, shall burst upon thy ear,
Ere the sun reach the forest of the cedars.

[Angel disappears.
Adam.
O dreadful angel! tell th'eternal judge,
My great Creator, I adore his laws,
And all submissive to his holy will,
In duteous awe await my final doom.
But oh conjure him, for his mercy's sake,
To spare me in this agony.

Seth.
O my father!
I will die with thee; wherefore should we part?
O whither goest thou?

Adam.
To adore my God.

SCENE VIII.

Seth
alone.
O sorrow, past all sorrows, inexpressible!
O how it rends my heart, and drags it down
E'en to my father's grave. O thou the first,
Best of all fathers, father of all children
Which on their mother's breast repose, and of
Our children's children to the latest time.
—But mine, alas, will ne'er behold those locks,
Silver'd with reverend age; O day of death!
Day of my father's death, thou comest also
Precipitated thus, with all thy terrors,
To prove, if with religious awe I fear,
I reverence the Eternal. I'll go with Adam;
With him fall prostrate at the altar's foot.
This trembling hand too, if its weaken'd pow'rs
Deny not the sad office, shall assist
To dig his grave.—His grave! my father's grave!
—Ere the sun reach the forest of the cedars.—
O word of horror! dreadful pow'r of God!