The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is a solemn cavalcade, and slow,
That comes from Egypt; never had the land,
Save when a Pharaoh died, such pomp of woe
Beheld; never was bier by such a band
Of princely mourners followed, and the grand
Gloom of that strange funereal armament
Saddened the wondering cities as it went.

II

In Goshen he had died, that region fair
Which stretches east from Nilus to the wave
Of the great Gulf; and since he could not bear
To lay his ashes in an alien grave,
He charged his sons to bear them to the cave
Where slumbered all his kin, that, from life's cares
And weariness, his dust might rest with theirs.

III

So when the best embalmers for the bier
Had drest him,—in the pungent nitre laid
The body, and with galbanum, and myrrh,
And cedar-oil, a costly unguent made,
And in a spikenard-dripping shroud arrayed
The limbs ne'er delicately clad till now,—
The Twelve assembed to fulfil their vow.

IV

For seventy days through Egypt ran the cry
Of woe, for Joseph wept; and now there came
Along with him the rank and chivalry
Of Pharaoh's court,—the flower of Egypt's fame;
High captains, chief estates, and lords of name,
The prince, the priest, the warrior, and the sage,
Made haste to join in that sad pilgrimage.

V

By the green borders of the reedy Nile,
Where wades the ibis, and the lotus droops,
The armèd horsemen ride in glittering file
To Goshen, swarthy chieftains with their troops
Of vassals from the Thebaid, gathering groups
Of pilgrims from the populous towns, whose vast
And massy piles loomed o'er them as they passed.

VI

The hoary elders in their robes of state
Were there, and sceptred judges; and the sight
Of their pavilions pitched without the gate
Was pleasant; chariots with their trappings bright
Stood round,—till all were met, and every rite
Was paid;—then at a signal the array
Moved with a heavy splendour on its way.

VII

Its very gloom was gorgeous, and the sound
Of brazen chariots, and the measured feet
Of stately-pacing steeds upon the ground,
Seemed by its dead and dull monotonous beat
A burden to that march of sorrow meet;
With music Pharaoh's minstrels would have come
Had Joseph wished,—'twas better they were dumb.

VIII

In a long line the sable draperies waved
Far backward from the bier,—and as they go,
The people of the cities he had saved
Look from their walls, afflicted with his woe,
And watch the pageant as it winds below,—
And prayers arose for him, and tears were shed,
And blessings called from Heaven upon his head.

IX

They pass by many a town then famed or feared,
But quite forgotten now,—and over ground
Then waste, on which in after time were reared
Cities whose names were of familiar sound
For centuries,—Bubastus, and renowned
Pelusium, whose glories in decay
Gorged the lean desert with a splendid prey.

X

Now in their eastward march the waste expands
In front, and, faring wearily, they reach
That dread Serbonian lake amid the sands:
Oh, many are the bones which yet shall bleach
Among the rushes of that deadly beach,—
Many the warriors who shall find a grave
In the false shallows of that perilous wave!

XI

For many a dreary league the treacherous swamp
Still lengthens on the left; the loose-blown sand
Beneath their steps, the vapours breathing damp
From the green marsh, annoy the straggling band;
But Joseph's thoughts none there may understand,—
His mind recalls the time when through this wild,
The merchants bore the unresisting child.

XII

The way that then was watered with his tears
Is wet with them again; the tender thought
Of his fond father and his boyish years
Before his eye the hills of Canaan brought,—
He saw his childhood's tents, and many a spot
Where oft, at eve, a visionary boy,
He wandered on in innocence and joy.

XIII

Alas! they were but dreams,—the sense returns
Of grief, and death, and vacancy; he still
Is in the desert,—the fierce sunlight burns
On the white parching sands,—the hot winds fill
The hazy tingling air with dust, until
A drowsy languor creeps through every limb,
And mocking images at distance swim.

XIV

But when the sun set, and the fall of dew
Had cooled the air, and the clear vault of heaven
Darkened into a deep transparent blue,
All tremulous with stars, and the still even
Brought on the sweetest time to mortals given,
Their toils were all forgotten, and the hour
Refreshed their spirits with its gentle power.

XV

Oft would they, in that season hushed and cool,
March after resting through the sultry day;
While on some clump of palms beside the pool,
Or bubbling spring, the shadowy moonlight lay,—
The clear stars guided them upon their way;
And, ruddy, in the van, a signal light
Burned, cresset-like, through all the hours of night.

XVI

The fiery sons of Ishmael, as they scour
The stony glens of Paran with their hordes,
Watch their array afar, but dread their power;
Here first against mankind they drew their swords
In open warfare; as the native lords
Of the wild region held their free career,
And fenced the desert with the Arab spear.

XVII

But unmolested now the mourners pass,
Till distant trees, like signs of land, appear,
And pleasantly they feel the yielding grass
Beneath their feet, and in the morning clear
They see with joy the hills of Canaan near;
The camels scent the freshness of the wells,
Far hidden in the depth of leafy dells.

XVIII

Delicious to the weary pilgrim's eye,
Long throbbing with the sun's untempered glare,
Was the first glimpse of Canaan and its sky,—
Sweet every wind that fanned them,—passing fair
Hill, vale, and vine-slope; delicate the air
That breathed from myrtle brake, and cedar wood,
Untroubled in its ancient solitude.

XIX

And now, emerging from the hills which keep
Their watch about the sacred border, they
Traverse the plains where oft the patriarch's sheep
Had pastured; all around deep silence lay,
Save when from high-walled towns at close of day
A barbarous music came, and fiendish cries,
Round the blue flames of Moloch's sacrifice.

XX

At length they reach a valley opening fair
With harvest field and homestead in the sweep
Of olive-sprinkled hills, where they prepare

The solemn closing obsequies to keep;
For an appointed time they rest, and weep
With ceaseless lamentation, and the land
Thrills with a grief it cannot understand.

XXI

Tradition long kept memory of the place
Where the Egyptians met, and told how great
Had been the weeping,—how the ample space
Was crowded with the mourners, and their state
Showed there were princes there,—how round the gate
The rankèd chariots stood, and horses neighed,
And swarthy warriors loitered in the shade.

XXII

The rites thus duly paid, they onward went
Across the eastern hills, and rested not
Till, slowly winding up the last ascent,
They see the walls of Hebron, and the spot
To him they bore, so dear and unforgot,
Where the dark cypress and the sycamore
Weave their deep shadows round the rock-hewn door.

XXIII

Now Jacob rests where all his kindred are,—
The exile from the land in which of old

His fathers lived and died, he comes from far
To mix his ashes with their mortal mould.
There where he stood with Esau, in the cold
Dim passage of the vault, with holy trust
His sons lay down the venerable dust.

XXIV

They laid him close by Leah, where she sleeps
Far from her Syrian home, and never knows
That Reuben kneels beside her feet and weeps,
Nor glance of kindly recognition throws
Upon her stately sons from that repose;
His Rachel rests far-sundered from his side,
Upon the way to Bethlehem, where she died.

XXV

Sleep on, O weary saint! thy bed is bless'd,
Thou, with the pilgrim-staff of faith, hast passed
Another Jordan into endless rest:
Well may they sleep who can serenely cast
A look behind, while darkness closes fast
Upon their path, and breathe thy parting word,
“For Thy salvation I have waited, Lord!”

XXVI

Long years will pass away, ere once again
Thy silence, O Machpelah! shall be stirred;
The boughs will spread unpruned, and mosses stain
The ancient stones where sings the lonesome bird;
But ne'er shall dust as saintly be interred
Within thy silent vaults, nor rites be paid
As solemn underneath thy hoary shade.

“And they came to the thrashing-floor of Atad, which is beyond Jordan, and there they mourned with a great and very sore lamentation: and he made a mourning for his father seven days.”—Gen. 1. 10.

“With my staff I passed over this Jordan.”

—Gen. xxxii. 10.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”—Ps. xxiii. 4.