The Doom of Cain.
The Lord Said, "What hast thou done?"
Oh, erring Cain,
What hast thou done? Upon the blighted earth
I hear a melancholy wail resounding;
Among the blades of grass where flowers have birth
I hear a new-born tone mournfully sounding.
It is thy brother's blood
Crying aloud to God
In helpless pain.
Unhappy Cain!
Thou hast so loved to wreathe the clinging vine,
And welcomed with pure joy the delicate fruit,
Till thou hast felt a kindred feeling twine
Around thy heart, grown with each fibrous root
Of tree, or moss, or flower,
Growing in field or bower,
Or ripening grain.
But henceforth, Cain,
When the bright gleaming of the rosy morn
Proclaims another glorious summer day,
Thou may'st walk forth to greet the earth newborn,
And pluck the blushing roses on thy way;
They at thy touch shall blight,
Stricken with some strange might,
Some dire pain.
In time to come,
When thy fair child (for thou shalt have a son)
Shall lay his little, soft, warm hands in thine,
And say, "My father, growing neath the sun
Are lovely flowers, trees and moss and vine;
Here is rich soil and room
For me; make bowers bloom
Around our home.
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