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."

                Thy heart will shrink,
And thou wilt hear the voice the Lord has heard,
The voice of brother's blood speaking from earth,
And each pulse of thy sad soul will be stirred,
As he to whom the girl thou love'st gave birth
        Brings back with fearful truth
        The playmate of thy youth
                From the grave's brink.

                For on no shore
Shall fair earth yield unto thy stalwart arms;
No, thou may'st dig, and prune, and plant in vain,
And noxious worms and things of poisonous harms
Shall not be banished at the will of Cane;
        Thou'lt set seed-bearing root,
        Thou'lt plant life-giving fruit
                No more, no more.

                Depart! Depart!
Ah no, not greater than the soul can bear,
Did'st thou not always find whatever grain
Thou cast, the same grew upward full and fair,
Thou would'st not look upon the pure lamb slain,
        To faith true sacrifice
        Thou would'st not turn thine eyes;
                Go, till thine heart.