University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

—In a Prison.
Enter Joseph.
Joseph.
There ever is a good side to be found
Even in a man's bad fortune: for that I,
Who am a prisoner and in disgrace,
Do keep the keys, and am the gaoler here,
Warder to mine own liberty and ease.
Integrity surmounteth accident;
Its grief is pure, and mix'd with charity,
Feeling for others more than for itself.
In this invisible armour men may stand
Within the grasp of danger and of death,
And from the profound bottom of the heart
Cry out content.—My lord's fair lady now,
With eyes as quick to trammel as betray,
Hath set her spell upon some other brow.—
I, guiltless, suffer; she triumphs guiltily:
Therein I am happy, fortunate, and glad.
I am condemn'd unjustly by my lord;
But I, thank God, do know my innocence,
And therein am I happy and content.
I rise with Heaven, although I fall with man.
Like music at a death, there is sweet pain
Within the core of griefs, however sad;
For retrospection is a precious shade,
And God hath taught us there are better things
Than any we can wail. That man rejects,
And casts his fortune in an ignorant grave,
Who thrusts his passion past his patience.
Learn to fear God, love honesty, and thrive—
Oh, there is physic in our injuries!
A crown angelic, mix'd in mortal thorns!
Say that you love some lady in her bloom,
And she hath set her heart another way,—
Still you do love yourself that you did love,
And count your riches by your precious loss;
And though you balm her memory with your tears,
It is a blessing that you still can weep,
And be enamour'd of ripe sufferance.—
Say that some man hath got a noble heart
Tied to the wheel whereon the nation works;
(Such slips there are, and such will ever be)—
And say that wheel doth work a jealous round,
Having no circle for the general good,
But the particular behoof alone
Of power abus'd, of grandeur, and renown;
Why such a ruddy heart must bear the strain,
Living on thought instead of action:
And it is true, that they do never break,
But, spite of pain, continual and severe,
Nourish them proudly, and do hug their griefs,
With wonderful affection to the end.
What sire hath lost his son, or son his sire,
But time hath made his grief a holy joy?
That which we lose, we mourn, but must rejoice
That we have ever had. Wise Providence
Doth star and split our sorrows severally,
So that we may not fall into despair.
If that the son be vicious, it is well
That a vile course hath had a speedy end,—
If virtuous, it is a balm that flows
Athrough the sorrow of the time to come.
I grieve that I have lost my father's house;
But how I joy to weep and think of him!
I grieve to think upon my brothers' sin;
But I do love my brothers past their sin.—
Look up, you men, in poverty and grief:
Weigh your deserts, amend the rottenness,
And all the goodness nourish in the sun:
Look out upon the world, and bow to Heaven,
And take your stand as you did mean to run
A true and prosperous race.—Remorseless men
Are neither fit to live nor fit to die;—
All others are within the pale of hope,
And cheerfulness and honesty will soon
Lead them to love long life, and love themselves
For virtue's sake.—What, ho! there—up—arise!

Enter Chief Butler and Chief Baker.
Chief Butler.
Good morrow, Joseph.

Chief Baker.
Why should we up? why rise?

Joseph.
Because the sun doth through the grating peer,
And on its beams ride hopes of better days.
The eye of God so sphereth round the world,
And penetrates to palaces and cells.

Chief Baker.
And you are merry that you see the sun
Which is shut from you!—Would that my conceits
Were fantasied like yours,—then any straw
Would serve for laughter and encourage hope.

Joseph.
Come—come—you are too dull—churlishly given.

Chief Baker.
Aye—I am given to a dungeon cell,
And, wonderful to you, do not rejoice.

Joseph.
And do you mumble o'er your just deserts?
What would you have? You pass from day to day
In sloth and idleness, which you do love;—
Were you sent forth to grind the public corn,
To split with wedges stubborn-grainèd wood,
Or task'd to some laborious exercise,
You then would loath that life, and groan for this
As a sweet pleasure and desir'd retreat.—
Oh! you do bear a poison in your mind
That would not let you rest in Paradise.
Your discontent doth go a tortoise pace
And travels as it sleeps.—For shame—for shame!—
Have you done evil, swervèd from the man?
And will you sink yourself below the beast,
And howl upon your fitting punishment?
Pray you conceive a sober, thoughtful life
Is better worth than folly's restless round.
Make of your mind a world wherein to dwell;
Your independence then is proof and wise;
And sweet content may mock these rusty keys.—

Chief Baker.
I marvel much that, being a prisoner,
You keep the keys and yet respect the bolts,
The means that lock you from your liberty.

Joseph.
Because mine honesty is greater far
Than love of liberty. Though I were sure
That I should linger here till old and grey,
I would not break my trust or fly my fate.
The first is mean, and robs men of content;
The last is cowardly, and lacking power.

Chief Baker.
Lend me the keys; I'd answer thy rebuke
With opposite action.

Joseph.
No, stay here and mend.—
How is it you do look so sad to-day?

Chief Butler.
I dream'd a dream, and it doth make me sad.
Like to a thistle in the autumn wind,
Each breath that smells of winter makes me shake,
And robs me of some down. That which doth touch
My estate, doth fright it; and this subtle dream
Hath struck me like to news that's suddenly brought
To one condemn'd to die—all hope—all fear—
And yet more fear than hope; for he more fears
To die, than he did ever love to live:—
So fares it with my hopes of liberty:
I do more fear to stay within this place,
Than I shall love my liberty without.

Joseph.
Tell me thy dream. Great God doth often show
The secret path to good by such small means,
Advancing so His majesty on fate,
That men are masters of their destiny.
A thing like this might save a sinking world.
Whatever matters press against the heart,
Though e'er so little in thy judgment's eye,
Give them a sober ear. No good man's heart
Did ever yet betray him, nor prove false
To its possessor. Cunning, and craft, and guile,
Malice, and thirst of blood, and every ill,
Do emanate from passion and the head—
Passion, that walks the ward 'twixt heart and brain,
Like to a mutinous captain arm'd in wrath.
True hearts do never mix but in things good,
And are benumb'd, insensible, and cold
With any who do practise in foul vice;
Therefore obey its feelings and discuss them:
For human nature hath a curious way
In answering ends divine. Tell me thy dream—
I hope it tendeth to thy better cheer,
For I do love thee well.

Chief Butler.
Joseph, give ear!
Lo! as I stood upon the barren ground
A vine crept suddenly from out the earth,
And into three fair branches spread itself,
And, climbing up, it did enrobe itself
In leaves and tendrils of the palest green.
And gradually they chequer'd o'er in hue
Of sodden yellow, and the hanging grapes,
That were as small and green as early tares,
Did swell and pulp them to a luscious round,
Lavish in purple richness; over-bloom'd
With fragrant dust, as blue as plums in June—
And lo! within my hand there was a cup,
And I did pluck a heavy bunch of grapes,
And forthwith press'd them into Pharaoh's cup—
And gave him, and he drank.

Joseph.
Glory to God!
Lo, you—I will unravel this your dream,
And glad your ears, and renovate your heart:—
The branches of the tree are three full days.
Within that time shall Pharaoh raise thine head,
And thou again shalt fill thy former place,
And hand his cup, and have thy stewardship.
Now when thou standest at great Pharaoh's side
I prythee think on him thou leav'st behind;
Make mention of me unto Pharaoh's ear:
Do not forget our bondage, in that hour;
Seek thou to do me good, and speak me fair,
For truly I am guiltless of the crime
For which I suffer this imprisonment.
A tissue of misfortunes is my life:
Stolen from my father in the Hebrew land
And sold into this country for hard coin,
I have no friend to help me,—only God
To speak to me, or listen to my griefs;
Wherefore that man who works me any good
Doth hate my evil fortune, and I love
Him like a brother.—So remember me.

Chief Baker.
The dream is good, and wisely it is solv'd.—
I too have dream'd my dream: the while I stood,
Three baskets white were balanc'd on my head;
The third being fill'd with meats of every kind,
Even such as Pharaoh's table us'd to bear;
And presently the wild birds did descend
And eat from out thereof.

Joseph.
Thy dream too hath
A mark'd interpretation—heavy doom!
The baskets are three days: in three days' space,
At Pharaoh's high command, thou shalt be hang'd
Upon a tree, where birds shall eat thy flesh.—
Good and bad fortune thus on either side
Teach me some gladness, that I'm not the last:
Leaving me hope that I may win the first—
Between them lies content.

Scene II.

—Pharaoh's Palace.
Enter Pharaoh, Officer, Attendants, and Guards.
Pharaoh.
These dreams do trouble me past sufferance:
Something most earnestly they do portend;
My spirit is perplex'd, yet dull as lead.—
Tedious anxiety and doubt, I see,
Bear no respect to kings.

Officer.
The magi all, as knowing your desire,
Are working at the scroll, and tracing out
By mysteries and crookèd subtleties
The meaning of this visitation.—
See where they come, but by their faces seem
As if their divination was at fault,
Or find it dangerous.—

Enter Magicians.
Pharaoh.
Now then, unfold
Briefly and plain your knowledge in mine ear;
For I am anxious, nor can brook delay—
Pharaoh commands!

First Magician.
All honour to the king!—
The aid of magic and the course of art
Have run their circle: but we cannot find
Within the mystic letters of our book
An answer to thy dream.

Pharaoh.
Fie on your beards!—
Fie on your gravity and silent lives,
Your figur'd robes, and antic mummery!—
I'll never trust you more.—What is all this?
You tell me 'tis your office to divine,
And, when I put a question of some pith,
Like stammering urchins cry, ‘We do not know—
We cannot tell, it is not in the book.’—
Fie on it all! your craft is but abuse,
Or you disgrace it in your ignorance.—

Second Magician.
My lord the king doth judge his servants hardly.

Pharaoh.
Go—go—I do bespeak you very truly.—
What can I do? How shall I know this thing?—
Without the knowledge I shall never rest—
Yet where to gather it? Now, by my sword,
I'd hold that man as dearly as my crown
That could unfold me this perplexity.
I would exalt him, and would make him feel
What generosity a king can pay
To those whose wisdom teach him patience.

Chief Butler.
Pardon thy servant that he speaks unask'd.
I do remember me of heavy faults.
The chief of Pharaoh's bakers and myself
Did grievously offend our lord the king,
And in his justice he imprison'd us:
We each did dream a dream: there was a man,
A Hebrew youth, imprison'd in that ward;
To him we told our dreams, and he did straight
Divine them by interpretation,—
And as he did interpret, so the fact
Did come to pass.

Pharaoh.
Swift! swift! and fetch this man.—
The sweetest honey liveth in the weed;
And boastless wisdom often may be found
Where magic never came. Eager desire
Scorns nicety of means. The invisible winds
Do fly our heavy sails; and this proud pearl
Grew of the dullest fish of all the sea;
Great mountains may be hid within a vale;
And waking men yet stumble upon fate.
A drowning man did never scorn a straw;
And I, a king, do catch at this small thread.—
Go some, and bid them haste.—Magicians, hear!
You that are like the image by the fount
Where water poureth from the gaping mouth,—
So fluent wisdom should stream forth of yours.—
How is it, being a king, that I have aches?—
How is it, being a king, that I must die?—
Since wisdom is your craft, we'll settle first
A simple truth that I have learn'd myself:
No man was ever great in wisdom yet
(For cunning is but as a rotten bridge)
That was not greater in his honesty.

First Magician.
Kings are kings over men:
Nature, a king o'er kings.

Pharaoh.
Oh, mince it not!—
I am in mind to hear the truth to-day.
We are the golden mockeries of our age,
And time doth look on us as other specks,
Filling a common space in stately tombs;
And as a spirit hovering in the air
Through space doth muse upon our mortal acts
(Who, if the crown be off, knows not the king
From any officer), so future time
Doth look on us, or sees us not at all.
What is the greatest virtue of a king?

Second Magician.
Justice.

Third Magician.
Mercy.

First Magician.
Humility.

Pharaoh.
The last is best.—
'Tis better governing the hearts of men
Than their sick brains.

Magicians.
My lord bespeaks him wise.

Pharaoh.
No, I have not humility enough.
I had much rather to be fed on quince
Than flatterèd, for I have been betray'd.
Your garments are your traitors, sages hoar:—
How gravity doth cover ignorance!
It were a crime in any meaner man
To think thee fool, because thy seeming's wise;
And yet my dream is scarcely cold, and thou
Canst not unlace it in thy proper craft.
Nay, do not wince, dost thou expect to find
Flatterers in kings? Be wise—and love the truth
Though it should lay thee open to the laugh;
For laughter is but second unto truth.—
Say you,—humility doth take no towers;
It is the loveliest thing to give to friends,
But tames no dangers or fierce enemies.
How then am I, being a royal king,
Open to knives, besiegings, and attacks,
To wear thy cloak of sweet humility?—
When power confronts it, as it ever will,
It in its own example perisheth.

Magician.
It hath the art, my lord, to love itself
By loving every other thing that's good.
Humility, great king! hath other names:
Its own is all angelical. On earth
It takes those names that ape the angel still.
In war it is call'd mercy; and in peace
Its proper self.—In both 'tis a fix'd will,
A soul of high resolve to put away
All spots which chequer truth. 'Tis pure from passion,
O'erflows of love and sympathy for good,—
Its modesty admits no precedence,
And groweth from the boundless truth within;
Its justice weeps at its own punishments.
Its power is fortitude; its will, offence
To every evil gnawing at the world.
It is the greatest virtue in a king,
Therefore, for Egypt's good, encourage it!

Enter Joseph.
Pharaoh.
How now?—the man—we'll talk of this again,—
His presence likes me.—Hebrew, I am told
That divination and unfoldings wise,
Spite of thy youth, do wait upon thy tongue.

Joseph.
'Tis not in me: and yet let Pharaoh speak;—
A peaceful answer God will give the king.

Pharaoh.
Lo! as I dream'd, I stood upon a bank:
Out from a river that did wash my feet
There did arise seven kine, all fat of flesh,
And in the meadow straight they took to feed;
And then behold seven other kine came up,
Unlike the first, wither'd, and lean, and poor,
So wretched, that I never saw the like
In all the land of Egypt till that time.
Behold, the last did swallow up the first;
Yet no man should have known it, for they still
Were lean and empty, hollow as before.
Then I awoke.—And lo! I dream'd again!
And seven ears did rise up from the ground,
All full of corn, and ripe, and fit to glean;
And seven others rose up after them,
Husky and poor, and blighted by the wind;
And those thin ears devourèd up the first,
Yet show'd no signs of fatness. This I told
To sages and magicians; but none such
Can solve the meaning: if thou canst do so,
Great thy reward at Pharaoh's hand!

Joseph.
Oh king,
The Lord herein shows Pharaoh His intent.
Thy dreams are one.—The seven wholesome kine
Are seven years: the seven wholesome ears
Are seven years: behold the dreams are one.
And the ill-favour'd seven fleshless kine
Are seven years,—the seven blasted ears
Are still the same; and they shall surely be
Seven years of famine. Lo! thy dreams are told,
And it will even be as I have said.
And God is willing Pharaoh shall foreknow,
For seven years the fields shall yield forth grain
In such abundance as was never known;
And after that for seven years the ground,
Sterile and arid, shall not bear a blade;
And famine shall go out through all the land,
And plenty be forgot; and grievous want
Hide in the hollow cheeks of famish'd men.
And, for thy dream was doubled unto thee,
God has establish'd it shall shortly be.
Therefore the king shall cull out some wise man
And set him over Egypt at this time,
And cause his officers to follow him;—
And they shall gather up from out the land
The fifth part of its harvest from this waste
And fruitful produce that will soon ensue.
This shall they do through each of seven years,
And garner it, and hoard it in the sheds;
And when the seven years of famine come,
Then shall it be as precious as man's life;
And Egypt's king shall live, and all the land;
Nor shall they perish in the general want.
This is the truth, oh king!

Pharaoh.
Wisdom I see
Has left our graver beards, and taken covert
In the tongue of youth. Where is a man like this
In whom the spirit supreme speaks audibly?
I promis'd largely to the man who should
Interpret this my dream, and all shall see
I will redeem my word. Hebrew, 'tis strange
Thy wisdom never yet did reach our ears.

Joseph.
Like the sea beast, the huge Leviathan,
Truth often swims at bottom of the world,
While dolphins play above his grainèd back:
So men o'erfigure truth.—The word of God
Worketh its secret way, and needs no help.
Like to a jewel (hid in desert sands),
Of wondrous lustre, as creation old,
That finds its way into a nation's eye—
A matchless excellence of priceless worth—
So precious truth doth jewel the fair world,
Or, buried, sleeps unnoted but of God.

Pharaoh.
Since thou foreknowest all this secret truth
None is so fit or worthy as thyself
To govern in the land. Over my house
Thou shalt be ruler; as thou seest good.
All men shall bow, and only in the Throne
Will I be greater than thyself. This ring
I strip from mine to grace thine honour'd hand,
In token that all Egypt may behold
How dear is honesty unto the king,—
How precious wisdom!—You do not rejoice
Like one, methinks, so fortunate as you.
I see you do not guess I meditate,
If grief or care have rudely troubled you,
Or that injustice or harsh cruelty
Have meddled with your peace, yourself shall sit,
Judgment pronounce, and punishment award.

Joseph.
Ah, far from me resentment and revenge,
Returning injuries for benefits!
Provided that the king hath confidence
In his poor servant's just integrity,
Or praise or blame is but indifferent.

Pharaoh.
Close to my own apartment see him lodg'd,
In the same palace, under my own eye!

Scene III.

—Another part of Pharaoh's Palace.
Enter two Officers and Magicians, severally.
First Officer.
Oh, 'twas a sight! These sinuous arms of mine
Would never let me 'plaud an idle show;
And I have never slept a sleep so sound
As after battle with marauders fierce
In hoary wilderness or mountain cave:—
And yet I swear I sooner would peruse
A sight like this, than my own scorèd front,
Its gory honours in the plate of steel
Reflected of a newly vanquish'd foe.

Second Officer.
Ne'er did my eyes take in so brave a sight!—
Cloths of all hues, velvets, and softer silks,
Like argent skirted as the frizèd waves,—
Colours bright-glowing, harness of beaten gold,
And splendid tissue vieing with the sun,
Who, as though vex'd with envy, shot his fire
In ardent scorn, o'er-gilding all the host.

First Magician.
I pray thee, what was this?

Second Officer.
The walls did groan.
The trees did bear more men than ever fruit.
No dangerous edge, but like a swallow perch'd,
Some rough Egyptian through his straining eyes
(Much like a hungry beggar at a feast)
Suck'd in magnificence.—Plenitude fed desire:
Appetite crav'd past both. No man did know
That was his house, for still it was o'errun
By general feet; all vacancies chok'd up.
Three parts o'the city emptied the livers out
And chok'd the fourth. It were an easy thing
For twenty men-at-arms to sack the thirds,
And take the other gazing. Age, youth, brown, fair,
Were heap'd-up spoils to wonder; faces were
Like stampèd coin, huddled in heaps to pay
A tribute to the sight.—There was a buzz
Vexing the passing breeze, much like to that
Whenas a man doth put his wary ear
Close to a hive of bees; and then a shout
That made old soldiers redden as they look'd
Into each other's thoughts.—Oh, it was rare!

Second Magician.
This new-found Joseph's triumph, I suppose.

First Magician.
Such boisterous clamour, and such throngèd joy,
Is violent waste of human action.
The clouds do ever mock the bravest show.
Splendour and glory are but folly cloak'd:
Wonder is ignorance; pomp, bright deceit;
Nightfall extinguisheth the garish show,
And then the man must think. But some there are
Whose mealy brains will sleep upon the fret,
And e'en be dazzled with it for a week,
As though the head were stuff'd with barrèd wheels,
Brightly revolving in contrarious ways.—
I have no patient ear to taste such trash.

First Officer.
A sneap,—a sneap,—carry your inky brow
And cloudy eye to those who love your caves,
Your nightly lamps, your silence, and your scrolls.
This your contempt is foolish, and not wise.
Come, come, I'll go about with you for this—
Your wisdom's like a giant of report,
That may be heard and yet is never seen:
Sometimes for proof you show his heavy club,
His bulky garments, or his sandal old;
And map the hollow rock where he abides.
Just such an antic game your gravity
Plays off upon the ignorance of men.
Folly's allowance is the stock he owns:
For so much wisdom he accredits you;
The odds ere ten to one between the two
The man is fool'd. We that are men of life,
Whose blood is purple with the lusty grape,
And purgèd with the scymitars of foes,
Have sharper wits, and travel and observe.
I can perceive some glimpse of wisdom in you,
Yet not so much as you pretend to own;
Therefore your habit and your craft's a cheat.
Then what a monstrous man are you to rail
Upon this kingly festival to-day,
Because 'tis like your own deceit, and plays
On man's imagination!—I perceive
Your gravity is envious.—Go to—
'Tis not the show you hate,—it is the man,
Whose youthful wisdom and diviner sense
Have pluck'd your mantles up, and shown the hoof.
Why, man, by such a practice as this same,
You bray upon your own absurdity.
He who acknowledgeth a man that's wise,
Is counted wise in the acknowledgment:
He 'scapeth ridicule, and balms his name,
Though he do break his gall. If you will stay
And hear me prate a little on this show,
Then I may think you flatter not yourself:
If not, choke on your prejudice.

First Magician.
Not I.—
I've sometimes heard how kings have been deceiv'd:
Things that are easy said are hard to prove,
And craft can shape event to circumstance,
Though circumstance may shame it in event.
You of the sword oft make a gaudy cloak
Stand for the captain, who at issue fails.

First Officer.
Yea, many a coat is many an officer;
Like a tame leopard that doth lick his pride,
Which is his tawny and bespotted skin,—
Thus men of blood and men of supine thought
Do meet as brother fools when they pretend
To undeservèd knowledge, or to fame.
I do not tell you not to wear your cloak,
For man is faulty in convictions;
But I do tell you not to lay the blame
On others' folly till you purge your own.
And so, great type of wisdom, fare ye well.

[Exeunt Magicians.
Second Officer.
'Faith, you have given his gravity a wrench.

First Officer.
Oh! hang a fellow with a curlèd lip,
Whose modish form and blank morality
Do med'cine to his spleen and crouching pride!
These magi are a double-dealing race.

Second Officer.
Ha! What twin riders have just pass'd the gate?
Their horses' nimble heels do beat and bound
Fast as a ball that chafes towards the bourne.

First Officer.
This way they scour abreast, as they did think
Lightning was in the wind which they have left.
[Enter two Egyptians.
What, Pharaoh's page, and not at court today?

First Egyptian.
Is the scene over?

Second Egyptian.
Has the procession pass'd?

First Officer.
The sun is all the glory of today
That you are like to see. It is all done.

Second Egyptian.
I'm like to one who's dropp'd a precious rose
Which the smooth tide did give me hope to get;
I barely touch it with my fingers' ends
And then it sinks; so time hath hurried on
This goodly show, for which my great desire
Has almost crack'd my breath.

First Egyptian.
Tell us, I pray,
What fortune we have miss'd.

Second Officer.
Why, sir, this much:
Fancy you see all stuck together close
As many people as a dream would hold:
Then, sir, you have a multitude as thick
As flies on luscious honey newly spilt;
All passive, downward, active at the head—
Behold observers.—In the royal path
Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in flowers,
Sweeping the ground with incense-scented palms:
Then came the sweetest voices of the land,
And cried, ‘Bow ye the knee!’—and then aloud
Clarions and trumpets broke forth in the air:
After a multitude of men-at-arms,
Of priests, of officers, and horsèd chiefs,
Came the benignant Pharaoh, whose great pride
Was buried in his smile. I did but glimpse
His car, for 'twas of burnish'd gold. No eye
Save that of eagles could confront the blaze
That seem'd to burn the air, unless it fell
Either on sapphire or carbuncle huge
That riveted the weight. This car was drawn
By twelve jet horses, being four abreast,
And pied in their own foam. Within the car
Sat Pharaoh, whose bare head was girt around
By a crown of iron; and his sable hair,
Like strakey as a mane, fell where it would,
And somewhat hid his glossy sun-brent neck
And carcanet of precious sardonyx.
His jewell'd armlets, weighty as a sword,
Clasp'd his brown naked arms—a crimson robe,
Deep edg'd with silver, and with golden thread,
Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd,
Whose broad resplendent braid and shield-like clasps
Were boss'd with diamonds large, by rubies fir'd,
Like beauty's eye in rage, or roses white
Lit by the glowing red. Beside him lay
A bunch of poppied corn; and at his feet
A tamèd lion as his footstool crouch'd.
Cas'd o'er in burnish'd plates I, hors'd, did bear
A snow-white eagle on a silver shaft,
From whence great Pharaoh's royal banner stream'd,
An emblem of his might and dignity;
And as the minstrelsy burst clanging forth,
With shouts that broke like thunder from the host,
The royal bird with kindred pride of power
Flew up the measure of his silken cord,
And arch'd his cloud-like wings as he would mount,
And babble of this glory to the sun.
Then follow'd Joseph in a silver car,
Drawn by eight horses, white as evening clouds:
His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword;
And on his head a crown of drooping corn
Mock'd that of Ceres in high holiday.
His robes were simple, but were full of grace,
And (out of love and truth I speak him thus)
I never did behold a man less proud,
More dignified or grateful to admire.
His honours nothing teas'd him from himself;
And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man
Who did intend to honour them as much
As they could honour him.

First Egyptian.
Why, this was rare.

Second Officer.
Then came the honour'd elders of the land,
Whose sombre habits answer'd to their age,
Wove of the ancient woof which sibyls love;—
Their faces as old chronicles were mapp'd
And furrow'd with an age of mystic thought;
Their snowy hair that mingled with their beards
Flow'd o'er their shadowy forms in many a fold,
Covering their garments like a silvery cloud
At moonlight o'er some darksome sepulchre;
Following the gorgeousness that went before,
Thus they crept on as night succeeds the day:
In their right hand they bore a charmèd wand,
And in their left a dusky scroll o'erwrought
With hieroglyphics and deep mysteries:
Each one was follow'd by his sacred charge,
In silver cradles work'd with lotus flowers,
Wherein were shrin'd with reverential awe
Emblems of Egypt since her antique days
(As on her brazen pillars it is writ)
Coeval with creation's misty age,—
Those venerated old and mystic forms,
Sacred receptacles of Egypt's faith:
Then came devices work'd in various ways
That a fantastic fancy could invent,—
The crocodile and serpents of the Nile
Mail'd doubly in resplendent jewelry,
And chain'd with chains of gold.

First Egyptian.
I've travell'd much and many countries seen,
Frozen and arid, where whole nations swarm'd
E'en as they do to build our monuments,
Witness'd the crowning of most potent kings,
Their advent and their inhumation;
But this in gorgeous taste elaborate
Surpasses all;—more! more! I thirst to hear!

Second Officer.
But the chief sight, and far beyond the rest,
Was a vast platform ample as a town,
Wherein by matchless craftsmen had been set
A thousand springs:—and on as many wheels
It rollèd not, but glided undulant,
So that no shock could jar its precious freight,
Drawn by some hundred trainèd elephants
All hous'd in velvet and in cloth of gold,
And on it was bestow'd with wondrous art
Forest and rocky fastness, wood and glen,
Peopled with all that nature could bestow
Of savage beauty, beast or bird or fish.
Behold a mimic Nile appear'd to flow
From end to end, and its inhabitants
By snare or force from out the parent flood,
Monster or reptile, had been gather'd here;—
Their keepers, habited in caney sedge,
Diff'ring but little from their dang'rous charge,
With chain and club still kept a wary eye,—
While on an elevated stand a troop
Of chosen archers with a single aim
Stood ready, with a hundred arrows drawn,
To strike all danger with a sudden death.
Huge serpents wound about the sapling trees,
While others, charm'd, wander'd at liberty,
Or undulating in their graceful folds,
Follow'd a shepherd with his reedy pipe,
Proud of their tam'd and willing servitude,
Mark'd by the jewell'd collar round their necks.
Here plaintive syrens in their crystal caves,
With star-flower crowns and lotus garland tress'd
In their down-flowing and enrobing hair,—
There fabled men and women of the deep,
Deck'd in the secret treasures of the sea.
The mountains had been robb'd, the eagle's home
Rifled, and pillag'd was the vulture's hold.
The supple panther and white elephant,
The hoary lion with his ivory fangs,
The barrèd tiger with his savage eye,
The untam'd zebra, beasts from foreign lands,
Beauteous or rare, were with nice judgment rang'd.
Bowers there were, sweet shrubs and brilliant flowers,
And nymphs, and dance, and festival, and song,—
Then the ten thousand actors in this scene,
In costumes of all hues and qualities,
Each suited to the office that he held.
There was a man, if man he could be call'd,
Who had no age, being neither old nor young,
Chain'd by an iron girdle to a tree;—
A giant monster, dwarf'd, deform'd, and grim,
Whose muscles seem'd to roll upon his bones,
That never knew an honest covering;
And through his matted hair his kindling eyes
Loom'd on his destin'd mortal enemy:
The wondrous snowy brilliance of his teeth,
Perfection mocking his deformity,
Gleam'd through the swarthy freckles of his skin,
Bronz'd in a life's defiance to the sun.
On either side an Ethiopian youth,
Perfect in symmetry and supple grace,
With naked skin of satin ebony
Zon'd by a belt of emerald and gold,
Held one an antique ewer fill'd with wine;
The other a huge vermaille-fretted cup,
To serve the giant culprit's privilege,
And feed his courage for the coming fight.
Ferocious as his deed, all criminals
Were spotless in his brute comparison;—
Slave, he had slain his master while asleep,
And had devour'd his heart.
A fasting lion in a rocky den,
Disdaining other than the flesh of man,
And destin'd to devour him in his turn
In the arena when the fight was done,
Was chain'd before him, not so far apart
But that the mingling of their fetid breath
And fiery eyes returning glare for glare
Gave foretaste of defiance, blood for blood;—
Anon the famish'd monster beats the air,
And rearing o'er his prey his hideous roar,
Seems to shake Pharaoh and his mighty host.
Into his native den meanwhile the man,
Equally mad with courage and with wine,
Braves and defies, and with his sinewy arms
Throws forth to grapple with his horny hands,
Emboss'd and rigid in their iron strength,
All arm'd with nails yellow as eagle's claws
Prepar'd to plough his victim to the bone:
He laugh'd a hideous and cavern'd laugh,
As echo'd from some monster of the woods.
Grave soldiers doubted of the victory
The lion or the man.
Then in the midst of all rose high in air
A towering pagoda, on whose top
An ample platform of sweet cedar wood,
Reclin'd a monster frightful to behold,—
A dragon body with a human head.
His eyes were sapphires burning in their orbs,
And all his scales of massive jewelry
So artfully bestow'd that the sun's beams
Play'd on a thousand scintillating rays
Dazzling in their harmonious brilliancy;
His hair of diamond sparkles threaded lithe;
His teeth of pearls matchless in shape and size,
Pallid and pure, opaque, of the moon's tint
Seen through a white and soft unveiling cloud;
His face incongruous ponderous iron-wood,
Marbled with yellow veins of native growth,
Wrinkled and old, and black as ebony,
Carv'd in a torment by fanatic hands,
In form and colour ghastly hideous,—
The man, the brute, the demon mystical;—
And 'neath his gaping mouth his nether lip
Was pierc'd and drooping with a golden ring
Broad as your palm, besmear'd promiscuously
(Priceless defiance of contemnèd art)
With gems creation-born so primitive
That time, impatient at their latent growth,
Grew fretful and expos'd them to the light,—
Ransom of old from three barbaric kings,
Grand masterpiece indeed, ignoble strife
Of that once brilliant race undeified,
Of fallen angels forfeit of their wings.
Around the potent god a hundred priests
Burnt incense, and with bodies lowly curb'd
Utter'd his name with gravity and awe,
While on each stage a widen'd turret, throng'd
With magi of the temple, sumptuously
Adorn'd in all the splendour of their caste:
Following at intervals the signal given
By the high-priest, as suddenly inspir'd
These beat their gongs, and all the countless host
Turn'd to the beast adoring.—
Great Pharaoh reverently touch'd his front,
While Joseph's sadness struggled with a smile.
Such life and movement ne'er was seen before,
Sieges and single combats, eddy fights,
On mount or plain in swift succession came;
And the imperial army, foot and horse,
Wag'd mimic war, but somewhat dangerous,
Rous'd by contagious ardour of the scene;
And many a feud and private enmity
Had this day sanguinary issue found,
Were it not writ in crimson characters
On a gigantic banner snowy-white,
Wav'd ever to the trumpet's warning sound,—
‘Mark! He who sheds a drop of human blood
During this day of plenty and of peace
Shall by the royal archers of the king
Be put to sudden death. Joseph, the lord
And governor of Egypt, thus decrees
Glory and honour to his living God.’

Scene IV.

—A Meadow.
Enter Joseph attended, and Harvestmen severally.
Joseph.
Now, are the men at labour in the fields?

First Harvestman.
As thick as bees, great sir, and not one drone
Amongst them.

Joseph.
Let them lose no single grain.
Plenty sometimes proves coy, and like a maid
Who fears a waste because too easy won,
Will frown and turn upon your confidence:
Then thriftless prodigals do think on orts,
Envy your beggars, and o'er-beat the straw,
Where struggling grains are jewels.

First Harvestman.
I am come,
Commanded by your steward, to unfold
The issue of our labour. All the west
Of this great city, e'en from bound to bound,
Hath not a shed, or tent, or archèd roof,
Where lay our city stores, but it is gorg'd
Brim-full of weighty grain; nay, not a crack
Or crevice doth remain of public holds
But it is chok'd with it, and yet men flock
With empty purses and with laden cars
Craving for coin, and sick at plenteousness.
I left some hundreds thronging by the way,
Out of all spirit that your steward paus'd
To purchase more till you had given command.

Joseph.
Go, lade thy asses with two sacks of coin:
Buy all thou canst, and do not 'bate in price,
But pay the equal sum that I have fix'd
For every measure; and although these men
Will race to rid them of their future bread,
We will not therefore in our better sense
Take mean advantage of their ignorance.—
Besides, their coin must every piece come back
When their need presses.

First Harvestman.
But, my gracious lord,
What can we do with such a waste of corn
Unless we raise a mountain on the ground
And leave the dew and sun our harvestmen
To form a rind, and thus to roof itself?

Joseph.
Call all the carpenters and builders round,
And over-pay them half their proper hire;
And all the youth who have the strength to leap,
And all the old men that can touch the ground,
And let these last go out into the fields
And gather stover, rushes, reeds, and fern:
Command the first hew down the sapling oaks,
And bring them to the city, and there build
A granary to reach three thousand feet;
And let the thatchers thatch it from the rain.
Cram that, and if the land still throws her fraught,
Then raise another.

First Harvestman.
I will see it done.

Joseph.
This officer shall go along with thee.
See that the men who labour in my rule
Are amply paid, according to their work,
At shut of eve. Without a metal spur,
That which I order will be sloven'd o'er.
The eye and appetite thus over-fed,
Will turn the stomach of their gratitude,
And Heaven's bounty will be scorn'd to waste:
A miner's eye is sick of swarthy gold.

First Harvestman.
The bidding of my lord shall be perform'd.

[Exit.
Joseph.
The air is never cold, nor burning hot;
And usual extremity is sunk
In temp'rate days, and nourishing moist nights.
Birds swarm, and flowers blow, as if all things
Yielded to some magician's fantasy;
Laughter is heard wherever you can turn,
And men are fat as puttocks in a cage,
Fed choicely for the knife.—And such a turn
Would famine fain bestow on us withal—
E'en things of slothful life do feel the change;
The crocodile hath left her slimy bed
Encradled in the rushes of the Nile,
And makes a journey over marsh and flat
To hide her early eggs. Fierce snakes do quit
The rooted bottoms of the lordly woods,
And prey in meadows. Eagles have been seen
To settle in the city, and the kids
And heifers do break through the pasture bound;
A general and uncheck'd liberty,
Bred of this sudden change, doth tempt all things
To shun the habits of old circumstance.
Herein man's image too may be espied;
As when a beggar finds a miser's hoard,
To right and left he scatters it away
Till he is once more brought unto a crutch;
And men will sleep upon a dangerous ground
Nor dream of yawning earthquake underneath.
Great God doth jerk our judgments oftentimes—
Raises the fear, or punishes the fault—
But out, alas! once more the cup is full,
And sudden we are drunk. Men, in the mass,
Buy dear experience to throw away.
This lean and frightful famine now at hand
Will shake our city; some two seasons gone,
And then comes waste, and old abuse, and want.
So the great moral is thus cast away,
And wisdom in the public walk lies dead.
Men will be men, while God is merciful!