_Cain._ My father, you are learned in this sort: You read the earth, as does my mother heaven. Both books are dark to me—only I feel That this one thing And this one word in me must be declared; That to forget is not to be restored; To lose with time the sense of what we did Cancels not that we did; what’s done remains— I am my brother’s murderer. Woe to me! Abel is dead. No prayers to empty heaven, No vegetative kindness of the earth, Will bring back warmth into his clay again, The gentleness of love into his face. Therefore, for me farewell; Farewell for me the soft, The balmy influences of night and sleep, The satisfaction of achievement done, The restorative pulsing of the blood That changes all and changes e’en the soul— And natural functions, moving as they should, The sweet good-nights, the sweet delusive dreams That lull us out of old things into new. But welcome Fact, and Fact’s best brother, Work; Welcome the conflict of the stubborn soil, To toil the livelong day, and at the end, Instead of rest, recarve into my brow The dire memorial mark of what still is. Welcome this worship, which I feel is mine; Welcome this duty— —the solidarity of life And unity of individual soul. That which I did, I did, I who am here: There is no safety but in this; and when I shall deny the thing that I have done, I am a dream. _Adam._ My son, What shall I say? That which your soul, in marriage with the world, Imbreeds in you, accept;—how can I say Refuse the revelations of the soul? Yet be not over scrupulous, my son, And be not over proud to put aside The due consolements of the circling years. What comes, receive; be not too wise for God. The past is something, but the present more; Will not it too be past?—nor fail withal To recognise the future in our hopes; Unite them in your manhood each and all, Nor mutilate the perfectness of life. You can remember, you can also hope; And, doubtless, with the long instructive years, Comfort will come to you, my son, to me, Even to your mother, comfort; but to us Knowledge, at least—the certainty of things Which, as I think, is consolation’s sum. For truly now, to-day, to-morrow, yes, Days many more to come, alike to you, Whose earliest revelation of the world Is, horrible indeed, this fatal fact— And unto me, who, knowing not much before, Look gropingly and idly into this, And recognise no figure I have seen— Alike, my son, to me, and to yourself, Much is now dark which one day will be light; With strong assurance fortify your soul Of this: and that you meet me here again, Promise me, Cain. Farewell, to meet again. SCENE XIV. _Adam’s Vision._