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.