_Adam._ Hear me, Eve, If hear you will—and speak I think I must— Hear me. What is it I would say? I think— And yet I must—so hear me, mother blest, That sittest with thy nursling at thy heart, Hope not too greatly, neither fear for him, Feeling on thy breast his small compressing lips, And glorying in the gift they draw from thee; Hope not too greatly in thyself and him. And hear me, O young mother—I must speak. This child is born of us, and therefore like us; Is born of us, and therefore is as we; Is born of us, and therefore is not pure; Earthy as well as godlike; bound to strive— Not doubtfully I augur from the past— Through the same straits of anguish and of doubt, ’Mid the same storms of terror and alarm, To the calm ocean which he yet shall reach, He or himself or in his sons hereafter, Of consummated consciousness of self. The selfsame stuff which wrought in us to grief Runs in his veins; and what to work in him? What shape of unsuspected deep disguise, Transcending our experience, our best cares Baffling, evading all preventive thought, Will the old mischief choose, I wonder, here? O born to human trouble! also born— Else wherefore born—to some diviner lot, Live, and may chance treat thee no worse than us There, I have done: the dangerous stuff is out; My mind is freed. And now, my gentle Eve, Forgive thy foolish spouse, and let me set A father’s kiss upon these budding lips, A husband’s on the mother’s—the full flower. There, there; and so, my own and only wife, Believe me, my worst thought is now to learn How best and most to serve this child and thee. This child is born of us, and therefore like us— Most true, mine own; and if a man like me Externally, internally I trust Most like to thee, the better of the twain. Is born of us, and therefore is not pure— Did I say that? I know not what I said; It was a foolish humour; but, indeed, Whatever you may think, I have not learnt The trick of deep suppression, e’en the skill To sort my thoughts and sift my words enough. Not pure, indeed!—And if it is not pure, What is? Ah, well! but most I look to the days When these small arms, with pliant thews filled out. Shall at my side break up the fruitful glebe, And aid the cheery labours of the year— Aid, or, in feebler wearier years, replace, And leave me longer hours for home and love. SCENE IV. _Adam and Eve._ _Eve._ O Adam, it was I was godless then; But you were mournful, heavy, but composed. At times would somewhat fiercely bite your lip And pass your hand about your brow; but still Held out, denied not God, acknowledged still Those glories that were gone. No, I never Felt all your worth to me before; I feel You did not fall as I did.