University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Canaan, Jacob's Tent.
Enter Reuben, Asher, Judah, Naphtali, and Dan.
Reuben.
What's to be done?

Asher.
Lie down and die.

Reuben.
Oft-times
The pregnant harvest at its early birth
Has so o'errun the measure of our need,
That the full bins have musted in the shed
For lack of use. Alas! our famish'd want
Would fain be friendly with our former waste,
And give God thanks.

Judah.
Alas! where will this end?
Two seasons now are past, and we have look'd
With hollow eye upon the fruitless earth;
And look'd in vain; for not a single blade
From all the thousand grains we scatter'd forth,
Comes in the emerald livery of spring
To cheer our anxious and desponding sight.

Enter Jacob and Benjamin.
Jacob.
How fare my sons?

Naphtali.
Idly, against our wills.

Jacob.
God's will be done! It is a grievous thing
For me and thee and all thy brethren here
To feel the lack of bread,—most pitiful.

Naphtali.
Come, and mark out our final resting place,
And make us coffins straight.

Jacob.
Despair is sin.

Naphtali.
It is as well to wrangle with despair,
As sigh to death with hope.—What hope have we?
The wind doth whistle through our granaries
(Enwomb'd and hollow as a dead man's skull),
Lord of the empty space; for the small beasts
Desert it as a thriftless tenement.
The paths that led to pastures and to fields
For want of use are over-laid with dust;
Old customs, too, that were our daily work
And daily bread, are bolted from our use
In the hard seasons. Spring doth blow the grain
Back in our faces ere it can be sown,
And autumn yields us ample crops of dust.
All savage things that we do kill for food
Are thrice as savage, being scant of food;
And leanness pays our danger.

Jacob.
Mark, oh Heaven!
Old Jacob's heart is wrung for all his tribe:
A heavy freight, wherein he doth forget
Himself.—Have mercy, then.

Naphtali.
What shall we do?

Judah.
Alas! I know not; patience is worn out.
The weary months, like to a stubborn brood
Of disobedient children, still do swerve
From nature's docile rule, and mar themselves.
Heaven does not weep to see so sad a spring,
And therefore is she parchèd in her youth,
And summer smoulders like a smother'd fire,
And bakes the crusted earth. Rivers dry up;
The winter is all wind; moist nourishment
Is suck'd up from the land; and barrenness,
In all its cruelty, mocks at man's need.

Enter Simeon, Levi, Zebulun, Gad, and Issachar.
Simeon.
We shall be starv'd to death,—

Naphtali.
What further ill?

Zebulun.
Lo you! we left ten cattle in the mead,
And nine have died of hunger.

Levi.
There is no mead;
But all the place that was a general swamp
Is as though struck by lightning, sing'd and burnt.

Dan.
Mountain or flat, low glen, or peering mound,
Hath cast its mantle for an umber gloom,
And summer's vestige only doth remain
In dying ivy or in holly sere.

Simeon.
Our cattle languish, bellowing for food:
And when they die, we lack the means to live.

Reuben.
Famine is like the demon of despair;
It swallows all the substance it can find,
Then preys on its own arms.

Zebulun.
Creatures of kin
We often see do feed upon their young;
Thus famine eats itself.

Gad.
I turn'd a mouse
From out its nest by chance—stor'd in the hold
With nuts, with acorns, almonds, and with rice:
‘Herein (said I) man's lofty pride's pull'd down,
Even by a creature that doth live in straws.
Had all my brothers had but half thy wit
We should be full and frugal, sleek as thou;
Not like the empty lions howling here.’

Reuben.
Yea, man's chief lesson is extremity.
He never knows what precious comfort is
Till it is lost.

Judah.
How weary are our days
That us'd to pass in healthful exercise,
In pleasurable thrift, and sweet repast!
Our nights were like a minute thrown away—
A draught of balm unto a parchèd thirst
Exchang'd for renovation and fresh joy.
Now all our minutes, fledg'd with leaden wings,
Are like to notes struck from a domèd bell
By a vast giant with an iron club.
The time we held as musing vacancy
We find was sweet content; and all in vain
We try to touch the hour with cheerfulness
Which hangs about us like a brooding cloud.

Issachar.
Yea, who shall mend it? What's the best to do?

Jacob.
A general vengeance from the hand of God,
In heavy visitation on the land,
Is spread around: it is a bitter cup!
A little mercy at the bottom still
Was ever left for man's affliction.—
Arise, my sons: I cannot mend your wants,
But I do hear there is a certain man
Of great renown, who rules the far-off land
Where Pharaoh, the Egyptian, reigns as king.
Go, get ye up, and take your mules and sacks,
With money in your palms, and crave of him
To sell you corn, that ye and yours may live,
Nor linger thus in want. Go, every man,
Excepting Benjamin, my youngest boy;
Him I will keep, lest danger by the way
Should be enamour'd of his tender youth,
And rob me of his sight.

Naphtali.
Better we may,—
Much worse we cannot be.

Jacob.
Heaven prosper you.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—A Hall.
Joseph, seated on a high seat somewhat apart: Officers, Citizens, and Attendants.
Joseph.
Time wendeth by us in eventful life
Even as the trees and houses seem to glide
As we pass by them in a rapid car:
But as the wind doth rob the seeded grass,
Lodging it on some mountain out of sight,
So in his passage Time doth steal away
The seeds of old remembrance, and but leaves
The fruitless husk of all our wealth of woe—
Of woe, indeed, for things of joy do die
Upon the action.—Joy is the grave of joy:
And all the past, that was so long a-doing,
Is swallow'd in the minute that's to come.
New hope still smiles to hear old memory,
In long perspective, tell the tale of woe,—
At best, joy touch'd with melancholy pain.
Just so do I forget my father's house,
Filling another place in this great world.
And now my grievèd heart is worn as smooth
As wounds that heal, and leave a tender scar.
Youth is soon trammell'd in new circumstance,
And man at best returneth to himself,
Or e'er his holy grief hath made him feel
Why God afflicts him. There's a precious door,
And through that door a glorious court in heaven,
Where I do hope to see my father's face,
And all our house, and shed no human tears.

Enter Steward.
Steward.
Great lord, the famine rageth in the land,
And the two barren seasons that are gone
Show us no hope, but, if they 'bate in strength,
Recoil with more effect in stubborn wrath.
The men are fain to give you any price
For food by which to live.

Joseph.
Be ye discreet
In distribution: so shall Pharaoh see
He did not choose an idle officer.
Leave nought to chance that wisdom may command.
Oh! love all goodly business for its end;
So shall thy motive ne'er be put to shift,
And thou shalt teach success to wait on thee;
For frugal plenty 'mid this general dearth
Did grow of such wise means, and kills sad want.
According to each separate household's need,
The aged, and the young, so measure forth
Enough to sustain life, and take the coin
They bring; but give no more than need requires.

[Exit Steward.
Enter Simeon, Reuben, Issachar, Dan, Judah, Zebulun, Naphtali, Levi, Gad, and Asher.
Joseph.
Strangers! What men are these?—not Egypt born—
Great God! they are my brothers—sure they're come
Driven from valèd tents in search of food.
My blood doth throng for passage to my heart,
And mounts again with an enforcèd flow,
Instinctive to look out upon itself,
Warming its kindred veins!—they are my brothers.

[Aside.
Reuben.
Great ruler, hail!

Joseph.
[Aside.
Ha! that is Reuben's voice.

Reuben.
Vouchsafe to look upon thy servants' wants.

Judah.
Peace yet awhile—he heeds you not, but is
Steep'd in internal thinking: us he sees
Like one who tries to realize a dream,
Present, yet absent: some great subject has
O'erflooded his deep mind. His thought absorbs
His sight. The ardour of its bent is in
His eye, and beams on us, even as the sun
Looks out upon a lake!—therefore have peace,
Lest you offend the man, and raise his wrath.

Joseph.
[Aside.
Have I, then, brothers? I have been so long
A shaft o'ershot into a foreign ground
That I have taken root and sprung to leaf,
And bear a foreign blossom on my boughs,
And they are strangers underneath my shade:
Yet they shall pluck of me the rarest fruit.—
The sight of them doth tug upon my heart,
And novel joy subdues my troubled frame.—
What men are these?

[Aloud.
Reuben.
From Canaan are we come
To beg my lord will sell us of his grain
That we and ours may live.

Joseph.
Nay—nay—not so.
I see that ye are not Egyptian men.
Spies are ye all, or wherefore do ye come?

Reuben.
We are no spies: thy servants come for corn.

Joseph.
[Aside.
Ah! now I do remember of my dream—
I dream'd my father and my brethren all
Did bow before me—lo! now, and behold!
All but my father wait on me in fear—
Ah! doth old Israel still draw breath? my father!
My eye doth perfectly deliver him:
Wherefore, I will not ask, for fear the sad
Recording of his death should drive that hence,—
Then of the image and the substance too
I am bereav'd.—Howbeit, God's will be done!—
I say, to pry into the land you come,
[Aloud.
As spies, to see its nakedness.—Tell me—
Have you a father?

Judah.
Ruler in Egypt, yes:
The venerable patriarch still lives:
Thy servants are twelve brethren in the land.—
The youngest with our father sojourneth
Unto this day; and we are those who came
From Canaan to your Egypt to buy corn:
And one is not.

Joseph.
I see that you are spies.
Herein you shall be prov'd:—by Pharaoh's life,
Except your youngest brother come to you,
Hence you shall not depart.—Take them away.—
[Exeunt attended.
Oh! what a treasure have I found this day,
And what a curious circle have we run!
God, through their hatred, hath made me their lord:
They sold me forth, and now they beg of me.
My heart is still the same, and I will deal
With justice to myself, though not to them.
Yea, we must dwell together, and some way
I must design to pluck them from the vale
Up the high mountain, where I keep my state,
And we will live in dearest fellowship.

Scene III.

—A Prison.
Simeon, Reuben, Issachar, Dan, Judah, Zebulun, Naphtali, Levi, Gad, and Asher.—Joseph unperceived.
Simeon.
Three days we've been in ward.

Issachar.
Were it the best
That we had died of famine in our tents,
Or that we wait upon this danger here?
I'm much at odds.

Reuben.
We are unfortunate;
Surely some mischief will befall us here!

Dan.
Alas! how cruel and unjust were we,
Even when we saw the anguish of his soul,
To sell our brother forth to dangerous hands.

Judah.
It was a hateful crime, and I do loathe
Myself whene'er I think on't; so I will
Bear all mischance that may accrue to me,
As 'twere my just desert for that foul sin.

Levi.
Where'er he is, great God! have eyes on him.

Issachar.
It was an evil thing, and I repent.

Simeon.
So, Issachar, do I.

Reuben.
I told you so—
Would you had listen'd then to my complaint.
Said I not, ‘Sin not ye against the child?’
But ye were deaf and stubborn,—would not hear,—
Wherefore behold his blood is on our heads;
For Heaven hath a memory for these things.

Issachar.
Ah! since I have had children of my own
My brother liveth much within my mind.

Judah.
Yea, what a coward it doth make a man!
For he who had the most to do in it
Would think him best if he had had the least.

Joseph.
Oh! let me find some shade wherein to weep,
For all my sorrows seem but as a day.
A little penitence doth quite absorb
An age of suffering—sweet penitence!
That as a holy flame doth burn away
The stubborn cord that ties us to ourselves.

[Exit.
Dan.
How mean a man becomes in his own eye
When anguish binds him fast to penitence!
To pity those on whom he trod before
And drove to the same anguish.

Judah.
Yea, 'tis true:
It is the way of men and hunters both.
(For human hunters differ but in this,—
One preys for the hide, the other for man's heart),
To stand and shoot their random shafts abroad:
Sometimes they hit and kill—more often wound,
And the poor maim'd doth languish in its pain:
So do men war on men with words or blows
More merciless than tigers of the cave.—
Ah! misery to seek our brother's blood!

Re-enter Joseph, with Officers, Attendants, &c.
Joseph.
Albeit, men, I do suspect you spies,
Be wise: this do, and live; for I fear God.—
One of you shall be bound and kept in ward,
And you, the rest, shall lade your beasts with corn,
And travel to your home and give them food;
And when you bring your other brother back
I will release the bound, and you shall live.
And by the bringing of the youngest son
You shall be prov'd; for I do fear you much.—
Bind me this man.

[Simeon is bound.
Simeon.
Remember, brethren, that you leave me here.
Unless you bring my brother to this land
My blood will sure be spilt.

[Exit.
Reuben.
We shall remember.

Judah.
Thy servants bow them even to the earth,
And beg my lord will deal with them as they
Shall prove to him.

[Exeunt.
Joseph.
Come hither, officer:
Brim all their sacks, and give them of the best:
Send them provisions, and supply their wants;
And each man's money put thou in the mouth
Of each man's sack; and see them safely forth;
[Exit Officer.
For it were strange that I, who scarce have found
My dearest kindred, my own proper flesh,
Should deal less proudly with them. Yet awhile,
And they will be return'd, and Jacob soon
(If God be willing), and his goodly tribe,
Enrich my anxious sight.—I long till then.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

—Jacob's Tent.
Enter Reuben, Zebulun, Dan, and Naphtali.
Reuben.
Our food is gone, and what are we to do?
We may not go to this Egyptian lord
Without our brother, for he surely then
Will deal with us as spies.

Zebulun.
And that I fear
Will scarcely be; for Jacob did deny,
In wrathful terms, our hardly-urg'd request
When first we did return into the land:
And therefore Simeon has in danger lodg'd
Until this hour.

Enter Jacob, Benjamin, Judah, and Levi.
Jacob.
I say he shall not go.—
Wherefore bereave me of my children thus?
Joseph is not, and Simeon is not,
And now ye will take Benjamin away.—
All these things are against me.

Reuben.
If I fail
To bring my brother back to you again,
Slay my two children.

Judah.
Thou sayest unto thy sons,
‘Go forth, buy corn; we famish.’—So we would;
But that the man did solemnly command
We should not see his face until we brought
Our other brother down.

Dan.
Therefore, we say,
If thou wilt let him go with us, 'tis well;
If not, we cannot go.

Jacob.
Why did you deal
So hardly with me as to tell the man
That I had yet another son at home?

Judah.
The man did chide us, saying, ‘Ye are spies,’
And often question'd us of our estate.
How could we know that he would say to us,
‘Bring me your brother.’

Jacob.
Benjamin is all
That I have left of Rachel's children now.
Joseph is lost for ever from my eyes;
And if you take this boy, and he should fall
In the way of danger as you go, you bring
My grey hairs down with sorrow to the grave.

Levi.
Brothers, it is decreed we stay and die.

Jacob.
Not so—not so.—Yet what am I to do?—
How was it that each man did find enclos'd
His money in his sack? Is it not strange
To send the money back to those who buy?—
And Simeon, too,—Simeon did go with you,
And he, you say, was made a prisoner.—
It is a dangerous thing: he shall not go!

Zebulun.
Why, then, we cannot go into the land.

Jacob.
Mischief will come if you do take the boy.

Zebulun.
And if we stay, both he and we must starve.

Jacob.
And is it nothing, to lose children thus?

Naphtali.
One of two evils surely thou must choose;
Either thyself, thy sons, and all thy tribe,
Must perish here about thy tent for want,
Or thou must send the boy down in our hand,
And we will bring back Simeon, and corn;
And Benjamin, and all thy tribe shall live;
And if we had not linger'd o'er this thing,
We had been down into the land, and back.

Judah.
Nay, let my father trust the lad with me;
I will be bond and surety that he shall
Return to thee. And if I bring him not,
For ever be the blame upon my head,
And let my father shun me.

Jacob.
Take from out
Our scanty stores the dainties of the land,—
Of balm, of myrrh, of spices, and of nuts,
Almonds, and honey: and let every one
Take double money, and therewith the same
That was return'd before into his sack;
For peradventure 'twas an oversight.
And also take your brother in your hand—
Arise, and go; and God be merciful,
So that the man may send back Simeon
And Benjamin: for if I am bereav'd
Of all my children, then I am bereav'd!

Judah.
Fear not—
The man will know by this we are no spies,
And will return us Simeon to our hands;
And, seeing we are better than he thought,
Treat us with courtesy.

Jacob.
Amen—amen!—

[Exit.
Enter Issachar.
Judah.
Ah, Issachar, there is blood upon thy brow!

Issachar.
Blood is more like to bead upon my brow
Than is a tear to tremble in my eye.
Oh! that this famine were incorporate,
That I might wrestle with him for the fall.

Levi.
Where hast thou been these three hours, Issachar?

Issachar.
Into the wilderness, o'er vale and mount,
To struggle with the panther for his heart.
Why do you blench, why do you stand at bay,
And tamely let this famine suck your blood?
Man hath a touch of the great elements,—
In fierce distress he should o'erleap himself,
And ravage like an angel that is chaf'd;
His spirit, being press'd as ours is now,
Should rage within him like a furnace clos'd:
Become rich fire to quench the wrath of fate,
Firm as the earth, like stubborn as the wind
That roars along the valley in the storm.
Yea, with repulsive power, like that which heaves
The sick Leviathan league after league,
Bruis'd, on the mountain backs of forkèd waves,—
Let us but think our former life hath been
Idle and womanish, and now begin
To play with danger as an exercise
Fitting our manhood, and our labouring breath.
Oh, power and fortitude, I will have food!
Why faint? why die? The eagles and their young,
The lion and the cub, still live as prey.
When not the bosom of the earth hath roots,
The trees bear bark to serve us for a need;
When there is nothing left us but the air
We can but die.

Dan.
There is some comfort yet.
We are to go to Egypt to buy corn,
Which the chief ruler sells.

Issachar.
Yea, anything
Rather than yield to this extremity.
Come to my tent, and browse upon the food.

Scene V.

—Joseph's House.
Reuben, Simeon, Benjamin, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Dan, Zebulun, Naphthali, Gad, and Asher.
Zebulun.
Why should this lord command us to his house?

Naphtali.
He doth intend some evil unto us:
And for the money found within our sacks
I fear 'tis his design to fall on us
And claim our cattle, and sell us for slaves.

Judah.
Yonder the steward standeth at the door.
I'll speak with him.
Enter Steward.
Oh, sir! we are in fear
Lest that my lord be wrathful unto us.
In truth, we came at first to buy us food:
And lo! it came to pass, that at the inn
We op'd our sacks, and in the mouth of each
We found our money in full weight restor'd.
Lo! you; we have it with us in our hands,
And other moneys have we brought besides
To buy us food: indeed we cannot tell
How that our money came into our sacks.

Steward.
Peace be to you; fear not,—I had your money.

Simeon.
Yet we do fear, seeing that we are brought
Into the ruler's house.

Steward.
My lord did say:
‘Go thou, release the man that is in ward,
And bring him with these others from the hall
Into my house, and slay and make a feast;
For I intend the men to dine with me.’
And therefore have I brought you.

Judah.
It is strange!

Steward.
Look you, the ruler comes.

Enter Joseph, Attendants, Officers, &c.
Joseph.
So you are come again to buy more corn.
I did repent me that I thought you false,
And when I heard your brother was come down
Releas'd the man from ward.—You are no spies.

Simeon.
Thy servants all bow down unto my lord,
Like unto pines that stoop before the wind.

Judah.
Our father, seeing that my lord was kind,
Sends this poor present, which we humbly lay
Low at thy foot.

Issachar.
The patriarch Israel,
Whose bulk doth bend beneath a weight of days—
Whose breast retreats, like to a hollow bank,
Inwrought by the long current of his years,—
Yea, even Jacob bids us bow to thee.

Joseph.
Ah! say you so? and is your father well—
The venerable man of whom you spake,—
And is he yet alive?

Judah.
My lord is pleas'd
To think upon his servants past desert:
Our father lives, and is in perfect health.

Joseph.
I have heard speak of Canaan: they say
It is a goodly place, and full of springs;
That there are tents, and pastures, green retreats,
Wherein you shepherds lead a happy life.

Simeon.
It was, my lord; but famine and long drouth
Have marr'd its virtues.

Joseph.
Has it gone so hardly?

Simeon.
Enough to starve us.—Surely, if my lord
Had not been bountiful and sold us corn,
Old Israel and his sons, and all the tribe,
Had died without their graves.

Joseph.
Yea, this was much.
Yet you all live, you say—and who is this?
Your younger brother that you told me of?
Come hither, boy,—let me peruse thy face.—
Who was thy mother?

Benjamin.
Rachel, my good lord.
My mother died before my memory
Had register'd her face within my mind,
But I have heard that she was beautiful;
And oftentimes my father talks of her
Till the large tears steal down his silver beard;
And oftentimes he mourneth for his son:—
She had another son, my brother, sir:
Somewhat of him I fairly can recall,
And of the doleful sorrow of the time
(My father shakes unto this very day),—
For it was said that he was strangely lost.

Issachar.
You do presume too far upon my lord.

Joseph.
Not much—not much—I can away with it.
Yea, God be merciful to thee, my son!
Methinks I've seen a face like thine before,
And such a voice I know I've often heard
In time of infancy; therefore, good youth,
Though our estates do differ in some odds,
Our Egypt's custom shall be entertain'd—
I kiss thy cheek—yea, upon either side:
My courtesy is choice, but liberal.

Benjamin.
Oh! it will glad my father much to hear
Of your great kindness to his lovèd son.
Since I am Rachel's child and Joseph's brother,
There was a vast ado to bring me forth:
Old Jacob's heart was almost fit to burst—
But even then he patch'd it with a prayer.
For such, sir, is my father, even Jacob.

Joseph.
Deeply enshrin'd within my memory,
'Midst thoughts of early years, as God doth know,
Lives the remembrance of a man like this:
Therefore I'll love thee for thy father's sake.
The staff of such a man is honourable—
That is, if he be old and grasps a staff.

Benjamin.
My father, sir, is old.

Joseph.
Very infirm?

Benjamin.
Time verily hath eat into his frame,
But he is such a ruin as is cheer'd
By plants and blossoms creeping over it—
And such are his good spirits.

Joseph.
A shrewd youth!
I'd venture much thou hast thy mother's eyes.

Benjamin.
I have been told so, sir.

Joseph.
A blessing on them.—
Go in,—attend and show them to the hall.
Go, you, and sweeten water for their feet,
[Exeunt.
For I intend they shall eat bread with me.
Take of the richest scents of all my house,
And bring the customary bunch of herbs,
Of myrrh, of thyme, of rue, and lavender,
And sprinkle all their garments and their heads,
And give each one to wear it in his breast;
And in all things observe respect to them.
[Exit Attendant.
Go you unto the hall and dress the board.
And he that is the youngest let him have
Five times of all the best beyond the rest.
Let them be set before me, face to face;
And bring me of the choicest wine I have,
And richest fare.
[Exit Steward.
Oh! surely this will prove
Too great a trial! I am almost chok'd
With keeping back my tears.—Oh! great Nature,
I never did expect thou wouldst inflict
So deep a joy as this!—my heart will send
Its perfect feeling welling to my eyes—
The secret is too big for one frail breast!

[Exit.

Scene VI.

—A Room in Joseph's House.
Enter an Officer and Steward severally.
Officer.
Thou art to furnish each man's sack with corn,
And in the mouth of that which is the boy's
Put thou this cup wherefrom my lord doth drink.
Mind that thou know it not: see to it straight,
For they have left the hall and take their leave.

Steward.
Fear not,—it shall be done, and secretly.

Officer.
This being done, and all the men gone forth,
Take thou some servants and go after them,
And speak unto them even in these words:
‘Ye Canaanites, turn back unto my lord,
For he is wroth that you do thus return
Evil for good: which man hath got the cup?
Yea, even the cup that was upon the board,
In which my lord divineth and doth drink?
This cup is taken, and it is with you.’
Then shall the men profess to thee the truth,
And strangely look into eachother's face;
And each one, feeling his own honesty,
And for the general safety, will exclaim
‘Yea, he that hath it let him even die.’
Then shall they all unlade and thou shalt search,
(Beginning at the eldest) in their sacks.
So in the end it will fall out, the cup
Shall be in the sack of him, the youngest born.
My lord doth say they will not yield him up,
But all of them come back again to him.

Steward.
Yea, this is very strange.

Officer.
No man doth know
The ruler's act until he find the end.
I never heard that he e'er did man wrong;
Therefore his subtlety is wise, not craft.
Have thou a care of this, for such a man
Fails in the practice when his trust is false.

Steward.
I am his steward and shall be diligent,
And love to do the thing that you command.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.

—A Hall in Joseph's House.
Joseph, Officer, &c.—Enter Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zebulun, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher, and Benjamin.
Joseph.
Ah! wherefore has thou done this evil thing?
Wottest thou not that such a man as I
Can easily divine? Was it so well,
After my bounty and my goodness shown,
To fail as you have done?

Judah.
What shall we say?—
What can we speak, my lord? Behold, we kneel.
We are the bondmen of my lord, both we,
And he, the boy, with whom the cup was found.

Joseph.
Nay, God forbid that I should be so hard:
Only the man with whom the cup was found
Shall be my bondman; all the rest arise,
And go in peace unto your father's house.

Judah.
My lord is even bountiful in this;
Yet let your servant speak unto your ear,
Nor raise your anger, for you are indeed
Even as great as Pharaoh in the land.—
My lord did ask of us about our home,
Whether we had a father yet alive,
And of his children; when your servants said,
‘Our sire is very old, and hath a son,
The only flower and comfort of his age;
A little one, whose brother is long dead,
And he alone is left of Rachel's sons;—
Wherefore his father loveth him as life.’

Simeon.
We all do love our father, sir, so much,
That we dare not return without the boy,
Lest we should lose him by a broken heart.

Judah.
Then said my lord, ‘Bring down the boy to me
That I may set my eyes on him;’ whereat
Your servants, stooping low unto you, said,
‘The man is old, and he doth love the child,
And if we take him from him he will die;’
And lo! my lord was wroth, and did command
That we should bring the lad, or never dare
Set eyes upon his countenance again.
All this we told our father, and the corn
Was all consum'd before his patience came:
At length, sore press'd by famine and sharp want,
He did commit his life (which is his boy)
Unto our hands, and we did promise him
Never to ask a blessing at his hands
Until our brother should come back again.
And it shall come to pass, when he shall see
The lad is not with us, that he will die;
And we shall bring down our own father's hairs,
Grey as they are, with sorrow to the grave.
Therefore I pray my lord to let me stay,
A bondman to my lord, and let the lad
Go with his brethren forth instead of me;
And so our father shall not die, but live.

Reuben.
My lord will pardon me if I shall ask,
Hath he a father? then with our eyes behold
The awful pain it is to have a hand
In breaching of the comfort of his age;
Or so to pave the way of circumstance,
That his own sons shall be the instruments
To lay him in his grave before his time.

Judah.
Therefore be merciful to us, my lord,
And counsel us what is the best to do.
We fear to use our father cruelly.

Joseph.
Cause every one to leave me with these men.
[Exeunt Attendants.
Did you not say you had a brother lost,
Or dead?

Judah.
Nay, he was lost, my lord. Perchance
He fell in danger, and is dead.

Joseph.
I am
Your brother—lo! behold!—'tis I am he,—
Joseph, your brother!—And doth Israel live—
Our father, Jacob, the good, wise old man?
I cannot speak, for tears do wash my cheek,
And I have scarcely breath to welcome you.—
You cannot speak, for you are wrapp'd around
In strange confusion of fear, shame, and grief.
You do not know how I do joy once more
To look upon my brothers.—Nay, come near—
Come round about me—surely, I am he
That you did sell unto the Ishmaelite;
But I am he that will not think of that.
God hath a sure and simple way, my friends,
In causing mortals to enact His will—
Yea, good doth come of evil; I was sent
Out of my father's bosom to this land,
To cherish life; and lo! what hath betid!
Greatness and glory God hath given me:
Therefore grieve not, nor fret upon your act,
For I declare 'twas God who sent me forth.
Reuben and Judah, I am dash'd with joy—
Come, let me lean upon your shoulders.—Come—
Nay, do not weep—now in with me and talk.
I have much comfort for my brothers' ears,
And much to listen to.—Govern your hearts;
I may not pluck of them, they are too ripe.—
Simeon, or Issachar, bring Benjamin
Along, and follow all about me close.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.

—Jacob's Tent.
Enter Jacob, Reuben, Issachar, Zebulun, Judah, and Benjamin.
Jacob.
My mind doth fear to trust to your report,
Like one who newly finds a precious mine,
Which, in the sounding, proveth all a blank;
And then the man dies, not for what is lost,
But what imagination did possess.
It were a dangerous thing for me, my sons,
To trust to such a blessèd dream as this,
And wake a common man.

Reuben.
Believe it true.
‘Haste you,’ saith he, ‘go up and tell my sire
How God hath made me dear to Pharaoh's heart,
Lord of his house, and ruler in the land.’

Issachar.
And it is even so; for men do flock
For orders and commands in all affairs,
And those, the highest that attend the king,
Do bow before his face.

Judah.
‘Away,’ saith he,
‘And tell my father to come down to me’—
And here his voice did tremble in his throat,
And the large tears, which beam'd within the spheres
Of Rachel's eyes, colour'd and sweet like hers,
Were held by hope, and urgèd by desire,
Till, 'twixt the names of brethren and of father,
They shot their beds and fell upon my hand.

Reuben.
‘Here shall ye live,’ saith he, ‘both ye and yours,
Your cattle and your herds; for there are yet
To be five years of famine in the land,
Nor earing neither harvest shall be known.—
Go, tell my father of my glory here
In the Egyptian land, and what you see;
And tarry not, but bring him hither straight,
That I may see my sire.’

Benjamin.
And then he wept
In such an agony upon my neck,
Almost to swooning; kiss'd me on each cheek,
And these my brethren all, and sobb'd so loud
My heart ach'd at this music of sweet peace.

Zebulun.
All Pharaoh's house marvell'd at his distress;
And when the king was told we were his kin,
He did command that we should lade our beasts,
And come to Canaan, and bring thee forth,
And ours, and all our household; and he said,
‘Regard not of your stuff; for all the best
Of Egypt, yea, the fat of all the land
Is yours.’

Judah.
And unto each of us he gave
Changes of raiment; and to Benjamin,
Three hundred pieces and five changes more.

Issachar.
And even now there come upon the way
Ten asses, laden choicely for thy need.
And yonder thou canst see the waggons sent
To carry us and ours into the land.

Jacob.
Oh, God! I find that Thou art ever just.
Let no man grieve again, but be resign'd;
That which we see as ill,—God proveth good.

Enter Simeon, Dan, Naphthai, Levi, Gad, and Asher.
Simeon.
Lo! here are all the waggons and the food.

Jacob.
All that is nought! Joseph, my son, doth live!
I will go down and see him ere I die.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.

—A Field at Beersheba.
Jacob asleep, amidst great splendour. A Voice speaketh from above. The wind dies away.
Hear, Jacob!—I am He!—Thy father's God!
To go down into Egypt, fear thou not;
For I will there make of thee a great nation.
Lo! into Egypt will I go with thee;
And I will surely bring thee up again:
Joseph shall put his hand upon thine eyes.

Jacob riseth, and boweth down.
Jacob.
Yea, I am confident and much rejoic'd.
I am not worthy of Thy grace, O God!
Who would not be a servant of the Lord's,
Who loveth men when they are grey and old?
And cheereth the sad heart, and pours His voice
Into our human ears? Spirit of God,
Who seest the evil things of Jacob's days
And art not wroth therewith, behold he bows,
Feeling the weight of so much goodness fall
All suddenly upon his agèd head.
God's love's a tree of grace that never dies;
All men may pluck thereof, whose sight is clear
To look to heaven, His bright pavilion:—
It nourisheth the soul, and the red heart.—
Since God hath said it, surely I shall see
My goodly Joseph favour'd in His sight;
And from the tribe of Jacob shall arise
A famous nation, favour'd of the Lord.

Enter Benjamin.
Benjamin.
What, ho! father, arise—the morning breaks,
And all our tribe are eager to depart.

Jacob.
How fares my boy? is it the morning yet?
For darkness was but now upon the earth.

Benjamin.
The moon retir'd in black embattled clouds,
And 'twixt her passing and the morning's light
There was a sable pause. The birds are up,
And in the woodland, skirting 'round our tents,
With rich and mellow notes sing forth the morn,
As handmaids do, that bring the maid abroad
Early, before the splendour of the day
Shall see her wedded to some graceful youth.—
How did my father sleep?

Jacob.
Well—very well.—
The air is free and cool, and it bids fair
To be a cheerful day.

Benjamin.
The sun did sink
Amidst a gentle breeze, behind yon line
Of umber mountains, crowning their rude heads
With showers of light, of a mild roseate hue;
Not angry-hot, chequer'd with partial gloom,
As when in wrathful muteness he retires,
Foreboding suddenly of wind and storm.—
See, in transparent vapour veil'd he rises,
Shifting the huge grey clouds from out his path,—
Just as a giant, 'merging from a cave,
Rolleth the rocky barriers from his hold.
He burneth his own incense, for that mist
Is gather'd from the eastern mountain's brow,
Where it hath laid in drops of early dew,
Nurs'd in the fragrant laps of swathèd flowers:
Of such sweet moisture doth he make his bath.
What a fine Spirit is our father's God,
Who moulded all this subtle beauty forth!

Jacob.
Ah! ponder well on that, my Benjamin:
Thou'lt find the doer greater than the deed.

Benjamin.
Now he doth look like me, both young and strong:
But ere he sinks he will be like to thee,
Fading, my father, as we all must do.
Behold him rise again more fresh and bright,—
Not like a golden garment, that doth fret
From its frail brightness, being worn too oft—
Therein he is so high above our heads.
It is long since a morning like to this
Has cheer'd our drooping hopes; nor can it last;
For Joseph says, five years of famine yet
Will linger o'er the land.

Jacob.
Yea, God is good.

Benjamin.
Yet why should God put us to want and pain,
Seeing we can but moan, nor help ourselves?

Jacob.
A little evil doth instruct much good.
The mind of man is stubborn to control,
And must be scourg'd into obedience.
The Spirit of God would fain be friends with man,
But man presumeth on God's temperance,
And drives His angel from his threshold forth
That he may sink to grossness and to vice;
Therefore, lest man should fail into the beast
And quite destroy himself from off the earth,
God in His power and mercy doth compel,
Through sore affliction, that men's evil thoughts
Should be cast forth, seeing the pain they bring;
And that they should incline their ear to good.
Whereat the love of God descends on them
As it would woo them to respect themselves.
All this is mercy; for hard sufferance
Alone can curb and sway our wilfulness.
A moral given is worth ten thousand lives!—
Oh! think not, boy, that pestilence or plague
Is idle execution at God's hand;
He is Almighty Power, though great yet good.
It is a principle of power to feel
A portion of affliction, and our God
Can grieve. There's not a man His wrath doth bend,
But, ere He breaks him, He doth weigh his heart,
Hoping to find him worthy of that bliss
That honesty inherits.

Benjamin.
How say you, then?
I have not yet had years to do offence;
But save for him, my brother, I had starv'd.

Jacob.
Thy question is offence enough alone;
For it lacks faith, which is a boundless space.
Each man that doth wear flesh upon his bones,
Offendeth Heaven both by night and day.

Benjamin.
Why, then there is no hope to be belov'd.

Jacob.
Go to—go to—God's mercy is so great
That He accepts the will beyond the deed,
When that the will doth struggle to do well:—
How dost thou know that thou shouldst have been starv'd?

Benjamin.
Father, five years of famine are to come:
No means to gain our food remain'd for us.

Jacob.
Could not the Power that made thy brother lord
And ruler over Egypt also make
The earth to gape and render food to us,
In spite of famine and the shade of death?—
Come hither, boy, and let me kiss thy cheek,—
How couldst thou say God would abandon thee?
He is the Father both of old and young,
And loveth us as I love thee, my boy.
Therefore do have a care thou ne'er again
Cast doubts upon His mercy and His power,
Lest that He should forget thee. I am prone
To think—nay, I am well convinc'd of it,
(Therefore look to it, and be virtuous)—
That God is scrutinous to shield or grieve,
According to men's goodness, or their vice.
The evils and the passions we allow
To get the better of the heart and blood,
Do plague us to the allowance of our fault;
Whilst, like thy brother, those we practise on,
According to their meekness and content,
Do wear a happy crown compar'd to them.—
Nay, do not weep—I did not mean it thus.
See that in future thou dost honour God.
Yea, Lord, these tears I dedicate to Thee.—
Come, sit upon my knee,—I will unfold
The nature of God's goodness unto me.
My father, Isaac, bless'd me in his age,
And sent me forth from Esau, by the way
That leads to Padan-Aram: for he said,
‘Thou shalt not take a Canaanite to wife.’
And lo! I journey'd onward to the well
Of fruitful Haran, where I met withal
Thy mother Rachel, whom I did espouse,—
Yea, her whom God has taken to His rest:
But, ere I came, I gather'd me some stones
And laid me down to rest upon the plain,
For it was dark; and when I was asleep
A vision came upon me from the clouds:
There was a silence almost to be felt,
And lo! a mist was clearing from the land;
And all the air, and all the herbage round,
Was of sere umber colour, like to that
Which in the deepest shade of autumn dwells,
And mingled with the colour of my dream.
And lo! there was a ladder on the earth,
The top of which did reach unto the heavens,
In faint obscurity; and angels bright,
Like stars in ether veil'd, descended it,
And did ascend, glancing the heavy shade
With saffron-fire, such as the morning sheds.
And all the place did brighten at the top,
For God did stand there in His majesty;
And I, who slumber'd at the gloomy foot,
Did feel God's voice descend unto my ear.
Said He, ‘Behold I am the Lord, the God
Of Abraham, thy father, and the God
Of Isaac. And the land whereon thou liest,
On thee will I bestow it and thy seed.
Countless thy seed shall be as is the dust,
And thou shall spread abroad into the west,
The east, the north, yea even to the south:
In thee and all thy seed for evermore
My blessing on the families shall fall.
I am with thee, and I will keep thee safe
In all those places whither thou shalt go,
And bring thee back into this land again.
I will not leave thee until I have done
All that which I have spoken unto thee.’
Then the same deadly silence did ensue,
And all this shade and brightness was engloom'd
And veil'd in utter darkness from my sight.
And as I woke my joints did shake with dread;
For sure, said I, the Lord was in this place,
And I did know it not. This is God's house,—
The gate of heaven is here. And in the morn
I took my pillows up, of gather'd stones,
And rais'd a pillar, and pour'd oil thereon,
And made an oath, vowing that if the Lord
Would be with me, and keep me in the way,
And give me bread, and raiment to put on,
So I might come unto my father's house
In peace once more, that God should ever be
My Lord and God.—Now mark herein, my son,
How far He doth o'erpay His servant's worth.
He did exalt me unto wealth and ease,
Gave me a numerous and goodly tribe,
And ever hath been bountiful to me.
Thy brother he hath raisèd from a slave
To be a lord and prophet, and to save
Our lives, amongst a million, from this wreck
Which He has seen it wise to bring about.
He promis'd us we should increase and thrive,
And be a mighty nation: and behold,
Even now He doth prepare us for His will,
And brings us up to Egypt. Therefore, boy,
See that thou love His ways, and worship Him;
That also thou and thine, when I am dead,
May be belov'd and nourish'd in the land.

Benjamin.
I shall lay up within my memory
The counsels of my father, and fear God.

Jacob.
Why, that is well; and thou shalt reap the fruit.
The tribe of Israel shall multiply;
Their breath be sweet with honey, and their teeth
Whiten'd with milk, and their lips red with wine;
The vines they pluck of by the wells shall grow,
And spread their trails luxuriously for them;
And plenty they shall have as they fear God.

[Exeunt.

Scene X.

—A Vale in Goshen.
Enter Judah and Joseph's Steward, meeting.
Steward.
All hail to Joseph's brother!

Judah.
His steward, I think?

Steward.
Your countenance lives in my memory.—
An unfamiliar face is sometimes tied
About the neck of our remembrances
By something that affects our sympathies,—
Subtle in act, and entering the heart
By some peculiar passage that it holds.—
The sweetest evening, and the fairest star,
That ever I remember to have seen,
Pass'd in my early youth, with one that's dead,
In thought, and vow, and fine reflection,
Of what in future was to be our lot,—
It lives within my mind, a fadeless dream,
Wherein I see once more the deep blue sky,
And taste the fragrance of the jasmine bower,
And feel the mellow beauty of the scene,
And overcount each precious thought and act
That the vast tomb hath swallow'd.—Even so,
Your face is graven on my memory
Because I saw your brother and yourself
Weep in eachother's arms; a thousand since
Have pass'd me and re-pass'd me, yet no one
Do I remember.

Judah.
Dust and travel, join'd
To the long sitting of our jaded mules,
Make any change a luxury: sit down
Beside me on this verdant shady bank,
And straight unfold into my eager ear
The bearing of the ruler and his health.

Steward.
If that impatience be a malady
(Seeing that Time, like a vile subtle leech
Who plays the tyrant as his power decays,
Still with his medicine doth increase desire
As the relief draws near),—then is he ill.

Judah.
You do bespeak him with a loving tongue.

Steward.
Each man who serveth him excels his trust,
And strives for love and honour more than thrift:
All his high servants their own masters are,
For he requires each one should proudly keep
His independence, in his office done,
As for the people's good, and general weal,
Not as for him. Bondmen he has not one,
Nor slaves, but what are kept for humble tasks,
As hewing wood, and drawing at the well,
Which would disgrace the worst of all the rest.

Judah.
He is a proper lord, and we shall soon
See him in Egypt.

Steward.
Not so late as that,
For he is come to pitch his scarlet tent
In Goshen's vale; because, saith he (his tongue
Being rich with honey'd joy), in mellow tone,
‘The bearded Israel, Patriarch of his tribe,
The son of Isaac, sire of Benjamin,
The rever'd father of my favour'd self,
Comes with his people, and his remnant years,
To fill the sight and touch of me his son;
And 'midst the comforts of the Egyptian land
(Far from the famine-eaten Canaan)
Thank God, and live.’ Therewith he stoop'd and leap'd
Into his iron car; the charioteer,
Noting his haste, halloo'd the fretful steeds;
And he and all his host are coming down
Into this hollow vale. I had command
To outride the slow procession o'er the hills,
And greet the agèd Jacob in these words:
‘Young Joseph, thy dear son, is coming on
To fill his father's arms. Praise be to God!’

Judah.
I, as the herald of our father's tribe,
Was sent before to greet my brother's love,
And tell him of his joy and anxious eye
To see his new-found son.

Steward.
We to our charges!—
I hear the cymbal singing in the wind,
And they approach amain.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene XI.

—The Vale.
Enter Jacob and his Tribe, Joseph, Brethren, Officers, Attendants, &c.
Jacob.
Stand farther back—again, let me behold thee.—
Ah!—hast thou pass'd so many dismal years
Expos'd to Fate's compulsive action,
Naked to chance, unfriended, and forlorn,
And I was glad and happy!

Joseph.
This is not well.—
I live, and am not dead; and God, you see,
Has honour'd me beyond my patience.

Jacob.
True—true.—But I am sick with love: behold,
As a pomegranate, shaken by the wind,
Strewing its mellow fruit with autumn's hand;
So has my ripen'd joy been shower'd down;
And I am weak in body and in mind;
My joy did make me tremble, and I fear'd
It would uproot my manhood, spurs and all.

Joseph.
Lean upon me.

Jacob.
Yea, I am better now;
But your old hearts are ever ripe to death.
I have not wept my fill.

Joseph.
Take courage, pray,
My father: lo! thy beard is soak'd with tears.

Jacob.
Never more precious dew from heaven fell
Than those rare drops that mingle in my beard.—
Silence did strive to suffocate my heart,
But sobs still vented life. Such an embrace,
Great God, must touch Thy love!

Joseph.
No more—be patient!

Jacob.
Ah! Rachel's child! yet in thy manly face
I do behold thy lambency in youth;
And the proud coat of many colours, made
By these old doting hands, I still can see
O'erwav'd by thy young curls.

Joseph.
Behold me chang'd.
Now I am lord of chariots, and of horse,
Of men-at-arms, and second to the king;
Full of command and power.

Jacob.
Yea, it is much.—
Didst thou reward, in thy prosperity,
Those who were kind to thee when thou wert low?
Didst overpay their love? I hope thou didst,
For they did do my office—my good child!—

Joseph.
Alas! alas! virtue that hath no power
To bring its own pretensions into light,
Feeds upon orts, and dies without a grave:
For all the world neglects it in its life,
And it ascends to God, embalm'd with tears.

Jacob.
Come, let us change the talk—we must all bear;
I bore the loss of thee: yea, let it pass.—
There are now fled upon a nimble wing
A many years since I did hold thee thus:
Yet I do know thee well.—Joseph, art sure
This mighty king will not be wroth with thee,
That I have brought my tribe into the land?
And yet, why ask?—thou'rt wise—belov'd of all.
Come, let us go; and I will ride beside
Thee in thy car.—Speak!—Let me hear thy voice.

Joseph.
So thou shalt, father.

Jacob.
Joseph, art thou ill?
Thou lookest very pale.

Joseph.
Behold me smile.

Jacob.
Come,—that is well.—Benjamin, take my staff;
I'll lean upon thy brother:—'tis a bright day.
I said I would come down into the land,
See thee, and die.—I would fain live a little!—

[Exeunt.