XXVIII.
LOST AND FOUND.
'Twas eventide in Eden. The mortals stood,
Watchful and solemn, in speechless sorrow bound.
He was erect, defiant, and unblenched.
Tho' fallen, free—deceived, but not undone.
She leaned on him, and drooped her pensive brow
In token of the character she bore—
The world's first penitent. Tears, gushing fast,
Streamed from her azure eyes; and as they fled
Beyond the eastern gate, where gleamed the swords
Of guarding Cherubim, the flowers themselves
Bent their sad heads, surcharged with dewy tears,
Wept by the stare o'er man's immortal woe.
Far had they wandered, slow had been the pace,
Grief at his heart and ruin on her face,
Ere Adam turned to contemplate the spot
Where Earth began, where Heaven was forgot.
He gazed in silence, till the crystal wall
Of Eden trembled, as though doomed to fall:
Then bidding Eve direct her tear-dimmed eye
To where the foliage kissed the western sky,
They saw, with horror mingled with surprise,
The wall, the garden, and the foliage rise!
Slowly it mounted to the vaulted dome,
And paused as if to beckon mortals home;
Then, like a cloud when winds are all at rest,
It floated gently to the distant west,
And left behind a crimson path of light,
By which to track the Garden in its flight!
Day after day, the exiles wandered on,
With eyes still fixed, where Eden's smile last shone;
Forlorn and friendless through the wilds they trod,
Remembering Eden, but forgetting God,
Till far across the sea-washed, arid plain,
The billows thundered that the search was vain!
Ah! who can tell how oft at eventide,
When the gay west was blushing like a bride,
Fair Eve hath whispered in her children's ear,
"Beyond yon cloud will Eden reappear!"
And thus, as slow millenniums rolled away,
Each generation, ere it turned to clay,
Has with prophetic lore, by nature blest,
In search of Eden wandered to the West.
I cast my thoughts far up the stream of time,
And catch its murmurs in my careless rhyme.
I hear a footstep tripping o'er the down:
Behold! 'tis Athens, in her violet crown.
In fancy now her splendors reappear;
Her fleets and phalanxes, her shield and spear;
Her battle-fields, blest ever by the free,—
Proud Marathon, and sad Thermopylæ!
Her poet, foremost in the ranks of fame,
Homer! a god—but with a mortal's name;
Historians, richest in primeval lore;
Orations, sounding yet from shore to shore!
Heroes and statesmen throng the enraptured gaze,
Till glory totters 'neath her load of praise.
Surely a clime so rich in old renown
Could build an Eden, if not woo one down!