But, ere the next, two other lambkins died,
Frostbitten in the dark.
To carry them, all six.
Said, "Nay, we thank thee, Adam. Let them sleep!
And, if they wake, they could not walk, for, see,
Their little legs are stiffen'd. Let them be!"
So Adam left the lambs. And all the herd
Follow'd him in sorrowing, and not a word
Was spoken. Never until then had they
Their own forsaken. That was the worst day.
Eve said to Adam, as they went along,
"Adam, last night the cold was bitter strong.
Warm fleeces to keep out the freezing wind
Have those six lambkins thou hast left behind;
But they will never need them any more.
Go, fetch them here, and I will make, before
This day be done, stout garments for us both,
Lest we, too, wake no more." Said Adam, loth
To do her bidding, "Why dost thou suppose
Our lambs will nevermore have need of those
Warm fleeces? They are sleeping." But Eve said,
They are not sleeping, Adam. They are dead."
'Dead? What is that?" "I know not.
That they no more can feel the north wind blow, Nor the sun burn. They cannot hear the bleat
Of their own mothers; cannot suffer heat,
Or cold, or thirst, or hunger, weariness,
Or want, again." "How dost thou know all this?"
THE LEGEND OF THE DEAD LAMBS 27
Ask'd Adam. And Eve whispered in his ear, "The Serpent told me." "Is the Serpent here? If here he be, why hath he," Adam cried,
No good gift brought me?" Adam's wife replied, "The best of gifts, if rightly understood,
He brings thee, and that gift is counsel good.
The Serpent is a prudent beast, and right;
For we were miserably cold last night,
And may to-night be colder; and hard by
Those dead lambs in their woolly fleeces lie,
Yet need them not as we do. They are dead.
Go fetch them hither."
Next morning to the beasts' surprise,
Adam and Eve appear'd before their eyes
In woollen fleeces warmly garmented.
"How wonderful is Man, who can make wool
As good as sheep's wool, and more beautiful!"
Only the Fox, who sniff'd and grinn'd, had guessed
Man's unacknowledged theft; and to the rest
He sneer'd," How wonderful is Woman's whim!
See, Adam's wife hath made a sheep of him!"
ROBERT, EARL OF LYTTON
Then with his children, clothed in skins of brutes,
Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm,
Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell,
The dark man reached a mount in a great plain,
And his tired wife and sons, out of breath,
Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep."
Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot.
He saw an Eye, a great Eye, in the night,
Open, and staring at him in the gloom.
"I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up
His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife,
And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days
He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind;
Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound;
No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand
Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur.
"Here pause," he said, " for this place is secure;
Here we may rest, for this is the world's end."
And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky,
The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge,
And the wretch shook as in an ague fit.
"Hide me!" he cried, and all his watchful sons, Their fingers on their lip, stared at their sire.
Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell
In tents): "Spread here the curtains of thy tent;
And they spread wide the floating canvas roof,
And made it fast, and fixed it down with lead.
"You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair child,
The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day.
But Cain replied, "That Eye, I see it still."
And Jubal cried (the father of all those
That handle harp and organ): "I will build
A sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze,
And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned,
"That Eye is glaring at me ever."
"Then must we make a circle vast of towers,
So terrible that nothing dare draw near;
Build we a city with a citadel;
Build we a city high, and close it fast."
Then Tubal-Cain (instructor of all them
That work in brass and iron) built a tower,
Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought,
His fiery brothers from the plain around
Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth;
They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed,
And hurled their arrows even to the stars.
They set strong granite for the canvas wall,
And every block was clamped with iron chains.
The walls were thick as mountains. On the door
They graved: "Let not God enter here." This
done,
And having finished to cement and build,
In a stone tower they set him in the midst.
"Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah, tremblingly.
But Cain replied, "Nay, it is even there."
Then added, "I will live beneath the earth,
As a lone man within his sepulchre.
I will see nothing; will be seen of none.”
They digged a trench, and Cain said:
enough,"
And he went down alone into the vault;
But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair,
And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head,
The Eye was in the tomb, and fixed on Cain.
Translation from the Dublin University Magazine
In the Talmud are found innumerable quaint and interesting legends, most of which point some moral. Amongst the many concerning Methuselah is the following:
One day, Methuselah, who had already passed his four hundred and sixtieth year, sat under the shade of his vine and fig-tree. A long day wellspent in useful labor had left him pleasantly weary, and he rested in the cool of the evening. Over the distant hills the fast-sinking sun cast a rosy glow, birds sleepily chirped as they sought their nests, and the lowing of cattle emphasized the peacefulness of the scene. But in all this calm the heart of Methuselah was not satisfied. Although blest with length of years beyond the ordinary mortal lot, he feared Death-he longed for eternal life.
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