 | Joseph And His Brethren |  |
Scene III.
—A Vale at Dothan.Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zebulun, Dan, Naphtali, as Shepherds.
Reuben.
This Dothan pleases me: the air is sweet;
The plain brow'd by the alpine forest round
Escapes the burning glances of the sun:
The faded leaves of autumn nourish it,
Laid by the wind like summer's winding-sheet,
Begetting vigorous substance for the spring,
So that the herbage and the greener food
Thrive within rankness.
Zebulun.
The grass is thick with flowers upon crisp stalks
Full of the juicy virtues of the place:
A rainbow garland for the brow of spring
With globèd clover full of honey-dew
And sweeter than the cowslip.
Issachar.
It is well:
But I prefer the hardier mountain-side,
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The sickly flowers of the o'er-moisten'd flats
But pulp your cattle with a sullen rot.
This guarding wood fencing the rush of wind
Still keeps the evil close about their hides;
The hollow blast that rolls about the hills
Would blow them whole and hardy.
Naphtali.
Was it not
In some such place as this, since many years,
When we were taking honey through the woods,
Some dozen wolves, whetting their gory fangs,
Had got about a heifer hunted down
And mangled to the bones: then we leapt in
And with our travelling staves with iron heads
Gave battle to them, having made a ring;
And, spite of savage opposition,
We put such mettle in our dangerous play,
As slew them all?
Dan.
I do remember, too,
That Reuben had a cloak made of their skins
In honour of our sport; or rather that
We thought him coward, and to trembling given,
But found the sinews of his courage grew
Stronger with danger; for that Issachar
Being beset, having more work than hands,
He leapt into the peril, and thereby
Drawing their fury chiefly on himself
Defeated it.
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It was brave work, I swear.
Simeon.
No, do not so.
Issachar.
What?
Simeon.
Swear: Reserve thy oath;
For lo! now by the brow of yonder hill
Comes one who more deserves it at your hands
Than idle thoughts.
Issachar.
I had no oath to swear;
Or if I had, whoe'er he be that comes,
It could not be forestall'd. I have no feud,
No quarrel now in hand with any man.
Simeon.
Bethink thee, and then look.
Zebulun.
'Tis Joseph comes!
Issachar.
If it be so, I do recall my peace;
Not leaving so much to my fingers' ends
As keeps the stone from flying from my hand.
What then? Are we not even to be fear'd?
Why comes he here to trouble our repose?
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Oh! what cares he? Our hate and his content
Are bond and free: we ever bound to frown,
While he is pleas'd to smile because we frown.
He doth usurp our place and privilege,
Counting the dew-drops of our cares and pains
With young and wanton eye, most like unto
Some steward's son: keeps tent within the shade,
Or when the day is damp or overcharg'd,
Or the presumptuous sun looks hotly out,
And airs for appetite in soothing eves,
Which needs is sickly, being got as 'tis,
Of idleness, not sweating industry;
Wherefore his dishes must be nicely sauc'd,
While we crib in the hedge, and dip at springs.
Issachar.
I love my dog somewhat, for he will share
My watchfulness and patience; but were he
To have reserv'd, the profit of my thrift,
The sweet and priceless virtue of my gains,
House in a cage of gold, and on the woof
Of soft Egyptian cloth, supinely stretch'd,
Slumber in gorgèd sloth, while I was tim'd
To face the elements,—I could not loathe
His carnal and detested privilege
More than I do this brother Joseph's face,
Who looks so sightly on our grievances.
Simeon.
Yonder he comes. Look at him, Issachar.
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Poising his staff for very idleness.
Issachar.
My eye already dooms him.—It is he.
Naphtali.
That coat of many colours which he wears,
Spotted about with our dear father's love,
Is foully spotted; for in every one
A favour sticks that's gather'd at our hand,
And in its place neglect and scorn are left,
Making him rich and proud in the array
That's borrow'd of our smiles and temperance.
Dan.
Our coats be of one colour,—so should his.
Issachar.
Why let it then, nor mumble o'er your wrongs
Like feeble women at a friend's decease;
But raise your hands and brush your grief away.
That coat he honoureth with all his heart
Should wear its livery. If it were steep'd
In sundry drops of blood let loose from thence,
Its colour were more comely to our eyes.
A puling, whimpering boy—he is no more—
And he to keep our number on the fret
With all this bone and sinew on our side!—
I have no patience that we are so tame!
Dan.
Go to! I am not tame—that's not my case.
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Nor mine.
Levi.
Nor mine.
Simeon.
And yet this is not all.
Some little we could bear and wink upon:
To be the puppet of our father's age,
Keep house, the stores o'erlook, the vintages;
All nice employments (far too nice for us):
Yet, with a stretch of patience this could pass,
And he might live, and we could bear his sight:—
Not so when, thus o'ersurfeited with ease,
He takes exceptions to our wearied worth,
And sleeps to dream that we are but his slaves,
Must all bow down and kiss the earth to him;
In musing visions artfully contriv'd
That throw a glory round about himself,
Casting on us the shadow of contempt;
Poor worms that crawl about in Heaven's face
Most disobediently to plague his eye.
We are not fit for heaven or earth, forsooth,
While he's the dainty image of the world.—
This Joseph dreams that we are slaves to him:
Our sire cries, ‘Well—ah well; it must be true,
For Joseph, whom I love of all my sons,
Hath found it in his sleep.’
Issachar.
He feeds too well;
He is too full of blood, too sleek and fair,
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We'll purge them off by letting forth his blood,
And, knowing that he loves to sleep and dream,
Forget the stop, and let him bleed to death.
Reuben.
[Aside.
What shall I do alone among these curs?
To fight against them were to lose us both;
To weep were but to play a feeble part,—
Excite their mirth, and move them to contempt;
Unless, indeed, each tear that I let fall
Would prove a knotty club (ah, that it could!).
Surely, my brothers, you are not so bad,
[Aloud.
So bloody, so unnaturally given,
To wish to paint your envy-chasèd cheeks
In the deep crimson that sustains the life
Of him, your brother and your father's son!
Issachar.
You may try, Reuben: I will not be mov'd.
Your tongue's a pipe that unto this old tune
E'en playeth by itself: we're tir'd of it,
(I marvel much that it was mute so long);
But sith we heed it not, why, let it play.
Reuben.
Oh, Issachar and brethren! Do but think
How noble, now that you have got revenge
Close in your palms, 'twould be in you to say
(Turning sweet pity to your gentle hearts),
‘Our brother wrongs us; but the boy is young,
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For our forbearance and superior power.
Our father, too, whose grief will bruise his heart,
Losing the flower that his eye did love,—
Shall we not think of him and spare his son?
He thought of us, and kept us in the way
Of industry, which leads to happiness;
And since but prattling children at his knees
Up to this hour, save only in this thing,
Hath shar'd his pleasure and his hopes with us;
And with that stuff with which his bosom swells,
Love and affection, hath beguil'd our days;
Making our path of life both plain and smooth.
For his sake therefore we will spare his son;
For ours, that in the many years to come
We may contemn remorse, and live at peace.’
Issachar.
Double excitement plays upon my frame,
For, Simeon, I am famish'd with this air:
Shall we browse first on food, or on revenge?
Reuben.
Join one of you a gentle breath with mine:
You'll gain more happiness in Joseph's love
Than sullen joy in his destruction.
Judah.
Not I, indeed; I value not his love
At the poor siftings of our granary.
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Reuben, he doth contemn us of his birth;
For as the virtues and the evils oft
Descend from sire to son, so he doth take
A deep exception to our fellowship,
That was decreed him ere he was begot.
Rachel, the beautiful (as she was call'd),
Despis'd our mother Leah, for that she
Was tender-ey'd, lean-favour'd, and did lack
The pulpy ripeness swelling the white skin
To sleek proportions beautiful and round,
With wrinkled joints so fruitful to the eye.
All this is fair: and yet we know it true
That 'neath a pomane breast and snowy side
A heart of guile and falsehood may be hid,
As well as where the soil is deeper tinct'.—
So here with this same Rachel was it found:
The dim blue-lacèd veins on either brow,
Neath the transparent skin meandering,
That with the silvery-leavèd lily vied;
Her full dark eye, whose brightness glisten'd through
The sable lashes soft as camel-hair;
Her slanting head curv'd like the maiden moon
And hung with hair luxuriant as a vine
And blacker than a storm; her rounded ear
Turn'd like a shell upon some golden shore;
Her whispering foot that carried all her weight,
Nor left its little pressure on the sand;
Her lips as drowsy poppies, soft and red,
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Her voice melodious, mellow, deep, and clear,
Lingering like sweet music in the ear;
Her neck o'ersoften'd like to unsunn'd curd;
Her tapering fingers rounded to a point;
The silken softness of her veinèd hand;
Her dimpled knuckles answering to her chin;
And teeth like honeycombs o'the wilderness:
All these did tend to a bad proof in her.—
For armèd thus in beauty she did steal
The eye of Jacob to her proper self,
Engross'd his time, and kept him by her side,
Casting on Leah indifference and neglect;
Whereat great Heaven took our mother's part
And struck young Rachel with a barrenness,
While she bore children: thus the matter went;
Till Rachel, feeling guilty of her fault,
Turn'd to some penitence, which Heaven heard;
And then she bore this Joseph, who must, and does,
Inherit towards the children all the pride
And scorn his mother had towards our mother:—
Wherefore he suffers in our just rebuke.
Reuben.
[Aside.
So: if they date their grief from thirty years,
And slur the very beauties of the dead
To prove some cause why they may hate enough,
I may go prate unto a waterfall.
If they would change their pity for the gall
Of some wild tiger, I had better hopes
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By pitiful complaints and gentle words:
For when an evil deed is thus abroach,
The will predominant the judgment blinds;
And he who seeks to lay it with advice
Feeds and provokes it to a pride of power
Which nothing but superior power can tame.
The will doth push itself beyond itself,
And full of madness doth provoke to ire
By its own act, to fret and carve a way
To all destruction. Mercy is but a spur
To goad on faster to its red design;
And sense feeds on the senses. To tell them plain
Of what they are, advise them of their vice,
Expose themselves unto their proper eye,
Were just, and yet not wise. It were, indeed,
By casting a contempt upon themselves,
To put them furiously to hate the truth;
Seeing that Virtue never looks so ill
Unto the eye of Vice (that's sick of good)
As when it tempts it to rebuke itself,
And to respect the object of its scorn.—
'Tis here the villain doth put on his cap,
And plumes him proudly on his tyranny.
More virtue gets more passion; penitence
Sits all forlorn before the armèd will,
Contempt and malice being accessary.
So this young boy's simplicity would be
A greater mark to tempt the avenging knife
Than all the grief they boast. Bad passions are
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And grow of their own nourishment so fast,
That all the man but lives unto the end
To which they point. Whence can the sweetness come
Of living to do vilely? For the thing
We do ourselves, in others we should scorn;
Yet in ourselves 'tis worshipp'd as a God
To whom we sacrifice. Alas! it is
A way to me most crookèd and unlearn'd.
Fear is the only thing to make them blench—
I would it thunder'd!—
Simeon.
The musing Reuben meditates some stop.
Issachar.
Oh, let him muse!—his most vexation is
Only a gnat unto a lion's ear:
He will not wail so loud to wake us up.
Reuben.
Ye bearded men, with nervous, sinewy limbs!—
Ye demi-giants! who from forging breasts
Toss through constrainèd nostrils splenetic winds!
Ye shepherds, and young herdsmen of the vale!—
Oh, Jacob's sons and Joseph's brethren!
Have ye no trembling? Have ye not a fear,
Ye heartless butchers of this patient lamb,
That star-blasts will strike through you where you are,
Or the spell'd quaking of the tremulous earth
Swallow you whole in its remorseless womb?
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The storm-bolt in its fury, spite of prayers?
Oh, think, ye men condemn'd! the hand of God
Is open, ample, merciful, and just,
And doth o'erburthen human love with good;
But it is also valiant, great, and wise,
And with a rod of fire doth scourge those slaves
Who take the life of man, and play with blood.
Say that He spares you and He lets you live;
Your days to come are rotten at the core:
Your memory would fear its exercise;
Ye would hate food, for it sustain'd your lives;
And groan in heaviness, and weep and wail,
Till you should find some cave wherein to die,
And end a forfeit life of slothful pain.
Oh, Issachar! my brother, is it not
Better to stop and shun the punishment,
And live to love and honour thy old age,
And find a grave out through the joys of life?
What think'st thou?—
Issachar.
Why, that my hand is stronger than thy tongue.
Reuben.
Your thoughts are like an egg, that's hard to hatch,
Part blood and vapour, and a callous mass.
Simeon.
Our senses tire of waiting on thy tongue,
Nor are our passions in a state, I think,
For such-like music; so we neither fear
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But think thee fool, and weaker than a child
In suffering evil that thou mightest end.
Issachar.
A little honey will not catch our wit:
A little fear will never scare our will.
Simeon.
We will no longer linger o'er this deed.
Issachar.
But do it, since occasion is at hand.
Reuben.
Will you stand in the lightning when 'tis done?
Issachar.
Let that appear—
[Enter Joseph.
Here is the gentle youth—
Art thou not weary, Joseph, with thy walk?
Simeon.
Aye, is my brother? Will he take my stool?
Issachar.
Why, what brought you good heart, my merry boy,
To search us out? Surely you thought us sick
At heart to have your gracious company.
Levi.
How could our father spare you from his sight?
I marvel he should let you travel thus
Through long and dangerous tracks; yet at your age
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Betwixt my labour and my journey's end.
But you're more choice, are made of rarer stuff,
Fashion'd for some great end, and should be kept
With nicest care from dangers most remote.
Judah.
Though I embrace you not, believe me, youth,
I'm glad you are amongst us—and alone.
Zebulun.
And so am I.
Dan.
Indeed 'tis kindly done,
To tempt fatigue, leaving thy smoking meat
To dip with us and eat of our cold fare;
It argues love and condescension rare
In one who lives so fair and lies so soft
And hath such pampering dreams of his great worth,
To visit such dull herdsmen as ourselves,
Living by common means to common ends,
Who have but hardly simple things to give,
Unworthy one so nice and choicely bred,
Who needs must scorn our single-colour'd coats.
Joseph.
Whate'er you mean, I thank you, brethren.
Our sire commanded me to use my speed
To go and dine with him.
Issachar.
I thought as much.
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And will you go?—that is, will fate permit?
Did you ne'er dream that we have leave of fate
To put his mantle on invisibly
And use his wand and power?—In sooth, I'm glad,
Yea it delights me much to see you here.
Joseph.
I am no judge of art; nor can I find
Why you should use it to a boy like me:
And yet your speech of love and tenderness
Sounds hollow, faithless, and unnatural.
Issachar.
Ha! Are you sure of that? perchance you dream.
[Strikes him.
Joseph.
Oh, cruel Issachar!—I will not weep.
No, though my eyes burn up, I will not weep.
Issachar.
A vision clouds them o'er.
Simeon.
Alas! poor boy:
What shame and anger flush at once his cheek!
I needs must pity him; and yet I think
This side is livid and of sadder hue,
So that it shames its fellow.
[Strikes him.
Reuben.
[Aside.
Hateful curs!
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Oh, fie! to let this reverend youth stand thus,
No taller than our girdles. Set him up
Upon the highest stool, that he may look
More than our equal, and more like himself.
In his next commerce with his heavenly guide,
Perchance he'll throw an idle word away
Tending to favour us.
Levi.
In hopes whereof,
Being exalted thus, I bow my knee
Before thee—Prophet!
Zebulun.
Hail, Prophet!
Dan.
Hail!
Naphtali.
All hail!
Simeon.
Here, I have gather'd thee a crown of weeds;
Thou may'st not stoop—I'll put it on thy head.
Joseph.
Oh, mean and vicious! Oh, ye savage men!
Issachar.
Ho! stop his mouth—and do not let him speak.
Simeon.
[Kneels
Sweet image! secret chosen at God's hand,
Out of thy grace and wondrous greatness hear,
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And almost kisses thy inspirèd foot.
I pray thee let me live upon this earth,
And breathe this air and nourish me with food;
Which being granted, seeing 'tis not fit
That one so mean as I should dwell and live
Beneath the same roof with thy holiness,
Let me commend thy purity to heaven,
The proper house for one so far divine;
But, sith thou canst not enter there with life,
I will commit the act of love I owe,
And fit thee for thy journey.
Dan.
How he holds
His stubborn courage swelling in his eye!
Levi.
Now would he surely brain us if he could.
Judah.
See what a store of gall he has reserv'd
To sauce his pride when he should come to power.
Zebulun.
He bandies scorn for scorn.
Dan.
We were all dead,
Did but his inspiration serve him.
Naphtali.
Slave!
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A minion—a vicious minion!
Judah.
Ho! spoil his pretty coat.
Zebulun.
You dreamer!
Judah.
Boy!
Zebulun.
Call down your deity.—Where is your deity?
Judah.
Impudent boy!
Dan.
Presumptuous!
Levi.
Disdainful!
Naphtali.
Proud to thy brethren!
Issachar.
No more—down with him!
Joseph.
Great God! Ye will not murder me?
Issachar.
Oh, no!
Ask our clubs.
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Strike him down!
Reuben.
Hold! Hold! Hold!
Simeon.
Keep Reuben back, or down with him as well.
Levi.
Let loose the dogs on him.
Issachar.
Be warn'd—be warn'd.
Reuben.
Dear Issachar! one word—Sweet Simeon! but one—
If I exceed a minute in my speech
Knock out my brains—let me have that, I pray.—
I see when men are bent on shedding blood,
[Aside.
Like a vast engine that hath many works
Turn'd by a master-wheel, they're forc'd to wrench
And chafe their courage to the highest pitch.
There's a prelusive pause that harbours fear
About this yeasty working to the act—
A sort of let that shuns its premises;
And so that they could wipe the stain away
They would be glad to find the object gone,
The breast reliev'd from its prodigious freight,
And no blood sticking on them. How is this—
The cause, my brain, and the preventive means?—
Quick—quick.—The will is but a coward at heart;—
(Unless 'tis deaf and savage like a beast's,
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—And lack of reason upon nature acting
Doth force a courage that is bold and false,
That gathers resolution in the dark,
Like a blind giant hungry for revenge.
Teach but the will a way to act in full
Upon the object without shedding blood,
And reason then looks in on prejudice;
And reason will not let man murder man.
Why, then, the coward shows himself, and puts
The secret knife into its sheath again;
Great Conscience is task-master to the will,
And lets it forth as men hold bears in chains
To have them back, and whip them at the fault.
They would not care if he were snatch'd to heaven,
And send no envy after.
Issachar.
Come, Reuben, waste thy speech.
Simeon.
And be not tedious.
Reuben.
My brethren, you mistake: I do not plead
For Joseph's life: I have no such intent.
Your general judgment and your stronger power
Teach me much greater wisdom. This I say:
It were a pity to shed Joseph's blood,
And put the crimson stain upon your hands,
When you have easier and safer means
To work your will on him and cause his death.
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There yawns a dangerous and delvèd pit,
From which no man alive can make escape,
Being deep, and dark, and hollow on all sides:
Now, since you seem to think the boy deserves
At all your hands a fatal punishment,
Suppose you cast him down into this hole,
And let him perish; then chance and time must share
With you what blame there may be in the act;
For hunger kills him in this case, not you.
Issachar.
What say you, Simeon?
Simeon.
It is a tempting pit.
I know it well—a panther lay there late—
A very tempting pit!
Reuben.
In your old age, when this fierce fire's burnt out,
And its charr'd ashes scatter'd to the winds,
Your memory will breathe unstain'd with blood.
Issachar.
Then be it so.
Simeon.
He will have time to pray,
And sleep, and dream, and hear beasts howl, and think
On the spic'd mess at home.
Levi.
I wish you joy
Of your good fortune since you rose this morn.
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Comfort go with you.
Naphtali.
Amen, say I.
Joseph.
Oh! Issachar!—
Issachar.
Be silent!—Stop his tongue—away with him.
[Exeunt Simeon, Zebulun, and Naphtali, bearing Joseph out.
Reuben.
[Aside.
Thank Heaven this goes well: if my design
Hold out as firmly as it has begun,
I shall have purchas'd hatred of these men,
Have sav'd my brother for our father's arms,
And spar'd him all that heavy weight of grief
That needs must hang about his Joseph's grave.
God's hand be with me still!
[Exit.
Issachar.
Come, let us spread the cloth and eat of bread:
Fetch the dried figs and grapes, cast the sharp seeds
From peel'd pomegranates ripe and red as fire,
To ease our chaf'd blood. Appetite's in the air.
Dan.
Let us be glad and light of heart to-day;
Our enemy hath failèd in his craft,
And we at length are righted of our wrongs.—
Who kills the kid?
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That shall be Judah's care,
While I go gather wood to make a fire.
Judah.
Listen, give ear! I thought I heard a bell,
And now again 'tis drifted with the air
That hurries from the east.
Dan.
What fragrance sweet
Doth slumber on the bosom of the wind
As it heaves westward! Subtle and fresh it is,
As rich as flowers, and less sickly too,
Like ointment on an altar that is forc'd
By sacrificing fire, and fit for Heaven
To stoop and breathe upon.
Judah.
The angels' hair
(My father told me when I was a child)
Is hung with dew much like the seedy pearls,
And of an essence rarer than the sweets
That the winds gather in high summer's tide;
Surely one such invisibly hath pass'd
And shook his dripping feathers o'er our heads;
For nothing else could taste so fine as this.—
Dan.
Yonder's a storm of dust. What cattle, now—
What herdsmen may these be? Strangers are come;
And this fine perfume that doth greet us hath
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Their precious freight from isles afar remote,—
The herald of their progress, for it still
Flies on before. Lo! from this bank I see
Swarthy Egyptians, yellow as their gold,
Tracking their way along the mountain's side
Riding on mules; and like the fleeting cloud
Their mantles hang about them loose and free;
While overhead a round of plaited cane
Is held to intercept the burning sun;
And the grey dogs, lolling their bleachèd tongues,
Slink 'neath the caravans, with travel griev'd.
Their camels all have bells about their necks,
Making a merry music as they go,
Slow-footing 'neath a weight of packages,
That, nicely rais'd, like to square towers show.
The dromedaries seem to sleep and walk,
And move, as they could creep on thus for ever.
Harness'd they are to waggons made of cane
(The light receptacle of rarities
To grace the palace of some foreign king)
Upon low wheels, bestain'd of either soil,
Lightly sustain'd, secure from overthrow,
Their lighter cargo so dispos'd with art
To gather power from the propelling wind.
Levi.
And bear they down this way?
Dan.
To our very tent!
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They must be merchants travelling from the east
That turn their goods to profitable coin,
And wander thus to cities far away,
Seeking to raise their fortunes on the wants,
Or else desires, of wealthy citizens.
Dan.
Albeit 'tis a rich life, though dangerous.
Levi.
That's not the best nor worst. Is it not brave
To see strange people, join with many men
Of many countries, lodge in wallèd cities,
And mix in throngs and gather'd companies;
See their rejoicings, customs, state, and laws,
Their craftsmen, mode of labour, and affairs;
To hear their singing and their minstrelsy;
To please the eye with habits of bright hue,
With sports, and shows, and public sacrifice,
Relics of ancient days, and men-at-arms,
And priests, and officers of high degree,
And to behold a king? This is somewhat;
More when the profit of the journey pays
Your liberty and living in the land,
And sends you home more gilded with their gold
Than is the bee from rifling the sunflower.
And yet, again, in all these journeyings
They dodge about between fell Danger's legs,
Who many times steps over them, and puts
His foot so near them that they shake with it.—
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As, risk belonging to commodity;
And storms, and weariness, and toilsome ways,
And choking dust, and dull monotonies,
And scarcity of rivers and of springs
Wherein they perish of a feverish death,
Bar'd to the elements, and fretted sore
By ever sickening for the journey's end,
Or ere it is begun. Trust me, indeed,
I'd rather be a herdsman in this vale
Than take the evil with the novelty.
Issachar.
I cannot say I would.
Judah.
A good thought this.—
Were it not better that these men should take
Our brother Joseph, sold into their hands,
And leave him bondman in some distant land?
Then do we 'scape at once his blood and death
(Which surely will rebuke us, being his flesh),
And he may take what fortune he may find.
Living so far from us, he is as dead,
And we are freed from his detested sight
Close as a grave could do it.
Issachar.
It is well.
Dan.
It is a tempting chance to have him hence,
And saves the crime.
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But let us keep his coat,
That we may dip it in a he-goat's blood,
And shock our father's eye with the belief
That we have found it, and the boy is dead
Of savage beasts.
Issachar.
Go to our brethren straight:
Say I entreat them to bring Joseph back:
And let them have full word of what we do.
[Exeunt Levi and Judah.
Enter certain Ishmaelites.
Issachar.
Stand there, ho! merchants.
First Ishmaelite.
Strangers, what with us?
Issachar.
Whence do ye come, and whither are ye bound?
First Ishmaelite.
From Egypt we have been to Gilead
To gather dates and precious frankincense,
Pink cinnamon, and myrrh, and spicery,
And chests of fragrant medicinal balm
To work cool ointments for the grievèd flesh,
And lull the pain of evils and of wounds;
And now to Egypt go we back again
To profit of our toil. Such rarities
55
At sundry wedges of the purest gold,
That intercept us ere we reach the mart.
Enter Simeon, Levi, Judah, Zebulun, and Naphtali, with Joseph.
Simeon.
The boy has felt the bottom of the pit,
But we drew for him, and have brought him here.
Judah.
Come, will you purchase at our hands a slave?
Of early youth, both fair and straight of limb,
Having alone a blemish of the mind,
A tow'ring spirit full of high disdain.
Second Ishmaelite.
That is a fault.—Great spirit in a slave
Threatens a sleeping master. Egyptian whips
May mend this vice in him.
Issachar.
Look on him here.
The pith that gathers in his youthful bones
In riper years will bear a burden well.
Levi.
First take his outer skin, his gaudy coat,
Which we may want to mind us of his loss,
And soak the tears up we shall shed for him.
First Ishmaelite.
I like him well. What barter wilt thou make?
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At how many pieces do you value him?
First Ishmaelite.
Will you not rather take some woven cloth,
Purple, or scarlet bright; or bonnets trimm'd
With fringe of green that veileth off the sun!
I have some arms and implements of war
Well fitting to a nervous grasp like yours;
And ropes of pearls that sleep in bleachèd wool,
And native jewels fast in lavender
In a close cedar box of curious scent,
And work'd with our Egyptian mysteries.
Will you this charmèd staff, some spices rich
To steep your broth in fragrance, and endue
Your palate's moisture with high-season'd meats?
Or here are garments of the camel's hair,
The hides of bears, and various skins of beasts;
And broad Egyptian hats with eagle plumes;
Lances, and spears, and huntsman's garniture.
Simeon.
These dry Egyptians are like all the rest.
Strangers or not, man paints commodity
As though he lov'd to give its virtues up;
Dazzling your fancy with a gay report
Till you shall die of longing all this while.
'Tis but a shift to keep the money back,
And save it in the pouch. Gold is the thing:
Get much of that, and you may pick your way
Over the crouching world: this tawny key
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And nature wears a universal smile;
A hundred slaves with all their hundred wills
Are but mute shadows following your eye.
Gold is the ribs of power.
First Ishmaelite.
Why, there it is! It is man's other self,
With that in hand I lead a charmèd life;
Without it I may starve upon my wits.
Did'st say thou would'st have coin?
Judah.
Aye, merchant, aye.
The goods you give us would have each a tongue
To tell a secret that must not be known.
First Ishmaelite.
Say fifteen pieces, if it must be so.
Simeon.
Go to—you 'bate us, man; you are too hard.
First Ishmaelite.
Sooth, it is square and just.
Simeon.
No, merchant, no.
The service of a fair and proper youth
Just in the flowery opening of the bud,
Would weigh against thy silver o'er again
In the school'd eye of some rich husbandman.
Remember that you purchase his whole life,
To bear your burthens e'en when grey and old.
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The city swarms with slaves, and men of bone
Barely exist by sweating through the day;
Save for the daily beauty in his mien,
I would not meddle in't. Say twenty, then.
Simeon.
Well, come and count them out upon this stone;
And take him off to serve thy countrymen.
Second Ishmaelite.
These are true pieces bearing Pharaoh's mark.
Simeon.
So—Now we are quit. Away—speed well, and thrive.
Joseph.
O Simeon!
Into thy bosom I will run for help.
I am thy brother; hate me ne'er so much,
But do not cast me forth to death and shame.
We may yet live blessing and to be bless'd.
Simeon.
Thy tongue has lost its charm.—Away—away!
Joseph.
O Issachar!
A trembling boy is shaken to thy foot,
E'en from the branch where he did cling for help.
Have pity on me: think when thou wert young
How 'twould have wrung thy heart to have been torn
From thy dear father and thy brethren,
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A little while, and I was yet a child,
And many a time have sat upon thy knee;
And many a time have kiss'd thy gentle cheek.
Thy name too was the first I learn'd to lisp;
Canst thou forget these things, and do me scathe?
Do not strive with me that I touch thy cloak:
There is no poison in these childish hands;
I will embrace thy knees. Now we are like
To part, I feel how much I love thee, Issachar.
Issachar.
Would'st creep into my bosom through my ears;
Let go my knees. Ah! snake—let go, I say;
What, wilt thou brag of power till the last?
[Strikes him down.
Joseph.
Unhand me, Midianites, and let me go!
Those shrivell'd hands shall never bind these arms.
If it is profit that you seek in me,
My father for my ransom will give more,
Yea, twenty times, than any stranger will
For my poor services: merchants, you err;
(Oh! you have sorely hurt me, Issachar!)
My brothers do but jest with you in this.
Behold, they are seven men; dost thou believe
In all their seven hearts there is no drop
Of pity? Observe each manly countenance
Work'd by the ruling hand of God divine;
And say, are they not maps of dignity
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Are not their bosoms quick, and therefore touch'd
With sweet affection for their fellow men?
Had I the inches I would punish you,
Daring to credit (though it doth appear)
That they are cruel and unnatural,
A sample of vile practice to all tribes.
This is not so, they are my brethren all;
I love them dearly e'en from first to last;
I have offended them, at which I grieve,
And this my fright is meant my punishment:
It is no more, I do believe it is;
Pray you think better of us Canaanites.
Simeon.
You tardy merchants take him on with you;
We have no more of idle time to waste.
Issachar.
We have your silver; either bear him off,
Or we will take him to our wrath again.
Ishmaelite.
Nay, I must have the profit of my coin.
Joseph.
Oh, deaf to mercy! Oh, ye hard, hard hearts!
Nothing more cruel can you add to this.
Oh, spirit of my father, fill my pride!
Spirit of God, descend unto my heart!
I will not grieve, I will not sue to stay,
So that your power never shall rejoice.
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In thy vast bosom will I seek for love.
However bitter, and how hard my fate,
Still I gain something which is comforting,
For I do leave more hatred, malice, wrath,
Amongst these brothers (which augments my shame)
Than ever I can find at strangers' hands.
Listen, ye men, how firm a voice I have,
‘Commend me to our venerated sire.’
Forgive me, merchants, that I spoke you ill,
I am right proud to keep you company.
(Surely my heart will burst.—)
[Aside.
[Exeunt Ishmaelites with Joseph.
| Joseph And His Brethren | |