Joseph And His Brethren A Dramatic Poem |
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Scene VI.
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 | Joseph And His Brethren |  |
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Scene VI.
—Jacob's Tent.Enter to Jacob, Reuben, Levi, Zebulun, Simeon, Issachar, Judah, Naphtali, and Dan.
Jacob.
Smile, smile, my Reuben, I am glad at heart.—
Levi, and Zebulun, my boys, good eve.—
My curlèd Simeon, and Issachar
With overwhelming brow, it is well done.—
Let me embrace thee, Gad, and Naphtali:—
'Twas kindly meant, my sons, to keep my boy,
My merry Joseph, with you in the vale.—
Trust me I love ye for't, and sent him forth
That he might court your anger to this pass.
How like you this same Dothan? Well, I trow.—
Ah! God is open-handed unto us!
Wherefore a grateful sacrifice we'll make
And offer with to-morrow's rising sun.
My gentle boys, I am so full of joy,
Finding your envy melted into love,
That I disdain my staff, and smile at age.
I us'd hard words and was a little mov'd
When last we parted: let it be forgot;
I ach'd to do it.—Where is Joseph now?
Issachar.
I cannot guess!
Jacob.
Why, he was still the first
To run into my arms and clasp my knees.—
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To find me thus in joy, and therefore have
Kept him without to work upon my love.
What, Joseph, there! Thy sire is undeceiv'd.
Is it not true?—I pray you call him in.
Simeon.
I would that he might hear.
Jacob.
No more, no more.
For surely I did send him to the vale
Commanding his return, but sith he stay'd
You must have kept him in your company;
For nothing less than proffer'd love of yours
Would tempt his disobedience to my will.
You see, good youths, I cannot be deceiv'd.—
Oh! therefore call him forth. My joyful mood
Absorbs the very dulness of my age:—
Let us be glad this eve, rejoice and feast,
Mellow our spirits with a frugal hand
In generous wine.—No Joseph yet?
Simeon.
Oh, sir!
I fear to check your spirit with a truth
That being heard would bring you to a crutch,
And turn your tears of joy to tears of blood.
Jacob.
Simeon, beware! you play upon my heart
It is a fragile instrument and old,
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To thee and to thy brethren—so beware:
The strings are weak and yielding to the strain,—
A little cracks them. You do push your jest
Beyond a seemly feeling; yet I'm not
Or mov'd, or anger'd, seeing it is sport
Intended only to alarm my fear
And force my joy more perfect.
Reuben.
[Aside.
How is this?—
Do our own virtues prove our traitors too?
Goodness invisibly beguiles a man,
And while the danger rocketh o'er his head
Enticeth him to play with faith and hope,
Already swallow'd in destruction's womb.
Thus Jacob fondleth with his misery
In promise of his joy, and is betray'd
E'en by the very purpose of his mind.
He holds himself as blind unto the truth
As if he knew and fear'd it.—Alas! I do,
For he is old and shaken.
Jacob.
Will no one speak?—A cruel silence this.
Oh! take some pity of my weary age,
Nor let me die betwixt my hopes and fears.
Some evil hath been busy with my boy,
And sad foreboding in mysterious gloom
Creeps o'er my vital warmth.—Reuben shuns me,
And Judah weeps aloud.—Will no one speak?
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Oh! would my tongue had never known its use,
Or else had lost its office ere this hour!
Reuben.
I would it had.
[Aside.
Issachar.
For in my thought dumbness is virtuous
When speech must utter such a dismal tale.
Jacob.
Ah! Issachar, your wintry breath doth rob
The current of my blood of that scant warmth
Which age requires for sustaining life.
The prelude of your speech grieves me so sore
And makes me tremble for the rest to come,
Like a poor prisoner waiting for his doom,
While the cold judge pronounces life or death.
But if it be, I run before my fate,
And my poor boy is wounded by some chance,
Nursing and watchfulness would bring him well:
And I am old and only fit to nurse,
And could be vigilant in such a case.
Thy love for me doth make thee dread the worst:
I pray thee entertain a cheerfulness.
All evils have some remedy, we know;
This is not very great—it cannot be.
Simeon.
You cheat yourself, and tease your malady;
Seeking yet shunning what you fain would know.
Now call your hidden fortitude around,
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And with a bravery fortify your ears,
That what I utter may not burn the sense,
Nor sear you to the brain.
Jacob.
Hold!—Mercy, pray!—
Oh! gentle Simeon, if thou would'st be lov'd
Or dearly honour'd in thy life to come—
If thou would'st have thy children dutiful,
Slay not thy father. Speak thou, Issachar.
Issachar.
Alas! dread sire, I know not what to do.
The story I must tell is all too sad,
And you have cursèd the proclaiming tongue.
We that do know the act, did not the act,
And therefore have not earnèd thy rebuke.
Reuben.
[Aside.
Oh! nature, nature; heavy, grievous hour!
Jacob.
Whatever is to come, one thing I know—
You do not feel for Joseph or your sire
As you should do in filial duty bound;
Else you would be too full of grief yourselves
To scan my wild replies. The weight is yours:
And having tied me to my reason fast,
Come, cast it on—down with't upon my head;
And, though it sink me, yet still pile it on.—
Yet I am not so weak, but, like myself,
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And view their fall in the abyss below
While I am rear'd triumphant. I will not
Betray my manhood to a secret tale,
Nor shake at words of thine. I do demand
To have the inmost knowledge of this thing.—
Oh! say the truth—yet say not he is dead.
Issachar.
The boy of all my brothers you so lov'd,
Who slumber'd in your best affections,
And was the star of all your rare delights,
O'ershadowing me, with all your other sons,—
Your Joseph, whose deserts did win that place,
The highest and most worth to be enjoy'd,
And fill it to your measureless content—
Who did forgive us all our envious guile,
Was blind unto our faults, and rose the higher
In your discerning mind, for that he ask'd
For our forgiveness when you pleas'd to frown—
Even he is surely dead.
Jacob.
You see I'm firm:—
Though somewhat old, yet I can bear a rub.
Simeon.
There is no hope but what he says is true.
Look on this garment spotted with the blood
Of Joseph. We did find it by the way.
[Jacob falls.
Levi.
You were too sudden in the showing it.
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He only faints. Quick! let us bear him up.
Reuben.
Stand off, I say.—This is a pretty pass—
To bring your father swooning at your feet,
About a murder, too. This is well done.
Issachar.
You shall not shame us, Reuben, though you try.
Reuben.
You're sunk past shame into a deep contempt.
I will not answer thee, thou man of stone.
Judah.
Nay, Reuben, let us raise him from the earth,
And smother not your wisdom in rebukes.
Reuben.
'Tis better as it is. His pulse still beats,
Though with a motion dangerously at ebb:
If you do raise him, you but stop the flow
That his prostration sanctions: therefore, let be.—
What eyes but yours could bear a sight like this,
And not be blasted by the glowing brand
Of physical remorse, that fears to look
Behind, chain'd fast to what it loaths? And yet,
Half devil and half angel as it is—
Or rather angel in a ruin'd house—
I would entreat you all to lose no time,
But entertain the purifying guest
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For though its strong hand governeth a whip,
From the right arms of murderers' sinews wrought,
The other tilteth o'er a cup of balm,
That, coolly soothing, floweth through the wounds
As fast as they are struck. The callous slave,
Untouch'd with Heaven's mercy at his crimes,
Is but a counterfeit (no man of flesh),
Having a human impress, being as dead
As the dull earth of which he first was form'd.
Issachar.
When I do know that I have done a thing
Deserving of remorse, I will repent.
Our brother did usurp our privilege,
And practise on our quiet and estate;
And therefore we have put him on one side,
Into that place which he has fairly earn'd.
He marr'd our peace, being but one to twelve:
Wherefore our justice hath been square with him.
Reuben.
See how his eyes do flood with teeming tears,
His grief on nature acting past his sense,
And struck beyond all joy in days to come:
Foredoom'd to groan, and trace his heavy loss
Within the tempting records of the past.—
What can we now but go and dig his grave?
Which in my sense, is charitable far
Beyond a world like this.
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I am not bound
To yield in sorrow at this load of woe;
For it is selfish, and is paid to one
Not more deserving, and of fewer years
Than I and my wrong'd brethren. Were we dead,
A very little portion of this dole
Would fall to waste on us.
Judah.
Peace, Issachar,
And do not wrangle o'er our father thus.
It may be he may never rise again,
For he is sorely wounded at this thing.
Reuben.
Oh! I did think my sorrow was so huge,
That not a corner was unfill'd by it;
But, Judah, thou hast touch'd me e'en to tears;
For the first word of kindness and concern
Has issued from thy lips. If I can e'er
Forget the cause why I should live to hate—
I'll love thee first.—Oh! taste the milk, my friends,
That flows from weeping Mercy's tender breast,
And lay your gall, that you may learn to soothe
The deep disquiet of your father's days.
The reverend image lying at your feet
Weak as a child, and hinting at a grave,
Loveth you more than you can ever think.
Those soilèd lips that breathe upon the dust,
Blessing your tranquil sleep, have often laid
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Those arms, spread out like branches of a tree
Fell'd for its barrenness, have ever strain'd
Your bosoms unto his: that strayèd beard,
White as the robe of pity (goodly sight!),
Gathers obedience from every eye,
And does impart benignity to all;—
While, above all, those reverend hands supine,
Under the smiles of Heaven, have still laid
Their prosperous blessings on your bowèd heads;
Therefore I pray you, even for your love,
Since that we cannot wholly patch his grief,
Yet to attend it with devoted eye,
And minister affection as we may.
Judah.
You us'd no ceremony, Simeon,
And did affright him with the blunt display
Of that bestainèd coat. When he revives,
Use all the gentle language that you can.
Reuben.
See,—he breathes hard, and twitches at his brows;
A feverish dew upon his temples beads,
And nature struggles into action.—
Now place the cushion gently 'neath his head—
So—raise him tenderly—he doth revive—
Nay, Issachar, no art; we three can do it.
How is it, sir. Look on thy comforters.
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My brain is all commotion.—How is this?
Send Joseph to me.
Reuben.
Silence!—Do not speak.
His wits are dash'd a little from their sphere.
Jacob.
A mystery's upon me; but my grief
Openeth a door that letteth in the light.—
Oh! cruel reason, if thou wilt return,
For charity drive memory from thy train!—
What will become of me?—wretched and old!—
Levi.
Be patient, sir, and temper your lament.
Jacob.
Where's Simeon, I say? But now he stood
Waving a bloody banner in his hand,
Fell sign of carnage and of massacre.
Let him stand forth, and once more blast my sight
With the ensanguin'd garment of my boy—
How sad a sight to grieve a father's eye,
Worse than his dying blood from his own veins!—
Can I still see?—Will nothing strike me blind?
A sense so precious surely should not live
After a sight so rude; but since it does,
I'll keep it ever as a weeping cloud,
To wash this garment of its ugly stain,
Until it shall become as white and pure
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Ah! meagre recompense!—Oh! sorry shift!—
To fill the monstrous gap in my content.
Simeon.
Be patient, sir.
Jacob.
Sir, I will not be so.
I was all patience when my boy did live,
Was all content, and silence, and repose;
And shall I be the same now he is dead?
Bless dull monotony, tongue-tie my grief,
And feel no sorrow for my doleful loss,
And smile upon old customs and affairs?—
Oh! I do loathe all habits that are pass'd,
All hours, and times, and practices of life;
And do more love the blood upon this cloth,
Than worlds of patience.—What should I do
With a heart so tough?—
Reuben.
A little think on God.
Jacob.
Why, Reuben, so I do; but now I know
Man's grief is greater than man's reverence:
Soon I will wipe off this extremity,
And pray forgiveness that I am so rude
To rave upon the treasure I have lost.
Patience sits brooding yonder in the sky;
I cannot reach it with this feeble arm:
Let it descend, oh! Heaven, on my head,
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That count my years of service.
Judah.
Still this Death
Does ever cheat us of our dearer friends:
Or either we must fade into his gloom,
Or tamely see them gather'd up before.
The end of all our days is but to die.
Our life's a blank, oblivion, mystery:
A curious complex action upon time,
Which revelation can alone explain.
Since God and nature do demand so much,
Why let us not rebel in our complaint,
But yield to what in wisdom is decreed.
Had Joseph liv'd to look upon our graves,
That grief were his which now we spend for him,
And still he must have follow'd to the tomb;—
Therefore, by hurrying on so far before,
He loses but so many days of life,
Which at the best is but fantastical,
And doth escape the monstrous sorrow which
Would wait on our decay.
Jacob.
I am so sore,
That every good which tends to comfort me
Doth make me wince and shrink upon the pain,
Like rubs upon the rawness of the flesh.—
Why, what's all this unto my Joseph's face?—
His voice, which I shall never hear again,
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And stir it to the object of his speech?—
His sober eye tending to generous smiles,
Where I have seen the figure of my face
Imag'd as in his mother's, even Rachel's—
His youthful virtue and affection?—
His tenderness and yearning unto me?—
I am a father mourning a dear son,—
Oh! never, never to return again
To bless my sight or soothe my dying hour.—
Mourn ye, also; for you have lost a youth
Who would have been the honour of your tribe,
And was enthronèd in your father's heart.
Levi.
What can we do to moderate your pain?
The tyrant Sorrow spurns us and our cares,
And still will run his round.
Jacob.
You cannot tell
The kind of sorrow I am doom'd to bear.
No son did ever grieve for a dead sire
As fathers do at losing a lov'd child;
Their sympathy is youthful, like their age,
And jointly form'd of love and duty mix'd.
Honour, respect, obedience sways their minds,
O'ertopp'd by filial affection:—
But ours are ungovern'd qualities,
Liberal and unctuous as the dew from heaven;
As instinct, hope, and fear, and boundless love,
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And fearful soundings in this dragon world,
To find them easy footings to their graves;
And herald thoughts, sent wingèd with desire,
To bustle for their comfort and repose—
This is the service of our dainty love:—
While they grow up in wilfulness and ease,
Not noting all the workings of our hearts;
Resting like stripling branches on our stem,
Free from the wind, and shelter'd from the storm.
I never heard of any father's son
Who griev'd himself into his father's tomb;
But well I know, and clearly do I feel,
That a dead son preys on a father's life.
It is a law balanc'd by Nature's hand,
Docile to reason, bred of circumstance.—
Youth, like a jocund wanderer, starteth forth
To take his venturous journey in the world,
And ever as he goes he culls those joys
And pleasures growing in his onward path
(Not dull'd by insipidity and use),
Keeping fast hold upon the clue of hope;—
The music in the future that he hears
Restrains his backward gaze, where all mischance
Is shook unwelcome from his memory.
But when grave Time showers from his shaking hand
The snow of age, o'ersilvering the crown,
Mingled with notions of eternity,
Then taketh he his stand upon the hill,
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Into oblivion, through the vale of tombs;
Gathers his mantle o'er his thoughtful brows,
O'er-reading all the way that he has pass'd,
And loves the world (like an old parting friend)
As feeling he must fade from his abode;
And calls the circle of his comforts round,
Counting them over with a jealous eye;
And maketh much of them, and still doth cling
The faster as he steps into his grave,
Hopeful of heaven, yet tenable of earth.
Then think what vivid sorrow I must feel,
Whose strength has fail'd me in the stress of days,
To have my child thus ravish'd from my breast,
Whom I have look'd upon so many years,
Who was my flesh, and did inherit all
The grace there is in me, crown'd with his own.
I thought to leave my image on the earth,
Fairly o'erflourish'd in my goodly boy,
And therein to re-live my date of life,
And teach his fellows that old Jacob still
Was honour'd, by reflection, in the land;—
But he is dead, and I am left to mourn,
And tire on pangèd recollection.—
Ah! do you weep, my boys?—You have good cause.
Judah.
These words of yours do touch us very near.—
Father, perchance young Joseph is not slain,
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And is miscarried in some unknown place,
And fled away alive.
Jacob.
Nay, Judah, nay!
Sorrow is all that I have left me now—
Oh! cheat me not of that!—The boy is dead.—
Conviction long hath waited at the gate,
And I was deaf, refusing entrance;
But now that he is master of the house,
Peace glideth in to keep him company.
Judah.
'Tis hard to say what is become of him.
Jacob.
That I can tell, triumphant o'er my woe:
He is a spirit, purified from taint,
Catching a glory from the court of Heaven,
And brighten'd o'er by an angelic light,
Shot from the dread magnificence within.
He tends the threshold of the mighty gate,
Amid a host of wingèd messengers:
Angels adoring catch the whisperings
Of the unearthly and mysterious hymn,
Tending to glorify the name of God,
And sweeping round His throne.—Oh! were I not
His father or his kin, I should rejoice
In his high exaltation. Yet, alas!
I am but flesh, therefore my feeling will
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Better serve God in Heaven than on earth:—
Yet I do envy Heaven of my boy,
And crave to have him here about my side,
Though he were taken from the blissful sky:—
Carry me in, for I am very weak,
And let there be no noise.
[Exit.
| Joseph And His Brethren | |