Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/306

 But dark as pines that autumn never sears

His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame

Rose like the orbéd sun each morn the same,

Lake-mirrored to his gaze; and that red brand,

The scorching impress of Jehovah's hand,

Was still clear-edged to his unwearied eye,

Its secret firm in time-fraught memory.

He said, "My happy offspring shall not know

That the red life from out a man may flow

When smitten by his brother." True, his race

Bore each one stamped upon his new-born face

A copy of the brand no whit less clear;

But every mother held that little copy dear.

Thus generations in glad idlesse throve,

Nor hunted prey, nor with each other strove;

For clearest springs were plenteous in the land,

And gourds for cups; the ripe fruits sought the hand,

Bending the laden boughs with fragrant gold;

And for their roofs and garments wealth untold

Lay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves:

They labored gently, as a maid who weaves

Her hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft

And strokes across her palm the tresses soft,

Then peeps to watch the poised butterfly,

Or little burdened ants that homeward hie.

Time was but leisure to their lingering thought,

There was no need for haste to finish aught;

But sweet beginnings were repeated still

Like infant babblings that no task fulfil;

For love, that loved not change, constrained the simple will.

Till, hurling stones in mere athletic joy,

Strong Lamech struck and killed his fairest boy,

And tried to wake him with the tenderest cries,