_Sailor._ He fled and took his child; But not as Cain fled with the brand upon him. ’Twas sacrifice to virtue, and no murder. When I arrived my Eden was Golgotha; I found a corpse—my wife bereft of reason. I buried one, attended to the other For years until she died. The fruits of lust! I went to sea again in search of strife— The quiet of the land near drove me mad. The ship I sailed in scoured the southern sea, To quell the pirates. We o’ertook a rover. A deadly strife ensued—’twas life or death; Their chief and I by chance met sword to sword; I knew him not, and, strange, he knew not me. O! grief outstrips the rapid wing of time In marring youthful beauty! See this scar! His cutlas gave it—but I mastered him. Their chief subdued, the rover soon surrendered. _Stranger._ His destiny? _Sailor._ The yard-arm, and a halter. I saw him pass away. _Stranger._ And said he nothing? _Sailor._ Naught to the crowd—but I remember this: In the sunset of existence, Alone in my Gethsemane, I quaff the cup without repining, For God, I feel thou’rt still with me. Meekly obey the mandate given That purifies the soul for heaven. _Stranger._ His cradle-hymn still chanted to the grave. _Sailor._ The circle, sir—the end and the beginning— The two ends of the chain are linked together. _Stranger._ You said he had a boy. _Sailor._ I said not so. There was a boy, whom I have searched for since; But, like the shadows of all earthly hope, He hath eluded me. _Stranger._ I am that boy. _Sailor._ Thou!—thou that boy! The wheel is still in motion! _Stranger._ I stood beside the gallows when he died. _Sailor._ His bird of Paradise! A cherub then! I’ve seen you often sleeping among roses, And he, a guardian angel, smiling o’er you. You have not slept on roses often since, But wept beneath your father’s gallows-tree. And my blind deeds have shaped your destiny. I brought your father to a shameful death, Which your young eyes beheld. And I’ve made known A thing, perhaps unknown to you before— Your mother’s infamy. Alas! poor boy! What an inheritance have we bequeathed you! _Stranger._ You did your duty, sir. _Sailor._ Ay, there’s the question. Can duty lead man’s footsteps to God’s throne, Making life death, the glad earth Tartarus? I snatched a fellow-being, winged for heaven, With God’s own impress on him still unblurred, Who, but for me, would have flown chanting there Anthems to angels. But with ruffian hands I checked his flight, and stayed him for perdition. Would that the ocean had received the child! Would I had let him perish in the flames! Would that this wound had marked me for the grave, Ere I had saved him for an after life Of sin and sorrow, though impelled by—duty. _Stranger._ Why do you pluck those gorgeous poppy-flowers, And cast them in the walk?