The youngest, Ariel, his mother most loved; for he was mild of temper, and of a make which would have shamed the Apollo, cut by hands skilled to search out the hidden springs of manly beauty, and cunningly transform the ideal into a reality, to stand forever a wonder before the eyes of men. His auburn locks, parted on either side, fell thick, and rested upon his shoulders; and upon his brow, fairer than woman, sat intellect, softened and refined to express the hopes and sorrows, the sweet delights and bitter ills, which God gave a heritage to Adam and his seed when he drove out the sinning pair from Paradise. Tall, he stood like a cedar upon Lebanon. His eyes, large and lustrous, in color his mother’s and heaven’s, seemed ever dreaming of a life which, cradled upon earth, had elsewhere its happiness; and the long brown lashes that veiled their intenser light, shadowed with melancholy a face which else had been too bright. In childhood, he wept over tales of that fair land lost by his first ancestors; and sought on every side, through the sombre wood, and along the flowery mead, and up the streams to their sources amid the valleys of the hills, for some trace of a glory half-extinct which might lead him onward to its walls, guarded by flame; then, weary and sad, he would stand by the sea, and look out across its waters, and strain his eyes to find a new earth, and catch a glimpse of that strange fire which, under the rule of night, mellows the waves, and makes their path more enticing than the walks of Arcady the blest, or the garden in which Italia’s poet subdued Ruggerio to a witch’s love. Thus found by his mother, after long search, he would rest his head upon her knees, and repeat his hopes and disappointments, while she, softly chiding, wiped his tears away. Growing toward manhood, he, unwillingly and slow, now doubting and now believing, put off his childish faith, and sought for and found a rest more perfect, and more noble far, than that paradise which fled before the knowledge of evil and of good.
SECTION III.
Tubal, the eldest born, was mightier than his brother. Less tall, strong, he stood like Hercules leaning on his club. His lusty shoulders seemed made to bear the weight of any ill which time and the first sin might engender to crush the sons of Adam; and his foot was firmer than the rock. Within his broad breast, capacious, the wildest passions, love and hate, and jealousy and ambition, raged and crouched obedient to a will which held them bound, nor loosed its hold but to fulfill its purpose. His hair curled close, nor played in dalliance with the wanton air. His eyes, blacker than the night which covered Egypt when the chosen were oppressed, burned fierce; and within their depths lay hidden cunning, and power, and the determination to complete what cunning prompts and power may well perform. His nostrils swelled with triumphs not yet won; and on his lips, compressed, and on his swarthy brow, courage had stamped its signet. He loved the chase, and the boar pursued beyond the mountains which barred his father’s steps, and rose a barrier never passed till he burst through to conquer new fields, boundless, and rich in all the wealth of his rude life. Action was his rest; and to him plain fact was beautiful enough, nor sought he, in vain imaginings, to work out of strong matter kindred unto himself, forms of excellence which live only in a poet’s brain, to curse the possessor. His father loved him, for when a boy he drew his father’s bow, and threw his father’s spear, laughed at fatigue, and scorned the pleasures of quiet contemplation which, with his brother, stole half the days away. In him was small obedience, even from his birth; self-willed, he threw off his mother’s hand as a steed of high mettle, untamed, flings at the bit; and thus he grew, a Titan in his passions as a Titan in his make.
SECTION IV.
The morn had ushered in a new year, when Tubal and his brother went forth to worship upon the neighboring mountains, and offer up a sacrifice in acknowledgment of mercies past, of mercies present, and of mercies yet to come. From the sea a mist rolled inward, and covered all the land, and covered the forest wide, and crept up the hill-sides, and hung about their tops, and curled over, descending like a glory, to be lost in the space beyond. Bathed in cloud, seeing their path dimly, they walked hand in hand, loaded with gifts of the chase, and of the vine, and pure water, and sweet-scented wood. Ariel found a new beauty in the thick vapor which shut out the heavens, and so stilled the song of the trees that, listening, he believed he could hear the very mist singing, as it moved onward upon its errand of fruitfulness and health; but Tubal saw power, and felt his strength grow within him, and, invigorated, stood erect, and trod more proudly the earth which he claimed as his own. As they ascended the higher grounds, and climbed the steeps which led upward to the temple they had chosen, the cloud grew thinner, and the light increased, and they halted, silent, and bowed their heads, and pressed their lips to the mountain-side, and kissed God’s foot-prints—there seen, clear and radiant, as they are now to be seen impressed, eternal, upon the granite which, in the far North, lifts its head a mark to the returning mariner, who—far out upon the ocean—hails the beacon with all the joy of home. Then rising, they mounted quickly to the summit, round, and fair with its own flood, and standing, gazed. Gazed upon the cloud spread out beneath their feet, a vast expanse of silver water, covering land and sea; gazed upon the hill-tops which rose above the flood, as isles sleeping upon the bosom of a quiet lake; gazed upon the heavens, serenely blue, over-arching all; and gazed upon the sun, red and huge, struggling with the mist, till its rays, released, flashed upon the isles, and lighted up the heavens, and so wrought that the deep cloud, mastered by their heat, broke from its fastenings, and rolled in masses, and, rifted, opened cavernous, and showed, first the crowning tufts of the forest-trees, and then the lower boughs, and then the plain, reeking with moisture, and then the sea, bright and dancing, until the last wreath of feathery vapor ascending, vanished.
SECTION V.
“For this, it is enough to have lived; thy works, O God, are wondrous fair!” said Ariel.
Tubal, turned away, silent; and casting his offerings upon the ground, threw up the heavy sward in piles high and broad, which he fashioned into a rude altar; then covering it thick with wood, found near at hand, he called unto his brother, and together they laid upon it the chase, the grapes, and the branches sweet-scented and laving, prayed.
“We thank thee, Father, for thy mercies past, thy mercies present, and thy mercies yet to come.”
“I thank thee for strength,” said Tubal.