"Am I my brother's keeper?"
O black impiety! that seeks to shun
The dire responsibility of sin—
That cries with the ever-warning voice:
"Be still—away, the crime is not my own—
My brother lived—is dead, when, where,
Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
Why judge the living for the dead one's fall?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Cain, Cain,
Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
Cries up to Heaven against thee; every stone
Will find a tongue to curse thee; and the winds
Will ever wail this question in thy ear:
"Where is thy brother?" Every sight and sound
Will mind thee of the lost.
I saw a man
Deal death unto his brother. Drop by drop
The poison was distilled for cursèd gold;
And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death,
Invisible to that poor trembling slave.
He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,
Rushed forth into the streets—home had he none—
Staggered and fell and miserably died.
They buried him—ah! little recks it where
His bloated form was given to the worms.
No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;
No mourner sorrowing at evening came,
To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand
Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest.
Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew
Above that sunken grave, and men forgot
Who slept there.
Once had he friends,
A happy home was his, and love was his.
His Mary loved him, and around him played
His smiling children. Oh, a dream of joy
Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
He had an interest in the world above.
The big "Old Bible" lay upon the stand,
And he was wont to read its sacred page
And then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poor
And save the tempted from the tempter's art,
Save us from sin, and let us ever be
United in Thy love, and may we meet,
When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."
Thus prayed he—thus lived he—years passed,
And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,
A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
And laid its coronal of glory low.
A happy home was ruined; want and woe
Played with his children, and the joy of youth
Left their sweet faces no more to return.
His Mary's face grew pale and paler still,
Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
Went out through those blue portals. Mary died,
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call
He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
And when they buried her from sight, he sank
In drunken stupor by her new-made grave!
His friend was gone—he never had another,
And the world shrank from him, all save one,
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die.
He died.
Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now?
Lives he still—if dead, still where is he?
Where? In Heaven? Go read the sacred page:
"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."
Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?
Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped
His gold—his health—his life—his hope—his all?
Who saw his Mary fade and die? Who saw
His beggared children wandering in the streets?
Speak—Coward—if thou hast a tongue,
Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.
"Where is my brother?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow
Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name
Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul
Was ripe for Heaven; thrice accursed he
Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.
E. Evans Edwards.