Читать книгу Poems of Arthur Hugh Clough - Arthur Hugh Clough - Страница 47

Adam. O Cain, the words of Adam shall be said;

Come near and hear your father’s words, my son.

I have been in the spirit, as they call it,

Dreaming, which is, as others say, the same.

I sat, and you, Cain, with me, and Eve

(We sat as in a picture people sit,

Great figures, silent, with their place content);

And Abel came and took your hand, my son,

And wept and kissed you, saying, ‘Forgive me, Cain

Ah me! my brother, sad has been thy life

For my sake, all thro’ me; how foolishly,

Because we knew not both of us were right;’

And you embraced and wept, and we too wept.

Then I beheld through eyes with tears suffused,

And deemed at first ’twas blindness thence ensuing;

Abel was gone, and you were gone, my son—

Gone, and yet not gone; yea, I seemed to see

The decomposing of those coloured lines

Which we called you, their fusion into one,

And therewithal their vanishing and end.

And Eve said to me, ‘Adam, in the day

When in the inexistent void I heard God’s voice,

An awful whisper, bidding me to be,

How slow was I to come, how loth to obey;

As slow, as sad, as lingeringly loth,

I fade, I vanish, sink, and cease to be,

By the same sovereign strong compulsion borne:

Ah, if I vanish, take me into thee!’

She spoke, nor, speaking, ceased I listening; but

I was alone, yet not alone, with her

And she with me, and you with us, my sons,

As at the first;—and yet not wholly—yea,

And that which I had witnessed thus in you,

This fusion, and mutation, and return,

Seemed in my substance working too. I slept,

I did not dream, my sleep was sweet to me.

Yes, in despite of all disquietudes,

For Eve, for you, for Abel, which indeed

Impelled in me that gaiety of soul—

Without your fears I had listened to my own—

In spite of doubt, despondency, and death,

Though lacking knowledge alway, lacking faith

Sometimes, and hope; with no sure trust in ought

Except a kind of impetus within,

Whose sole credentials were that trust itself;

Yet, in despite of much, in lack of more,

Life has been beautiful to me, my son,

And I, if I am called, will come again.

As he hath lived he dies.—My comforter,

Whom I believed not, only trusted in,

What had I been without thee? how survived?

Would I were with thee wheresoe’er thou art!

Would I might follow thee still!

But sleep is sweet, and I would sleep, my son.

Oh Cain! behold your father’s words are said!