_Cain_. I have toiled, and tilled, and sweaten in the sun, According to the curse:--must I do more? 110 For what should I be gentle? for a war With all the elements ere they will yield The bread we eat? For what must I be grateful? For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, Till I return to dust? If I am nothing-- For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, And seem well-pleased with pain? For what should I Be contrite? for my father's sin, already Expiate with what we all have undergone, And to be more than expiated by 120 The ages prophesied, upon our seed. Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, The germs of an eternal misery To myriads is within him! better 'twere I snatched him in his sleep, and dashed him 'gainst The rocks, than let him live to---- _Adah_. Oh, my God! Touch not the child--my child! _thy_ child! Oh, Cain! _Cain_. Fear not! for all the stars, and all the power Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 130 _Adah_. Then, why so awful in thy speech? _Cain_. I said, 'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give Life to so much of sorrow as he must Endure, and, harder still, bequeath; but since That saying jars you, let us only say-- 'Twere better that he never had been born. _Adah_. Oh, do not say so! Where were then the joys, The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! [_She goes to the child_. Oh, Cain! look on him; see how full of life, 140 Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy-- How like to me--how like to thee, when gentle-- For _then_ we are _all_ alike; is't not so, Cain? Mother, and sire, and son, our features are Reflected in each other; as they are In the clear waters, when _they_ are _gentle_, and When _thou_ art _gentle_. Love us, then, my Cain! And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 150 To hail his father; while his little form Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain! The childless cherubs well might envy thee The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain! As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but His heart will, and thine own too. _Cain_. Bless thee, boy! If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, To save thee from the Serpent's curse! _Adah_. It shall. Surely a father's blessing may avert A reptile's subtlety.