University of Virginia Library

But, while thus many blamed,—Pharaoh himself
Most censured Pharaoh: not that, by his pride,
And obduracy, that tremendous scourge
On Egypt he had brought; but that, by fear
O'er-ruled, to vile submission he had stooped,
When, haply, one short hour had he held firm,
Self-moved the storm had passed. So in his heart
The demon whispered him. But, most of all
Bitter his shame, remembering how, in sight
Of his own queen, and daughters, rulers, priests,—
Nay, even in presence of base serving-men,—
He had been humbled; to the sorcerers
Of Israel, as though very gods they had been,
Piteously praying. For long hours, alone
He kept; nor any living soul would see.
With face inflamed, hands clenched, and flashing eyes,
In his closed chamber to and fro he strode;
Nor food, nor wine would touch; his burning thirst
With water only cooling. All distraught,
He knew not what to do; by what means best
His shame to wipe away. If real God
Those hideous plagues had sent,—all strength of man,
Resisting, must be vain. Yet how knew he,
How could he know, if, in the verity,
Such Power there were? His sorcerers had laughed;
Himself had laughed, at thought of a new god;
A god, forsooth, of that poor Israel:
Yet, such dread things had been, as gods alone,
Or magic strong as gods, could have brought forth.
On that man only, evil's minister,
That hated, terrible Hebrew, might he hope
Such act to do, as fear of future ills
Would end for aye: the one stroke that should take
From that pernicious the life-breath,—would take
From Egypt all the evils yet in store,
Through his malignance. Yet, if god-sent, he,
God-guarded too, perchance; and, aimed at him,
Stroke deadliest on the striker might recoil;
Turned by the hand divine. Even if with strength
Of magic solely, had the Hebrew wrought,—
His god a mere pretext,—yet, that same strength
And wisdom, more than human, in defence
'Gainst open might of king, or secret stroke,
Potent, perchance, would be as in assault,—
And, lashed to fury, even more terrible still
Might be his vengeance. Nought could he resolve;
The just, or unjust way to take, alike
Irresolute. The promise had been given,
That Israel should go forth. Decree, indeed,
As yet was unproclaimed: but, not the less,
The slaves, he knew, would preparation make
For quick departure; and, unchecked, might go;
Many, if not the whole: yet, dared he not,—
So fresh the terror on him,—tell aloud
How he had lied to Moses; and the word
Send forth, forbidding them.

As when the wind,
Fitfully blowing, north, east, south, and west,
Tosses the silken streamer,—even so,
Anger, or fear, or hope, his purpose tossed,
This way, or that; one moment, resolute
That Israel should not go; that, with high hand,
Yet more would he oppress them,—and, the next,
Resolved that go they should; that he himself
Would drive them forth; and be for ever quit
Of those detested, and their sorceries.
Enough of her own people, Egypt had,
For public labor: let them do the work,
Erewhile by Hebrews done. Whate'er the cost,
Cheap were it, purchasing escape from Plague.
That hour of hail more grievous loss had brought,
Than years of Israel's labor could repay.
And, even if all exhausted now the wiles
Of magic,—no new torments to be found,—
Yet, who might know if the old Plagues again
Might not be sent,—again, and yet again,
Till victory should be won, and Egypt lost;
Dispeopled,—nay a desert. They should go!
Go on the morrow: he would scourge them out!
That instant would he send abroad the word,
Driving them forth. But, even while he moved,
His lords to summon, quickly veered the wind.
Pride, hatred, fury, shame, in passionate blasts
Swept through his soul; and, rather than submit,
A thousand deaths he'd die: nay, the whole land
Behold a wilderness!

So, all the day,
Like to a vessel on a broken sea;
Fast anchored, but yet restless evermore;
With every changing gust, this way, or that,
Moving, as if on voyage to set out;
Yet faltering soon,—then stopping,—and, anon,
Forward again, or backward, or traverse,—
But straight advancing never,—all the day,
So, on the changeful waves of hate, and fear,
And hope, and doubt, tossed Pharaoh; nor at eve,
More than at morn, on path direct could fix.