Abel's Blood.

Speak, did the blood of Abel cry
To God for vengeance? Yes, say I,
Ev'n as the sprinkled blood called on
God for an expiation.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

Upon Julia Washing Herself In The River.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To God.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Grubs.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Foolishness.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Another. (Abel's Blood)

The blood of Abel was a thing
Of such a rev'rend reckoning,
As that the old world thought it fit
Especially to swear by it.

Robert Herrick

Two Altars.

"And Cain talked with Abel, his brother."



The sun was rising on earth, sin-tainted, yet beautiful,
Delicate gold-colored cloudlets in all their primeval beauty,
Ushered the bright orb of day to his task well appointed,
Like a bevy of beautifal girls in the court of their monarch,
Or a regiment of soldiers all bright in new rose-colored armour.
Two altars arose between earth and the cloud-speckled firmament;
Cain walked in a stern and defiant advance to his altar,
A recklessness flashed from his eyes, and passions unconquered,
As he scornfully looked on the kneeling, worshipping Abel,
Ay scornfully thus he addressed his young innocent brother:

"Look at my sacrifice, Abel, these glistening dew-colored roses,
Those delicate lillies and mosses, these graceful ...

Harriet Annie Wilkins

Thy Brother's Blood Crieth.

All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine,
All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed;
Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage:
When, as one man's hand, a cloud
Rose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunder
In rain and fire and thunder.

Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest?
Hath the vine in her day no fruit to yield?
Yea, men tread the press, but not for sweetness,
And they reap a red crop from the field.
Build barns, ye reapers, garner all aright,
Though your souls be called to-night.

A cry of tears goes up from blackened homesteads,
A cry of blood goes up from reeking earth:
Tears and blood have a cry that pierces Heaven
Through all its Hallelujah swells of mirth;
God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet
He doth not forget....

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Abel And Cain

I.

Race of Abel, sleep and eat;
God smiles on you complacently.

Race of Cain, in mud and filth
You crawl and die in misery.

Abel's race, your sacrifice
Smells sweet to all the Seraphim!

Race of Cain, your punishment,
Will it be ever at an end?

Race of Abel, see your seed,
Your flocks, your cattle come to good;

Race of Cain, like some old dog
Your empty entrails howl for food.

Race of Abel, warm your belly
By the hearth of countrymen;

Race of Cain, you tremble, freezing,
Lonely jackal, in your den!

Race of Abel, multiply
Even your gold proliferates;

Race of Cain, a burning heart,
Take guard against your appetites.

Race of Abel, chew and swell
Like insects swarming th...

Charles Baudelaire

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...

Harriet Annie Wilkins

To Christ.

I crawl, I creep; my Christ, I come
To Thee for curing balsamum:
Thou hast, nay more, Thou art the tree
Affording salve of sovereignty.
My mouth I'll lay unto Thy wound
Bleeding, that no blood touch the ground:
For, rather than one drop shall fall
To waste, my JESU, I'll take all.

Robert Herrick