The Adamus exul of Grotius; or The Prototype of Paradise Lost — page 59: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

42 Adam. ADAMUS EXUL. But with you shall not die. It shall survive And be the precious heritage bequeathed To your predestined progeny. Your sons And daughters shall enjoy, as well as you, This heir-loom of your infamy, and share The testamentary bequest of Hell. Satan, rejoice! Blow thy full trump of fame, All-conquering regicide ! Exult, be glad; Cherish thy heart with lies and murders dire, And glorify thy shame. Ay, cast thyself, In all thy plenitude of damnéd power And rage, into man’s heart,—steep it brimful With blasphemy and lust. Let fathers curse Their first-born sons, and mothers wash their hands In sucklings’ blood, and ireful brethren dream The reeking dreams of fratricide, and so Run howling through the weird and sterile world, Gnashing the teeth of madness, self-consumed, And rearing oft their gory arms to heaven, With clenchéd imprecations. Then shall God Repent of making man; and Earth herself, Sick of her own abortions, shall relapse To Chaos and Old Night, and many a flood Of roaring ocean strive with hidden fires To purge the planetary pest in vain. Adam, thou little knowest of ills like these ; Yet come they shall. The coward sense of shame Already I discern; and you shall weave The leafy-fruited branch, wherewith to hide Your brand of nakedness, not so concealed But passionate lust shall quicken in your heart, And bring soft images of vague desire O’er the mind’s eye; and ye shall shake with fear And impotent repentance, and shall read Your conscious crimes reflected in the looks Of friend and foe, and so grow pale within =’ With unrevealed irrevocable sins, And hate the all-beholding day, and love Night’s pitchy blanketing. And hope shall fade, Self-withered, self-sepulchred, in despair. But lo, the curse of God already smites Adam! He stands like the mute lunatic, When the broad moon with many-flashing fires Blasts his crushed heart. His eye glares wildly forth With his unutterable thoughts : his lips Quiver with impotent eloquence. By turns The snow-white horror chases from his cheek That flaring blush of self-wrought infamy. Alas, how dire the change! But list, he speaks. What am I? where? what have I done? Begone, Spectres of horror—phantoms of despair— COL @ DOO <S (c@