University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Prologue.

Scene I.

—Outside of Jacob's Tent.
Enter Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zebulun, Dan, Naphtali; and Joseph meeting them.
Issachar.
The weed is at the threshold of our tent
To sting us as we enter. My eye is gall'd,
Seeing how merely all our frowns are lost
And overlaid in his smooth courtesy.

Reuben.
My brother, you say right. Like to the wind
That gently sleeks the rugged lion's mane,
Sings in his ears, and daunts his savage eye,
So he your anger woos with kindly breath,
Laughs out of mirth, and, looking in your face,
E'en wonders at your wrath.

Simeon.
This Reuben says:
Fruits of his milky disposition.
He counts as nothing all our father's love,
Regard, or praise, or ancient tenderness;
The honour of attending on a flock
Increasing daily 'neath the watchful eye
Of a wise shepherd; husbanding the grain
Craftily sown, with sweating labour gather'd,
And garner'd up with skill: all this is nought:
Knowledge of seasons, lusty pastures green
That fill the cow with milk and fat the lamb,—
The honour and regard which this should buy
Is cast about our brother like a mist;
Yet no more muffled than the goodly Sun
When he begilds the clouds. This new-found star,
This boy has all the praise, the labour we;
Till like a drone he slumbers in our sweets.

Reuben.
I've heard your speech, and freely pardon it.

Simeon.
'Tis just to hate, when love is canker'd thus,
And less than nothing swallows up the whole.
And let me tell you, Reuben, if you fall
Within the limit of my boisterous speech,
So that my censure graze your patience—

Reuben.
Come, peace. I pr'ythee, peace.

Simeon.
Nay, I will speak.

Reuben.
Hold, Simeon! thou'lt get no fear of me.
I am no child to rid thee of thy spleen,
Nor will I back one step for thee or thine.
Silence!—I do command thee. What art thou
Thou younger brother, second unto me,
That thus presumest on my temperance?—
Because my heart is milky, as thou say'st,
And I am nimble, full of exercise,
Not cold and sullen; laugh when the sun shines bright,
Sing, and rejoice, light as the summer air—
Out of thy gloom and stately pondering
Art thou at once to carve away the love
I bear thyself, my brother, and my sire;
To task my courage and to tempt it too?—
Oh, trust me, Simeon, I have a gall
(Though commonly 'tis overlaid with love),
And such a one, that had the father's son
Of any sire from hence through Canaan
But cast such sore and undeserving words
On my forbearance, had he thrice thy breadth,
And thrice thy skill, I would have grappled him
And ta'en his heart; but, Simeon, for thee,—
There is a past all precious to my breast.
Can I forget our childhood and our youth,
Our scorching labours in the furrow'd field,
The generous drops of emulation
That cours'd along our swart fraternal brows,
Reaping and sowing with a jealous zeal,
The merry winters under the same tent?
Count o'er the days we've fed at the same board,
The nights we have repos'd on the same skins,—
Thou wilt not wonder then to find my heart
O'erflowing thus in fellowship and love.
Can I forget the many days gone by,
The weeks, and months, and comfortable years,
And raise my hands in any other way
Than thus outspread to clasp thee to my neck?—
Lo! see young Joseph weeps.—

Issachar.
So do not I.

Reuben.
The worse for Issachar.

Joseph.
Alas, my brethren!
Come not to words for such a thing as I.
I am but worth your loves and not your wrath,
Which never shows but it augments my grief.
What have I done, or wherein thought amiss?
If to our parent I am dutiful,
It is because his happiness is mine:
I do no more than every youthful son
Should practise on the age of such a sire.
No end have I in this, indeed; no wish
To put your image further from his breast,
Blemish your names (a thing I never thought),
Or place my childhood 'fore your graver years.
Perhaps you think your birthright tempts me on;
That I would work upon our father, so
That all your well-earn'd interest should to seed
While mine would bloom and grow?—Why, this is weak:
For still the power is yours to take it back
(And justice too), for cozening the age
Of our good sire. Yet this must be the cause:
For nought else I have done, I'm well assur'd,
But tend my father as my duty bids.—
Forget your frowns; and throw my innocence
Food to your hate, and grieve the while 'tis raven'd.

Issachar.
I have a mind to strike him.

Judah.
Patience awhile:
Offer no spleen before our father's tent;
Each one pass by him mute, and each unload
The burthen of contempt full in his eye.

Reuben.
Love, like the dew upon the myrtle tree,
Is thus bedashèd with a raven wing,
And swath'd in its own fragrance.

Issachar.
Witherèd be his heart. I'll lead the way.

Reuben.
Oh! you do keep your pity in a cage
And whip it to a starv'd obedience.—
Our father comes. Forbear.

Enter Jacob.
Jacob.
What's this?—Cannot I kneel
And breathe my evening prayer for your preserving,
But you will fright the Angel from my thought
With waspish clamour from your evil throats?—
Come hither, Joseph.—Up, my boy; ne'er weep.
Cast down the grapes, the fruits and figs you bear,
That were to sup their graceless, hungry lips;
Down with them in the mire close to their feet;
And since they throw away the love of men
As 'twere but the contemnèd rind of life,
Like their own oxen let them stoop and feed,
Befitting their wild passions; for I swear,
Nought shall they eat or drink from off my board
Until the dawn: nor then unless their love
Be-curd and thicken, and their anger melt
Like icicles away.

Judah.
We grieve, indeed,
That you, so partial, stint us of your love.

Jacob.
A lie!—a lie!—You envy this young slip.
Wilt thou teach me, thou climbing, scanty elm,
With joints unsettled, and with eye amaz'd,
Full of fantastic ignorance and youth;
Me, who have kept my brow upon men's deeds
More than six times thine observation
(Being so much more thine age, six times as wise,
Stricken in body, but mature in mind)—
Will you tell me your love degrades you thus?
Do I not know when favours are bestow'd
On young deservers, ye who lag behind
Make wings of envy, forkèd round with spleen;
And, like the foul and ugly bats of night,
Fan him to sleep, and from an artery
Directly channell'd from the heart, you suck
More valiant blood?—I have a fear of you;
For envy might lead men to cast poor stones
At heaven while it thunders; death waits on it;
On hatred still it feeds and hideous dreams,
And, like a serpent, tracks its victim's heels.
In meanness it begins; proceeds to blood;
And dies of sallow horror by itself.
If it could take the glory that it kills,
It were more nobly bad; but bad indeed,
While it but sweeps it from before its eye,
And like a spider (but more like a flower)
Blends it to earth beneath a fretful foot.

Joseph.
Oh, sir! long time my brothers must have seen
That I may often grieve, but cannot hate.
But since more patience doth beget more spleen,
More tameness harsher words, more grief desire,
I shall take up the manhood they let fall,
Retreat to what defence of mind I have,
And, fortified with conscious honesty,
Tremble no more like to a troubled spring
That every hail-drop shakes with timid fear;
But front them and confront them as I may:
Like to a brother answering their rebukes
With all the sense and wisdom that I have;
Not like my father's bondmen in the stall.—
Why should I not? They act as if the world,
And all the nations wide, and cities wall'd,
Were no such things: as if this spot of ours,
Our fields, our cattle, were the all in being.—
Would they be envious, let them then be great,
Envy old cities, ancient neighbourhoods,
Great men of trust, and iron-crownèd kings;
For household envy is a household rat;
Envy of state a devil of some fear.
For me—this Bethel limits not my sight;
For in imagination I can see
Countries beyond, nurs'd by the wit of man,
Wiser in harvest, greater in defence,
With state and pomp and majesty serene:
E'en in my sleep my mind doth eat strange food,
Enough to strengthen me against this hate.
With you, my brethren, I was binding sheaves,
When mine arose and stood in front of yours,
And yours bent grievous low unto the ground:
Nay, more, (yet think me not irreverent),
The sun, and moon, and the eleven stars
Sank, and obey'd me; which is sure a sign
That I am greater than my sire and ye,
However passive in humility;
Be it in love, or act, I leave to time.
Or Heaven of purpose put this in my view,
Or else my mind being troubled of the grief
Of your displeasures, vain of some great power,
Might fancy this in sleep. I do not know;
But feel resolv'd no more to plague my heart,
While you, my brothers, treat me with such scorn.

Jacob.
Joseph, the eye of Heav'n is on thee:
Shall I and all thy brethren bow us down?—
So be it, if the will of God be so;
And this thy dream soretelleth such event.

Simeon.
The moon is risen: shall we in and sup?

Jacob.
No—not with me; your faces are too dull.
Moody displeasure sits upon your brows,
And conscious malice being over-aw'd
Turns short upon disgust. The time has been
When I have govern'd well the nimble flail
From morning until night; bedash'd the grain,
And stiffen'd not with labour; now I am old:
But could I borrow from my lusty youth,
This staff I carry here to stay my steps
Should strike obedience from you.—Go, and mend!—
Reuben, will you come in and sup with us?

Reuben.
All honour to my father. I am pleas'd
To tend my brothers in the outward tent.

[Exeunt Jacob and Joseph.
Simeon.
So—Reuben, is this well? It cannot last.

Issachar.
Oh, surely not; for those who run so swift
Must stop for want of breath.

Levi.
I know not, I:
Yet I do think our honest services
Deserve a better treatment than they meet.

Naphtali.
I hate this Joseph.

Judah.
So, Naphtali, do I;
He frets me like a thorn beneath the skin.
Not Jacob's anger, nor a host of sires
Can breed so much affection in my heart
E'en as a drop of dew.

Zebulun.
Oh, I am sick!—
Why should a fellow here, made up of dreams,
With blue and beaming eyes and snaking hair,
Born after us so far, so green in years,
Vault like a nimble leaper at one jump
Between our sire and us, and charm his sight
Like to a subtle serpent in a brake?
As well to build a wall 'tween us and him!

Dan.
When I was young I was not spoilèd thus.
Turn'd in the winter forth to break the ground;
In burning summer made to drive afield;
Fasting and thirsting, often have I cast
My weary body 'neath a shady tree,
Too overwrought to seek our shelter out.
What is this Joseph made of—this nice youth—
That he to manhood claims a daintier way?
What are his limbs that they must clothe so warm?
What is his head that it must lie so soft?
What is his mettle, when the greatest deed
He ever does is, storm a wild bee's nest?

Simeon.
Thou oracle and champion of all this,
Reuben, I prythee in cool reason say,
Out of thine abstract honesty of thought,
Does not our father 'bate us in regard,
Labour to lay it upon Joseph's head;
And at all times by thought and word and deed,
O'erlooking us, reflect on him a worth
That he has neither earn'd nor yet deserv'd?
Lastly, his passion borders on revenge;
Suspicion leaps to serve him to the brink
Even of blood. He sees us like to shades
With instruments of death and brows severe
Ready to blight the image of the mind.

Reuben.
No more! No more!—come, let us in and sup.
This awkward after-quest of thine bespeaks
The evil thou dost deprecate, as truth.
Shame comes of such equivocation.

Simeon.
This will not serve. Thou canst not answer me.

Reuben.
Nor am I bound; for if I sometimes speak
For general quiet and the love of peace,
I bargain not to hunt each flying thought
That breaketh cover from thy brambly mind;
But since I see contempt upon thy front,
Forestallèd triumph in thy sullen eye,
I'll answer thee, and with the simple truth
Defend myself, defeat thy argument
That in quaint cunning terms doth challenge me.
I'll give thee ground, and shame thee.—Say, our sire
Garlands his sprightly Joseph with his love,
Keeps him like honey in the winter stor'd
To feast the scanty comfort of his age:
Old men are full of years and full of pain,—
The world's worn out, to them, a garment us'd,
And novelty, the salt of youth, is dead.
Say they can cheat rude sadness with some joy
That lives in fancy and beguiles the mind,—
Is he not cruel who such comfort lames
(Like a rich beggar of a precious thing),
Crying, ‘Give me, I pr'ythee, thy regard;
I am right worthy, and I cannot bear
To see thy dotage sloven'd on a child?’
In sooth, I inwardly rejoice to see
The lucid pleasure in our father's eye,
(Like to the sun piercing a watery cloud)
When Joseph sings, or speaks a merry thought.
The pang of envy touches not my breast;
And did you love our sire, you'd rather be
The most forgotten reed upon a pipe,
Than mar the harmony his choice could breed,
With the loud discord of your ill content.
Say Jacob's choleric and sharp of speech;
It ever was the trick of thwarted age.
Why, ye are choleric and wroth, though young.
And trust me, sirs, our imperfections
Will follow age, nor die before the man,—
Rather as weeds nourish'd by habitude,
That overgrow the rotten outer fence,
Augment with plenitude of years: while life
Is life, man to the last is ever man.
The common fault is yours, and this it is—
All excellence in others you expect,
Ne'er looking backward to the lack within.
What right have you, ye disobedient boys,
To tax our father, whether right or wrong?
Is it his snowy beard that makes ye bold?
His honour'd head grac'd with the remnant curls?
His shoulders stoop'd, upholden by a staff?
His body worn to keep you warm in youth?
Is it because his love is old and good
That rear'd you up, gave you your flocks and herds,
And taught you how to tend them and to thrive,
And kept you from the stalls of other men,
Base bondmen hired for a scanty meal?
Is it because he holds you dear and warm
E'en as the life-blood coursing through his veins?
Trust me, my brethren, he hath goodly cause
(Though it appears not but to those who think)
Why he should hug young Joseph to his heart.
Rachel, his mother, perish'd by the way,
Whom Jacob lov'd with rare affection;
And he, too, falling past his mellow years,
With earthly love grew fond of this same youth,
And as men cling unto the hope of life
E'en in the awful passage of stiff death,
So age doth fondle o'er the acts of youth,
And half re-lives those joys and hopes again;
When memory from dark oblivion calls
So long supine our former selves to life,
Making an hour of such deep repose
Worth all the life to come. Indeed, indeed,
Such things as these will meddle with the heart.
Come, brethren, let us in and woo our sire,
For it is dangerous, and tempting Heaven,
To harbour hate, where duty bids us love.

Simeon.
Well, I will go, yet 'tis against my will:
My feet obey your words; my mind remains
In stubborn pain, the prisoner of my breast.

Issachar.
This honey'd Reuben steals away my brain.—
Well, I will in; be gay and cheerful too;
That he may think my anger cheaply bought
For a few sugar'd words. Come! In with him!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—Outside of Jacob's Tent.—Time, Noon.
Jacob and Joseph.
Jacob.
Keep thou this counsel sacred in thine ear,
For 'tis a treasure richer than a star.

Joseph.
Sir, I am prone to love it, apt to think,
To find fresh proofs; and I have wonder'd oft
How many tribes and nations overlook
God's greatness in His works, and cast the praise
Upon some lifeless object deified—
Out of the grossness of their earthward mind.
To me a simple flower is cloth'd with thoughts
That lead the mind to Heaven.

Jacob.
Why, that is much:
There is no work, the meanest on the earth,
Matter, or thing, but 'tis so nicely cast
By the great Master-hand, and so set off
In beauty's mask, or else consistent truth,
That he must have a mind that's all contempt,
Jealous, and crude, who could deny the task
To have been pattern'd by a Deity:
Or else his knowledge, aiming past the heavens,
Falls back upon his ignorance and dies.
Many there be who worship certain stars,
The ruling planet, or some lesser light,
Or some rude image wrought of their own hands,
Being brimful of self. Ill sense of being,
To scorn the giant and applaud the dwarf,
Because the first is greater than ourselves;
And keeps imagination in the slips,
While Faith, a prisoner wrapt about in chains,
Stands blind beside. Oh, lowly ignorance!
To think the Being, who could fashion us,
Give us impassion'd minds, affections strong,
Put fire into the sun, and poise the world,
Garnish the seasons, and clothe all the earth
Varied and beauteous, and over all
Cast such a canopy as this above,
Would meanly hide Him in an idol's shrine,
Dire object of His malediction!
Better to think in holiness and love
That God looks on our earth invisibly,
And fills the mighty space above our heads,
Splendid and glorious in His majesty,
More than the mind of man dare ape to think.

Joseph.
Late as I lay upon a shock of corn,
With musing eye following my dreamy thought,
Likening the clouds to cities far away,
A falcon sail'd majestic in my view:
This way and that he turn'd his peering head
(Like a besieger in a peaceful town),
Keen and sagacious, bent on shedding blood:—
Herein, said I, doth God proclaim Himself;
Blending His excellence in varied powers
All tending to some purpose apt and wise,
An object answer'd and an end attain'd;
Yea, more than man seeing can comprehend,
Or, comprehending, can admire enough,
Being a brighter image last design'd
And form'd to rule and govern; be obey'd
By all earth's creatures, subjects of His will.
I doubt not God's existence nor His power,
Am touch'd with reverence, and touch'd with love.
The golden mazes of the serpent's scales
Dazzling the light and foiling the sun's beams,
Odours of violets blooming in the spring,
The bird that chuckleth in the musky vale,
Silence and sound, the tranquil light and shade,
The orient sunflower, and the blossom'd spray,
The dell and mountain, waters bosom'd wide,
In wordless eloquence unto the heart
Speak of sweet grace, and power, and beauty rare.
God did descend to form such excellence;
We must ascend to comprehend it done.
Then what is He who mouldeth all these things,
Merely, as 'twere, for exercise of truth?
And what are we who look on them and die?
The children of His mercy? nor forlorn
And cold into our bosoms will return
Our mortal yearnings, seeing we're allied
To all the truth and beauty He has made;
For He who fashion'd us from forth His love,
Made us so fair, surrounded us with good,
Out of His love will think of us in death.

Jacob.
Joseph, my comfort, thou beguil'st mine ear—
Yea, and my eyes of some few gentle drops:
I bless thee from the middle of my heart.
Yet, Joseph, there is one thing far above
Matters extern and objects of the view;
It is, the mind of man, frank fellowship;
A fair affection brac'd and bounded in
By honesty and love, in word and deed—
Yea, more, in thought and look,—yea, further still,
E'en in the faintest limits of surmise:
Never to bear thy neighbour hard in hand,
Nor break thy faith, nor trespass on his peace;
So as thou hop'st the Power above will deal
With mercy to thine imbecility.
This must be thine; then will thy hours be glad,
Joyful thy days, thy years be long and full:
Calamity, the giant of the earth,
Will know thee free, and veil his iron club,
Saying to sorrow, ‘Visit not that man,
He looks beyond us:—Ill men fear his frown;
All good tongues drop of manna to his praise.’

Joseph.
Years and desire, conducting in their hands
Knowledge and wisdom, will sow full my time
With the fresh seeds of this most ruling truth;
And God, the master both of it and us,
Seeing a simple and a willing child,
As helpless as a flower in the blast,
Will give me patience to sustain those rubs
That stand betwixt a mortal and his grave.

Jacob.
Amen! Amen! Oh, Joseph! what a joy
Thy words diffuse over my latter life.
Thy voluble tongue, sweet as a viol play'd
To heavenward anthems in a mellow eve,
Lives in my contemplation with delight.
Thy tongue is but the scholar of thy heart,
Repeating faithfully what that records.

Joseph.
Sooth, there is no such merit in all this
(Though to do duty claimeth some fair praise);
For merit breedeth its own sweet reward,
As vice and folly do their sting and chains.
The little commerce I have had doth show
There is an honest beauty in the world,
Which he who loves, is lov'd again by it;
Reflecting, like an angel, in such sort
The merit, worth, and value of our deeds,
As evil never knows, nor e'er can taste:
Therefore 'tis wise and gainful to be just,—
Bringing so large a price as fair content
(A brooding dove within a patient heart).

Jacob.
Live faithful to this precept, and be great,—
Go to thy brethren (down in Shechem's vales
They keep their herds this day) and bring me word
How they have found the pastures and the springs;
And if their cattle thrive upon the ground.

Joseph.
Thy blessing.—I am gone.

[Exeunt Jacob and Joseph severally.

Scene III.

—A Vale at Dothan.
Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zebulun, Dan, Naphtali, as Shepherds.
Reuben.
This Dothan pleases me: the air is sweet;
The plain brow'd by the alpine forest round
Escapes the burning glances of the sun:
The faded leaves of autumn nourish it,
Laid by the wind like summer's winding-sheet,
Begetting vigorous substance for the spring,
So that the herbage and the greener food
Thrive within rankness.

Zebulun.
The grass is thick with flowers upon crisp stalks
Full of the juicy virtues of the place:
A rainbow garland for the brow of spring
With globèd clover full of honey-dew
And sweeter than the cowslip.

Issachar.
It is well:
But I prefer the hardier mountain-side,
That's dry and bleak and rough and barely clad.—
The sickly flowers of the o'er-moisten'd flats
But pulp your cattle with a sullen rot.
This guarding wood fencing the rush of wind
Still keeps the evil close about their hides;
The hollow blast that rolls about the hills
Would blow them whole and hardy.

Naphtali.
Was it not
In some such place as this, since many years,
When we were taking honey through the woods,
Some dozen wolves, whetting their gory fangs,
Had got about a heifer hunted down
And mangled to the bones: then we leapt in
And with our travelling staves with iron heads
Gave battle to them, having made a ring;
And, spite of savage opposition,
We put such mettle in our dangerous play,
As slew them all?

Dan.
I do remember, too,
That Reuben had a cloak made of their skins
In honour of our sport; or rather that
We thought him coward, and to trembling given,
But found the sinews of his courage grew
Stronger with danger; for that Issachar
Being beset, having more work than hands,
He leapt into the peril, and thereby
Drawing their fury chiefly on himself
Defeated it.

Issachar.
It was brave work, I swear.

Simeon.
No, do not so.

Issachar.
What?

Simeon.
Swear: Reserve thy oath;
For lo! now by the brow of yonder hill
Comes one who more deserves it at your hands
Than idle thoughts.

Issachar.
I had no oath to swear;
Or if I had, whoe'er he be that comes,
It could not be forestall'd. I have no feud,
No quarrel now in hand with any man.

Simeon.
Bethink thee, and then look.

Zebulun.
'Tis Joseph comes!

Issachar.
If it be so, I do recall my peace;
Not leaving so much to my fingers' ends
As keeps the stone from flying from my hand.
What then? Are we not even to be fear'd?
Why comes he here to trouble our repose?

Simeon.
Oh! what cares he? Our hate and his content
Are bond and free: we ever bound to frown,
While he is pleas'd to smile because we frown.
He doth usurp our place and privilege,
Counting the dew-drops of our cares and pains
With young and wanton eye, most like unto
Some steward's son: keeps tent within the shade,
Or when the day is damp or overcharg'd,
Or the presumptuous sun looks hotly out,
And airs for appetite in soothing eves,
Which needs is sickly, being got as 'tis,
Of idleness, not sweating industry;
Wherefore his dishes must be nicely sauc'd,
While we crib in the hedge, and dip at springs.

Issachar.
I love my dog somewhat, for he will share
My watchfulness and patience; but were he
To have reserv'd, the profit of my thrift,
The sweet and priceless virtue of my gains,
House in a cage of gold, and on the woof
Of soft Egyptian cloth, supinely stretch'd,
Slumber in gorgèd sloth, while I was tim'd
To face the elements,—I could not loathe
His carnal and detested privilege
More than I do this brother Joseph's face,
Who looks so sightly on our grievances.

Simeon.
Yonder he comes. Look at him, Issachar.
How merry and how wayward in his walk,
Poising his staff for very idleness.

Issachar.
My eye already dooms him.—It is he.

Naphtali.
That coat of many colours which he wears,
Spotted about with our dear father's love,
Is foully spotted; for in every one
A favour sticks that's gather'd at our hand,
And in its place neglect and scorn are left,
Making him rich and proud in the array
That's borrow'd of our smiles and temperance.

Dan.
Our coats be of one colour,—so should his.

Issachar.
Why let it then, nor mumble o'er your wrongs
Like feeble women at a friend's decease;
But raise your hands and brush your grief away.
That coat he honoureth with all his heart
Should wear its livery. If it were steep'd
In sundry drops of blood let loose from thence,
Its colour were more comely to our eyes.
A puling, whimpering boy—he is no more—
And he to keep our number on the fret
With all this bone and sinew on our side!—
I have no patience that we are so tame!

Dan.
Go to! I am not tame—that's not my case.

Zebulun.
Nor mine.

Levi.
Nor mine.

Simeon.
And yet this is not all.
Some little we could bear and wink upon:
To be the puppet of our father's age,
Keep house, the stores o'erlook, the vintages;
All nice employments (far too nice for us):
Yet, with a stretch of patience this could pass,
And he might live, and we could bear his sight:—
Not so when, thus o'ersurfeited with ease,
He takes exceptions to our wearied worth,
And sleeps to dream that we are but his slaves,
Must all bow down and kiss the earth to him;
In musing visions artfully contriv'd
That throw a glory round about himself,
Casting on us the shadow of contempt;
Poor worms that crawl about in Heaven's face
Most disobediently to plague his eye.
We are not fit for heaven or earth, forsooth,
While he's the dainty image of the world.—
This Joseph dreams that we are slaves to him:
Our sire cries, ‘Well—ah well; it must be true,
For Joseph, whom I love of all my sons,
Hath found it in his sleep.’

Issachar.
He feeds too well;
He is too full of blood, too sleek and fair,
Whereof these fat and oily thoughts are bred;
We'll purge them off by letting forth his blood,
And, knowing that he loves to sleep and dream,
Forget the stop, and let him bleed to death.

Reuben.
[Aside.
What shall I do alone among these curs?
To fight against them were to lose us both;
To weep were but to play a feeble part,—
Excite their mirth, and move them to contempt;
Unless, indeed, each tear that I let fall
Would prove a knotty club (ah, that it could!).
Surely, my brothers, you are not so bad,
[Aloud.
So bloody, so unnaturally given,
To wish to paint your envy-chasèd cheeks
In the deep crimson that sustains the life
Of him, your brother and your father's son!

Issachar.
You may try, Reuben: I will not be mov'd.
Your tongue's a pipe that unto this old tune
E'en playeth by itself: we're tir'd of it,
(I marvel much that it was mute so long);
But sith we heed it not, why, let it play.

Reuben.
Oh, Issachar and brethren! Do but think
How noble, now that you have got revenge
Close in your palms, 'twould be in you to say
(Turning sweet pity to your gentle hearts),
‘Our brother wrongs us; but the boy is young,
And years will teach him how to honour us
For our forbearance and superior power.
Our father, too, whose grief will bruise his heart,
Losing the flower that his eye did love,—
Shall we not think of him and spare his son?
He thought of us, and kept us in the way
Of industry, which leads to happiness;
And since but prattling children at his knees
Up to this hour, save only in this thing,
Hath shar'd his pleasure and his hopes with us;
And with that stuff with which his bosom swells,
Love and affection, hath beguil'd our days;
Making our path of life both plain and smooth.
For his sake therefore we will spare his son;
For ours, that in the many years to come
We may contemn remorse, and live at peace.’

Issachar.
Double excitement plays upon my frame,
For, Simeon, I am famish'd with this air:
Shall we browse first on food, or on revenge?

Reuben.
Join one of you a gentle breath with mine:
You'll gain more happiness in Joseph's love
Than sullen joy in his destruction.

Judah.
Not I, indeed; I value not his love
At the poor siftings of our granary.

Simeon.
Reuben, he doth contemn us of his birth;
For as the virtues and the evils oft
Descend from sire to son, so he doth take
A deep exception to our fellowship,
That was decreed him ere he was begot.
Rachel, the beautiful (as she was call'd),
Despis'd our mother Leah, for that she
Was tender-ey'd, lean-favour'd, and did lack
The pulpy ripeness swelling the white skin
To sleek proportions beautiful and round,
With wrinkled joints so fruitful to the eye.
All this is fair: and yet we know it true
That 'neath a pomane breast and snowy side
A heart of guile and falsehood may be hid,
As well as where the soil is deeper tinct'.—
So here with this same Rachel was it found:
The dim blue-lacèd veins on either brow,
Neath the transparent skin meandering,
That with the silvery-leavèd lily vied;
Her full dark eye, whose brightness glisten'd through
The sable lashes soft as camel-hair;
Her slanting head curv'd like the maiden moon
And hung with hair luxuriant as a vine
And blacker than a storm; her rounded ear
Turn'd like a shell upon some golden shore;
Her whispering foot that carried all her weight,
Nor left its little pressure on the sand;
Her lips as drowsy poppies, soft and red,
Gathering a dew from her escaping breath;
Her voice melodious, mellow, deep, and clear,
Lingering like sweet music in the ear;
Her neck o'ersoften'd like to unsunn'd curd;
Her tapering fingers rounded to a point;
The silken softness of her veinèd hand;
Her dimpled knuckles answering to her chin;
And teeth like honeycombs o'the wilderness:
All these did tend to a bad proof in her.—
For armèd thus in beauty she did steal
The eye of Jacob to her proper self,
Engross'd his time, and kept him by her side,
Casting on Leah indifference and neglect;
Whereat great Heaven took our mother's part
And struck young Rachel with a barrenness,
While she bore children: thus the matter went;
Till Rachel, feeling guilty of her fault,
Turn'd to some penitence, which Heaven heard;
And then she bore this Joseph, who must, and does,
Inherit towards the children all the pride
And scorn his mother had towards our mother:—
Wherefore he suffers in our just rebuke.

Reuben.
[Aside.
So: if they date their grief from thirty years,
And slur the very beauties of the dead
To prove some cause why they may hate enough,
I may go prate unto a waterfall.
If they would change their pity for the gall
Of some wild tiger, I had better hopes
To touch their bosoms with compassion
By pitiful complaints and gentle words:
For when an evil deed is thus abroach,
The will predominant the judgment blinds;
And he who seeks to lay it with advice
Feeds and provokes it to a pride of power
Which nothing but superior power can tame.
The will doth push itself beyond itself,
And full of madness doth provoke to ire
By its own act, to fret and carve a way
To all destruction. Mercy is but a spur
To goad on faster to its red design;
And sense feeds on the senses. To tell them plain
Of what they are, advise them of their vice,
Expose themselves unto their proper eye,
Were just, and yet not wise. It were, indeed,
By casting a contempt upon themselves,
To put them furiously to hate the truth;
Seeing that Virtue never looks so ill
Unto the eye of Vice (that's sick of good)
As when it tempts it to rebuke itself,
And to respect the object of its scorn.—
'Tis here the villain doth put on his cap,
And plumes him proudly on his tyranny.
More virtue gets more passion; penitence
Sits all forlorn before the armèd will,
Contempt and malice being accessary.
So this young boy's simplicity would be
A greater mark to tempt the avenging knife
Than all the grief they boast. Bad passions are
Like a prolific poison in the blood,
And grow of their own nourishment so fast,
That all the man but lives unto the end
To which they point. Whence can the sweetness come
Of living to do vilely? For the thing
We do ourselves, in others we should scorn;
Yet in ourselves 'tis worshipp'd as a God
To whom we sacrifice. Alas! it is
A way to me most crookèd and unlearn'd.
Fear is the only thing to make them blench—
I would it thunder'd!—

Simeon.
The musing Reuben meditates some stop.

Issachar.
Oh, let him muse!—his most vexation is
Only a gnat unto a lion's ear:
He will not wail so loud to wake us up.

Reuben.
Ye bearded men, with nervous, sinewy limbs!—
Ye demi-giants! who from forging breasts
Toss through constrainèd nostrils splenetic winds!
Ye shepherds, and young herdsmen of the vale!—
Oh, Jacob's sons and Joseph's brethren!
Have ye no trembling? Have ye not a fear,
Ye heartless butchers of this patient lamb,
That star-blasts will strike through you where you are,
Or the spell'd quaking of the tremulous earth
Swallow you whole in its remorseless womb?
Think ye those bloodied hands will not draw slant
The storm-bolt in its fury, spite of prayers?
Oh, think, ye men condemn'd! the hand of God
Is open, ample, merciful, and just,
And doth o'erburthen human love with good;
But it is also valiant, great, and wise,
And with a rod of fire doth scourge those slaves
Who take the life of man, and play with blood.
Say that He spares you and He lets you live;
Your days to come are rotten at the core:
Your memory would fear its exercise;
Ye would hate food, for it sustain'd your lives;
And groan in heaviness, and weep and wail,
Till you should find some cave wherein to die,
And end a forfeit life of slothful pain.
Oh, Issachar! my brother, is it not
Better to stop and shun the punishment,
And live to love and honour thy old age,
And find a grave out through the joys of life?
What think'st thou?—

Issachar.
Why, that my hand is stronger than thy tongue.

Reuben.
Your thoughts are like an egg, that's hard to hatch,
Part blood and vapour, and a callous mass.

Simeon.
Our senses tire of waiting on thy tongue,
Nor are our passions in a state, I think,
For such-like music; so we neither fear
Nor love thy speech, alike indifferent,
But think thee fool, and weaker than a child
In suffering evil that thou mightest end.

Issachar.
A little honey will not catch our wit:
A little fear will never scare our will.

Simeon.
We will no longer linger o'er this deed.

Issachar.
But do it, since occasion is at hand.

Reuben.
Will you stand in the lightning when 'tis done?

Issachar.
Let that appear—
[Enter Joseph.
Here is the gentle youth—
Art thou not weary, Joseph, with thy walk?

Simeon.
Aye, is my brother? Will he take my stool?

Issachar.
Why, what brought you good heart, my merry boy,
To search us out? Surely you thought us sick
At heart to have your gracious company.

Levi.
How could our father spare you from his sight?
I marvel he should let you travel thus
Through long and dangerous tracks; yet at your age
I was sent forth, nor wind nor weather stood
Betwixt my labour and my journey's end.
But you're more choice, are made of rarer stuff,
Fashion'd for some great end, and should be kept
With nicest care from dangers most remote.

Judah.
Though I embrace you not, believe me, youth,
I'm glad you are amongst us—and alone.

Zebulun.
And so am I.

Dan.
Indeed 'tis kindly done,
To tempt fatigue, leaving thy smoking meat
To dip with us and eat of our cold fare;
It argues love and condescension rare
In one who lives so fair and lies so soft
And hath such pampering dreams of his great worth,
To visit such dull herdsmen as ourselves,
Living by common means to common ends,
Who have but hardly simple things to give,
Unworthy one so nice and choicely bred,
Who needs must scorn our single-colour'd coats.

Joseph.
Whate'er you mean, I thank you, brethren.
Our sire commanded me to use my speed
To go and dine with him.

Issachar.
I thought as much.

Naphtali.
And will you go?—that is, will fate permit?
Did you ne'er dream that we have leave of fate
To put his mantle on invisibly
And use his wand and power?—In sooth, I'm glad,
Yea it delights me much to see you here.

Joseph.
I am no judge of art; nor can I find
Why you should use it to a boy like me:
And yet your speech of love and tenderness
Sounds hollow, faithless, and unnatural.

Issachar.
Ha! Are you sure of that? perchance you dream.

[Strikes him.
Joseph.
Oh, cruel Issachar!—I will not weep.
No, though my eyes burn up, I will not weep.

Issachar.
A vision clouds them o'er.

Simeon.
Alas! poor boy:
What shame and anger flush at once his cheek!
I needs must pity him; and yet I think
This side is livid and of sadder hue,
So that it shames its fellow.

[Strikes him.
Reuben.
[Aside.
Hateful curs!

Zebulun.
Oh, fie! to let this reverend youth stand thus,
No taller than our girdles. Set him up
Upon the highest stool, that he may look
More than our equal, and more like himself.
In his next commerce with his heavenly guide,
Perchance he'll throw an idle word away
Tending to favour us.

Levi.
In hopes whereof,
Being exalted thus, I bow my knee
Before thee—Prophet!

Zebulun.
Hail, Prophet!

Dan.
Hail!

Naphtali.
All hail!

Simeon.
Here, I have gather'd thee a crown of weeds;
Thou may'st not stoop—I'll put it on thy head.

Joseph.
Oh, mean and vicious! Oh, ye savage men!

Issachar.
Ho! stop his mouth—and do not let him speak.

Simeon.
[Kneels
Sweet image! secret chosen at God's hand,
Out of thy grace and wondrous greatness hear,
And hearing, grant a boon to one who kneels
And almost kisses thy inspirèd foot.
I pray thee let me live upon this earth,
And breathe this air and nourish me with food;
Which being granted, seeing 'tis not fit
That one so mean as I should dwell and live
Beneath the same roof with thy holiness,
Let me commend thy purity to heaven,
The proper house for one so far divine;
But, sith thou canst not enter there with life,
I will commit the act of love I owe,
And fit thee for thy journey.

Dan.
How he holds
His stubborn courage swelling in his eye!

Levi.
Now would he surely brain us if he could.

Judah.
See what a store of gall he has reserv'd
To sauce his pride when he should come to power.

Zebulun.
He bandies scorn for scorn.

Dan.
We were all dead,
Did but his inspiration serve him.

Naphtali.
Slave!

Levi.
A minion—a vicious minion!

Judah.
Ho! spoil his pretty coat.

Zebulun.
You dreamer!

Judah.
Boy!

Zebulun.
Call down your deity.—Where is your deity?

Judah.
Impudent boy!

Dan.
Presumptuous!

Levi.
Disdainful!

Naphtali.
Proud to thy brethren!

Issachar.
No more—down with him!

Joseph.
Great God! Ye will not murder me?

Issachar.
Oh, no!
Ask our clubs.

Simeon.
Strike him down!

Reuben.
Hold! Hold! Hold!

Simeon.
Keep Reuben back, or down with him as well.

Levi.
Let loose the dogs on him.

Issachar.
Be warn'd—be warn'd.

Reuben.
Dear Issachar! one word—Sweet Simeon! but one—
If I exceed a minute in my speech
Knock out my brains—let me have that, I pray.—
I see when men are bent on shedding blood,
[Aside.
Like a vast engine that hath many works
Turn'd by a master-wheel, they're forc'd to wrench
And chafe their courage to the highest pitch.
There's a prelusive pause that harbours fear
About this yeasty working to the act—
A sort of let that shuns its premises;
And so that they could wipe the stain away
They would be glad to find the object gone,
The breast reliev'd from its prodigious freight,
And no blood sticking on them. How is this—
The cause, my brain, and the preventive means?—
Quick—quick.—The will is but a coward at heart;—
(Unless 'tis deaf and savage like a beast's,
Where conscience wakes the will sins on its knees)
—And lack of reason upon nature acting
Doth force a courage that is bold and false,
That gathers resolution in the dark,
Like a blind giant hungry for revenge.
Teach but the will a way to act in full
Upon the object without shedding blood,
And reason then looks in on prejudice;
And reason will not let man murder man.
Why, then, the coward shows himself, and puts
The secret knife into its sheath again;
Great Conscience is task-master to the will,
And lets it forth as men hold bears in chains
To have them back, and whip them at the fault.
They would not care if he were snatch'd to heaven,
And send no envy after.

Issachar.
Come, Reuben, waste thy speech.

Simeon.
And be not tedious.

Reuben.
My brethren, you mistake: I do not plead
For Joseph's life: I have no such intent.
Your general judgment and your stronger power
Teach me much greater wisdom. This I say:
It were a pity to shed Joseph's blood,
And put the crimson stain upon your hands,
When you have easier and safer means
To work your will on him and cause his death.
Close on the borders of the wilderness
There yawns a dangerous and delvèd pit,
From which no man alive can make escape,
Being deep, and dark, and hollow on all sides:
Now, since you seem to think the boy deserves
At all your hands a fatal punishment,
Suppose you cast him down into this hole,
And let him perish; then chance and time must share
With you what blame there may be in the act;
For hunger kills him in this case, not you.

Issachar.
What say you, Simeon?

Simeon.
It is a tempting pit.
I know it well—a panther lay there late—
A very tempting pit!

Reuben.
In your old age, when this fierce fire's burnt out,
And its charr'd ashes scatter'd to the winds,
Your memory will breathe unstain'd with blood.

Issachar.
Then be it so.

Simeon.
He will have time to pray,
And sleep, and dream, and hear beasts howl, and think
On the spic'd mess at home.

Levi.
I wish you joy
Of your good fortune since you rose this morn.

Dan.
Comfort go with you.

Naphtali.
Amen, say I.

Joseph.
Oh! Issachar!—

Issachar.
Be silent!—Stop his tongue—away with him.

[Exeunt Simeon, Zebulun, and Naphtali, bearing Joseph out.
Reuben.
[Aside.
Thank Heaven this goes well: if my design
Hold out as firmly as it has begun,
I shall have purchas'd hatred of these men,
Have sav'd my brother for our father's arms,
And spar'd him all that heavy weight of grief
That needs must hang about his Joseph's grave.
God's hand be with me still!

[Exit.
Issachar.
Come, let us spread the cloth and eat of bread:
Fetch the dried figs and grapes, cast the sharp seeds
From peel'd pomegranates ripe and red as fire,
To ease our chaf'd blood. Appetite's in the air.

Dan.
Let us be glad and light of heart to-day;
Our enemy hath failèd in his craft,
And we at length are righted of our wrongs.—
Who kills the kid?

Levi.
That shall be Judah's care,
While I go gather wood to make a fire.

Judah.
Listen, give ear! I thought I heard a bell,
And now again 'tis drifted with the air
That hurries from the east.

Dan.
What fragrance sweet
Doth slumber on the bosom of the wind
As it heaves westward! Subtle and fresh it is,
As rich as flowers, and less sickly too,
Like ointment on an altar that is forc'd
By sacrificing fire, and fit for Heaven
To stoop and breathe upon.

Judah.
The angels' hair
(My father told me when I was a child)
Is hung with dew much like the seedy pearls,
And of an essence rarer than the sweets
That the winds gather in high summer's tide;
Surely one such invisibly hath pass'd
And shook his dripping feathers o'er our heads;
For nothing else could taste so fine as this.—

Dan.
Yonder's a storm of dust. What cattle, now—
What herdsmen may these be? Strangers are come;
And this fine perfume that doth greet us hath
Escap'd from spice and aromatic gums,
Their precious freight from isles afar remote,—
The herald of their progress, for it still
Flies on before. Lo! from this bank I see
Swarthy Egyptians, yellow as their gold,
Tracking their way along the mountain's side
Riding on mules; and like the fleeting cloud
Their mantles hang about them loose and free;
While overhead a round of plaited cane
Is held to intercept the burning sun;
And the grey dogs, lolling their bleachèd tongues,
Slink 'neath the caravans, with travel griev'd.
Their camels all have bells about their necks,
Making a merry music as they go,
Slow-footing 'neath a weight of packages,
That, nicely rais'd, like to square towers show.
The dromedaries seem to sleep and walk,
And move, as they could creep on thus for ever.
Harness'd they are to waggons made of cane
(The light receptacle of rarities
To grace the palace of some foreign king)
Upon low wheels, bestain'd of either soil,
Lightly sustain'd, secure from overthrow,
Their lighter cargo so dispos'd with art
To gather power from the propelling wind.

Levi.
And bear they down this way?

Dan.
To our very tent!

Issachar.
They must be merchants travelling from the east
That turn their goods to profitable coin,
And wander thus to cities far away,
Seeking to raise their fortunes on the wants,
Or else desires, of wealthy citizens.

Dan.
Albeit 'tis a rich life, though dangerous.

Levi.
That's not the best nor worst. Is it not brave
To see strange people, join with many men
Of many countries, lodge in wallèd cities,
And mix in throngs and gather'd companies;
See their rejoicings, customs, state, and laws,
Their craftsmen, mode of labour, and affairs;
To hear their singing and their minstrelsy;
To please the eye with habits of bright hue,
With sports, and shows, and public sacrifice,
Relics of ancient days, and men-at-arms,
And priests, and officers of high degree,
And to behold a king? This is somewhat;
More when the profit of the journey pays
Your liberty and living in the land,
And sends you home more gilded with their gold
Than is the bee from rifling the sunflower.
And yet, again, in all these journeyings
They dodge about between fell Danger's legs,
Who many times steps over them, and puts
His foot so near them that they shake with it.—
E'en in their safety they have grievances;
As, risk belonging to commodity;
And storms, and weariness, and toilsome ways,
And choking dust, and dull monotonies,
And scarcity of rivers and of springs
Wherein they perish of a feverish death,
Bar'd to the elements, and fretted sore
By ever sickening for the journey's end,
Or ere it is begun. Trust me, indeed,
I'd rather be a herdsman in this vale
Than take the evil with the novelty.

Issachar.
I cannot say I would.

Judah.
A good thought this.—
Were it not better that these men should take
Our brother Joseph, sold into their hands,
And leave him bondman in some distant land?
Then do we 'scape at once his blood and death
(Which surely will rebuke us, being his flesh),
And he may take what fortune he may find.
Living so far from us, he is as dead,
And we are freed from his detested sight
Close as a grave could do it.

Issachar.
It is well.

Dan.
It is a tempting chance to have him hence,
And saves the crime.

Levi.
But let us keep his coat,
That we may dip it in a he-goat's blood,
And shock our father's eye with the belief
That we have found it, and the boy is dead
Of savage beasts.

Issachar.
Go to our brethren straight:
Say I entreat them to bring Joseph back:
And let them have full word of what we do.

[Exeunt Levi and Judah.
Enter certain Ishmaelites.
Issachar.
Stand there, ho! merchants.

First Ishmaelite.
Strangers, what with us?

Issachar.
Whence do ye come, and whither are ye bound?

First Ishmaelite.
From Egypt we have been to Gilead
To gather dates and precious frankincense,
Pink cinnamon, and myrrh, and spicery,
And chests of fragrant medicinal balm
To work cool ointments for the grievèd flesh,
And lull the pain of evils and of wounds;
And now to Egypt go we back again
To profit of our toil. Such rarities
Are precious in old cities, and are priz'd
At sundry wedges of the purest gold,
That intercept us ere we reach the mart.

Enter Simeon, Levi, Judah, Zebulun, and Naphtali, with Joseph.
Simeon.
The boy has felt the bottom of the pit,
But we drew for him, and have brought him here.

Judah.
Come, will you purchase at our hands a slave?
Of early youth, both fair and straight of limb,
Having alone a blemish of the mind,
A tow'ring spirit full of high disdain.

Second Ishmaelite.
That is a fault.—Great spirit in a slave
Threatens a sleeping master. Egyptian whips
May mend this vice in him.

Issachar.
Look on him here.
The pith that gathers in his youthful bones
In riper years will bear a burden well.

Levi.
First take his outer skin, his gaudy coat,
Which we may want to mind us of his loss,
And soak the tears up we shall shed for him.

First Ishmaelite.
I like him well. What barter wilt thou make?

Issachar.
At how many pieces do you value him?

First Ishmaelite.
Will you not rather take some woven cloth,
Purple, or scarlet bright; or bonnets trimm'd
With fringe of green that veileth off the sun!
I have some arms and implements of war
Well fitting to a nervous grasp like yours;
And ropes of pearls that sleep in bleachèd wool,
And native jewels fast in lavender
In a close cedar box of curious scent,
And work'd with our Egyptian mysteries.
Will you this charmèd staff, some spices rich
To steep your broth in fragrance, and endue
Your palate's moisture with high-season'd meats?
Or here are garments of the camel's hair,
The hides of bears, and various skins of beasts;
And broad Egyptian hats with eagle plumes;
Lances, and spears, and huntsman's garniture.

Simeon.
These dry Egyptians are like all the rest.
Strangers or not, man paints commodity
As though he lov'd to give its virtues up;
Dazzling your fancy with a gay report
Till you shall die of longing all this while.
'Tis but a shift to keep the money back,
And save it in the pouch. Gold is the thing:
Get much of that, and you may pick your way
Over the crouching world: this tawny key
Can open wide the secrets of all hearts,
And nature wears a universal smile;
A hundred slaves with all their hundred wills
Are but mute shadows following your eye.
Gold is the ribs of power.

First Ishmaelite.
Why, there it is! It is man's other self,
With that in hand I lead a charmèd life;
Without it I may starve upon my wits.
Did'st say thou would'st have coin?

Judah.
Aye, merchant, aye.
The goods you give us would have each a tongue
To tell a secret that must not be known.

First Ishmaelite.
Say fifteen pieces, if it must be so.

Simeon.
Go to—you 'bate us, man; you are too hard.

First Ishmaelite.
Sooth, it is square and just.

Simeon.
No, merchant, no.
The service of a fair and proper youth
Just in the flowery opening of the bud,
Would weigh against thy silver o'er again
In the school'd eye of some rich husbandman.
Remember that you purchase his whole life,
To bear your burthens e'en when grey and old.

Second Ishmaelite.
The city swarms with slaves, and men of bone
Barely exist by sweating through the day;
Save for the daily beauty in his mien,
I would not meddle in't. Say twenty, then.

Simeon.
Well, come and count them out upon this stone;
And take him off to serve thy countrymen.

Second Ishmaelite.
These are true pieces bearing Pharaoh's mark.

Simeon.
So—Now we are quit. Away—speed well, and thrive.

Joseph.
O Simeon!
Into thy bosom I will run for help.
I am thy brother; hate me ne'er so much,
But do not cast me forth to death and shame.
We may yet live blessing and to be bless'd.

Simeon.
Thy tongue has lost its charm.—Away—away!

Joseph.
O Issachar!
A trembling boy is shaken to thy foot,
E'en from the branch where he did cling for help.
Have pity on me: think when thou wert young
How 'twould have wrung thy heart to have been torn
From thy dear father and thy brethren,
And given to strange masters of strange tents.
A little while, and I was yet a child,
And many a time have sat upon thy knee;
And many a time have kiss'd thy gentle cheek.
Thy name too was the first I learn'd to lisp;
Canst thou forget these things, and do me scathe?
Do not strive with me that I touch thy cloak:
There is no poison in these childish hands;
I will embrace thy knees. Now we are like
To part, I feel how much I love thee, Issachar.

Issachar.
Would'st creep into my bosom through my ears;
Let go my knees. Ah! snake—let go, I say;
What, wilt thou brag of power till the last?

[Strikes him down.
Joseph.
Unhand me, Midianites, and let me go!
Those shrivell'd hands shall never bind these arms.
If it is profit that you seek in me,
My father for my ransom will give more,
Yea, twenty times, than any stranger will
For my poor services: merchants, you err;
(Oh! you have sorely hurt me, Issachar!)
My brothers do but jest with you in this.
Behold, they are seven men; dost thou believe
In all their seven hearts there is no drop
Of pity? Observe each manly countenance
Work'd by the ruling hand of God divine;
And say, are they not maps of dignity
Brimm'd with high feeling, full of love as power;
Are not their bosoms quick, and therefore touch'd
With sweet affection for their fellow men?
Had I the inches I would punish you,
Daring to credit (though it doth appear)
That they are cruel and unnatural,
A sample of vile practice to all tribes.
This is not so, they are my brethren all;
I love them dearly e'en from first to last;
I have offended them, at which I grieve,
And this my fright is meant my punishment:
It is no more, I do believe it is;
Pray you think better of us Canaanites.

Simeon.
You tardy merchants take him on with you;
We have no more of idle time to waste.

Issachar.
We have your silver; either bear him off,
Or we will take him to our wrath again.

Ishmaelite.
Nay, I must have the profit of my coin.

Joseph.
Oh, deaf to mercy! Oh, ye hard, hard hearts!
Nothing more cruel can you add to this.
Oh, spirit of my father, fill my pride!
Spirit of God, descend unto my heart!
I will not grieve, I will not sue to stay,
So that your power never shall rejoice.
Behold, I smile. Oh, Egypt! yea, oh, world!
In thy vast bosom will I seek for love.
However bitter, and how hard my fate,
Still I gain something which is comforting,
For I do leave more hatred, malice, wrath,
Amongst these brothers (which augments my shame)
Than ever I can find at strangers' hands.
Listen, ye men, how firm a voice I have,
‘Commend me to our venerated sire.’
Forgive me, merchants, that I spoke you ill,
I am right proud to keep you company.
(Surely my heart will burst.—)

[Aside.
[Exeunt Ishmaelites with Joseph.

Scene IV.

—A Pit in the Wilderness.
Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
Oh! I rejoice so much I cannot call.
I see that dangerous evils are more kind
Than our own brothers; for this treacherous gap,
Form'd to betray men's footing, and to drown
Their fearful clamours in its cavèd womb,
Hath yet more tenderness to this young boy,
Now shelter'd in its dark and hideous breast,
Than in his brothers' hollow bosoms dwell,
With hearts of stone and pitiless revenge.—
What, ho! I say—Arise! and cheer thee up.
I come to rifle thee from Danger's arms,
Pale, and alarm'd; to give the warm embrace,
And sun thee in thy father Jacob's love,
Where thou shalt flourish with a holy truth
That hatred cannot blemish.—Arise! I say—
So thou may'st smile on my affrighted love
That fruitfully did mourn for thee, like one
Who diggeth his own grave. But thou shalt live.
Thy crafty brothers have o'er-reach'd themselves;
And with a bosom full of zeal I come
To snatch thee quick from out this hollow tomb.—
What, ho! there—answer, ho!—All still as death.
Ah! surely they have stunn'd him with the fall:
But chafing him with bruisèd weeds and balm
Will mend that evil and restore the sense.—
The depth is cruel! If he should be slain,
Take dreadful vengeance on their act, oh God!
Drop burning fire upon their guilty heads.—
And yet, methinks he cannot be much hurt;
A fall like this would never kill a man,
Unless deserted specially of Heaven.
A treacherous silence that doth freeze my blood
Makes answer to the echo of my voice!—
How could they injure such a gentle youth,
So soft of speech, so wooing in his ways,
So wise and holy, and with such a mien,
That, did the angels teach men exercise,
They could add nothing, or of mood or grace,
To that which nature has bestow'd on him?
Yet mothers say with a prophetic nod
They mostly lose these rarer jewels first.
If thou dost live, oh, speak! or make some noise—
What, ho! there—ho!—

[He descends by a rope.

Scene V.

—A Vale at Dothan.
Simeon, Issachar, Judah, &c. sharing money.
Judah.
Yonder comes Reuben: hide the silver up,
And let us keep the secret to ourselves.

Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
My gentle brothers, have you seen the boy
Since you did cast him down into the pit?—
I pray you tell me; come, be plain and fair.

Issachar.
What would you know? We did desist our course
And turn our justice round at your request;
Still you would govern us in this affair,
And still you are displeas'd.

Reuben.
You have not seen him, then?

Simeon.
No.

Judah.
How should we?

Reuben.
May the first thunderbolt that spurns the hand
Of the avenging archer of the clouds
Sink in amongst you! And I would that now
A deafening storm from either corner raging
Made havoc o'er your heads!

Simeon.
What—what is this?

Reuben.
Oh, ye detested slaves! ye murderers!—
Blood—blood, ye dogs! that is your precious food—
Nought less than the deep current of man's life
Can hiss your passions cool. Do you not fear
Lest you should grow proficient in your trade,
And murder men till men are scarce on earth,
That Heaven will cramp you with some sudden death?

Issachar.
Madman!

Reuben.
You are a villain, Issachar!
Aye, raise your clubs and tarr your angry dogs;
For dogs or devils I will never budge
Till I have eas'd the spirit of my grief
By telling you with curses what ye are.—
Nay, Simeon, flourish not your threatening staff:
You are too mean for fear. I defy all.
Oh! had I got you in a narrow pass,
So that a single coward at a time
Might use his wrath against my careless life,
I'd bring you low past kneeling.—Child-killers!
I do so hate you that I have a mind
To strike thee, Issachar, unto my foot.
Bustle, and shift your stands—I will be heard:
And he that stirs a foot, or moves his staff,
Though but to wave it doubtful of offence,
I'll mar his manhood with so sure a blow
As deadly dealt as is the eye of fate,
And dangerously scuffle with the odds.
A giant well may fear a desperate man:
And ye do look so mean and impotent
That I should scorn myself for shunning you.

Issachar.
I ne'er was brav'd before.

Reuben.
That he who strives to justify his act
Shall die upon the spot, I say aloud;
You are all villains, all.—Who answers, ho!

Simeon.
He dares and threats!

Reuben.
Listen, ye kites! and hear yourselves proclaim'd.
The greatest of all villains is that man
Who doth debauch him in the greatest crime.
Mean theft and slander and ill-will are bad,
But they are virtues when compar'd with one
Which none but the gross villain doth commit—
'Tis callèd murder, and its act is this:—
By banishing all honour from its thought
(Pity turn'd forth to wander in the blast),
A heart as absent in the love of truth
As a cold stone within an iron chest,
It doth become so savage and deprav'd
That with a violent and wilful hand
The sleeping and the helpless it destroys
But as all villanies do boast a head,
A measur'd standard of enormity,
So murder has, which still seems white and clear
Beside the fratricide's inhuman act.
'Tis treating Heaven with a high contempt,
Who made man for its end, not for man's wrath;
'Tis touching Heaven with a cruel thought
To cast its love back into its own face;
Therefore you are a breed of abject slaves,
A team of villains, guilty of man's blood;
Hated of Heaven and to be shunn'd on earth.
Your names are curses, which henceforth I'll use
To vilify my thoughts.

Judah.
Why, how is this?
Young Joseph is not dead, but cast alive
Into the pit, which you yourself propos'd;
For all I guess, he's breathing at this hour.

Reuben.
Ah! where?—Ah! where?—For I have sought for him:
The pit is empty, and he is destroy'd
By some fell danger; helpless, and alone.

Issachar.
Why, then, chance had a hand in his decease:
And as you told us when you urg'd the thing,
Then chance is guilty of his death, not we.

Reuben.
I woo'd you with a lie, which you believ'd
Knowing it was a lie; and, like a knave,
Sweeten'd your shaken passion to content.
You are not wont to give your senses up
At any beck of mine: why did you then?
Only to compromise your villainy!
You wish'd his death, however it has come;
And through your means it is that he is dead—
Wherefore you're written down a murderer.

Simeon.
And all this railing will not mend it now:
What we have done, is done, and there's an end.

Reuben.
Ye callous brood!—Oh! never pray again,
Nor cast your faces to the open heaven;
But stoop your bestial heads prone to the earth!
Clearness of seasons freshening our delights
Be to your senses but as marshy fogs!
The finer air to you be thick and damp!
Veil thee, oh! sun, and temper not the winds,
When they come charg'd with pestilence and plague,
So they may strike them with their baneful breath,
For they have forfeited at Nature's hands
Partition in her bounty and her love;
Therefore their spirits being thus reprov'd,
Having offended Nature's gentleness,
Shall die of comfortless and sad disease,
And rot upon themselves.

Issachar.
Oh! this is well.

Reuben.
Take from their food, oh, God! all wholesome taste,
Which Thou hast sent to nourish generous man;
That they may loathe to keep a life on foot
Sustain'd with such monotonous distaste.
And the deep relish of the wine they drink,
Oh! flavour with their fault: then it will force
The sense to ache, and curl upon the lip
Worse than when poison, or a cup of balm
Wherein a speckled viper hath been steep'd,
Meets both the gorge and eye.—Whene'er they sleep
Clothe them with heaviness and with mad dreams,
And fill their fancy full of objects dire,
Hanging their hair with agonising drops
Of retributive horror and remorse;
For they most carelessly have put away
All claim upon Thy mercy bountiful,
And for a little passion barterèd
Their title to Thy most paternal love.—
May they never laugh again!—

Simeon.
All this is vain!

Reuben.
Blight all their fortunes, and destroy their peace!—
A murrain be upon their cattle's lives,
Wether and lamb, that gather'd vultures may
Make house about their tents and in their sheds,
Gorging their food with eager discontent
While they shall sink and famish on the taint.—
Where'er their plough furrows the embrownèd slope
So rich and fruitful in its idleness,
Or dibble drills the pregnant-moulded earth,
Come wombless barrenness; and all the seed
They shower in the promise of the spring,
By harvest time turn to as many stones;
So may they never shear the curlèd wool,
Nor give a heifer for a sacrifice—
So that they never may enrich the eye
And scan the sober beauty of the corn;
Where on that golden carpet roll'd around,
Walks mother Autumn on the rosy eves
Coming to worship Summer ere she fades,
And see her fiery clouds and mellow leaves
And fruits luxurious yielding from the stalk,
And taste of the blown fragrance of the air;
And mount her throne of beautiful decay
O'erhung with flowers sicken'd of the sun,
Where she expires on Winter's icy hand!—
May all their labour an abortion prove,
And all their hopes sit brooding o'er their graves!—
So they may never smile in the green fields,
Sweetening their spirits at the combing hay;
Nor grieve when mute and perpendicular
Dispungings of the hollow-bosom'd clouds
Gutter the fruitful surface of the earth:
Nor joy when Temperance with silver wings
Sits pluming her bright feathers in the sky,
And eagles brood upon the thwarted oaks,
And larks and thrushes with deep, mellow throats
Rejoicing in the splendour of the scene
Make wanton in the echoes of the vale—
Oh! never may the jocund harvest bell
(Inspiring all the spirits of our tribe)
Ring its sweet battery unto their ears,
Tuning the anthem voluble and loud,
Sacred to plenty for the garners full—
So they may wander with a doleful step,
In sullen sadness twin to heavy pain
Plucking a leaf of myrtle or of bay,
Not for the cap, but to tread under foot.—
Thus let them crave!—Bondsmen at strangers' stalls,
Where choking be their hire!—

Judah.
This is enough.

Reuben.
Oh, God! turn mercy to Thy angel's hands!—
Young Joseph was not pitied in the storm,
Therefore no mercy yield!—

Dan.
We can bear more.

Reuben.
The angel's fatal trumpet did announce,
Judging the highest vengeance to be wreck'd
On the chief criminal in God's reproof.—
Down with it on these brothers' guilty heads!

Issachar.
Give him his way.

Simeon.
Aye, let him take his round.

Reuben.
Be still, my sincere heart!—Oh! give me peace!—
Anger and tears contend within my throat
Like fire and water in contention mix'd;
And passion smoulders in my very heart.
Oh! I could weep that Joseph is no more
Till marble should be furrow'd with my tears—
Oh! I could rave on your enormities
Till words were wanting me to name ye plagues,
Then like the forlorn image of despair
Sit dumb and think past words.—My passion cries for blood!

Issachar.
It is a madman's.

Reuben.
Oh! ye kites!

Naphtali.
What good
Can come of this?

Reuben.
No good can ever come
Within the limits of thy crimson sphere.
Thou'st sorely wounded good, and therefore good
Will tremble in thy presence like a flower
That's ruffian'd by the blast.—Thou'rt shunable:
And good will rather perish from the earth
Than lay its perfect and congenial hand
Upon thy unbless'd head.

Judah.
I have a fear
He will betray us to our father's wrath.

Reuben.
Hast thou a fear? Thou wert a better man
Ere thou had'st work'd a cause to fear thy friends.

Simeon.
I fear his folly too.

Reuben.
Banish it then.
If 'twere a spotted leprosy, 'twere thine
Even to rotting. But since your foul disgrace
Like to a canker-worm would gnaw the heart
With shame and anguish of your reverend sire,
I'll keep the fiery secret to myself,
And leave your icy bosoms to promulge
Some subtle lie, which forg'd to his belief
Will raise a cunning ladder to his heart,
While he shall thank your griefs.—Oh! perfect slaves!

Judah.
This is the best.

Reuben.
Why, do I not say so?
And does not my device hug your desire?
Yet for this stead you are so far beholden,
That I must ask a boon as some return.
Tell me, I pray you, whence comes your content,
Like a cold fountain through a pool of stone?
For I am sick to drink of such a stream.
What shall I do, and whither shall I go,
To ease my pain, and shun my father's face?
What well were deep enough to hold my grief?
What secret place would hide my anguish up?—
You who have help'd me to this hard estate,
Oh! help me to some comfort. The poor boy
(Whom I shall never more hear speak again)
Lies mutely shrouded in my weeping mind,
With all his innocent look. Old Jacob, too,
Sobs at the sight and groaneth in my ear,
And wrings his hands, and ravisheth his beard,
And takes no relish in his faltering prayers.—
Oh! give me back my peace, ye envious men!
And gather up the thorns that ye have cast
Upslanting in my path of life to come.—
I am consum'd with passion, and but fool
My graver senses that should be my guides—
I have nowhere to go!—

[Exit.
Levi.
Is this the May-born Reuben, whose low song
Ever beguil'd his hearers of some tears?—
Is this the gentle brother of our band,
The minstrel of all revels and all hymns,
The first to pity and the last to rave?
I never knew the compass of his voice,
Nor ever saw the fire of his eye,
Until this hour: nor such a swoln display
Of words and actions ever did I find
In any other man.

Zebulun.
I am amaz'd!

Issachar.
I had a mind to beat him to the ground.

Simeon.
A man may hide the dragon in his mind
For twenty years in torpid solitude,
Like to an earthquake 'neath a flowery plain;
But when commotion (bred of some rough cause)
Plays on the secret spring of his command,
Then the great giant passion rears his arms,
And wakes to know himself. Like the milch cow
Whose cub is ravin'd by the nightly wolf,
This Reuben runneth lowing up and down
Devoid of reason, blatant at the moon,
With all his instinct in extremity.

Levi.
The hand of Nature swayeth in these things,
And Reuben answers her in her design.
He is a man who loves his injuries;
Patience and meekness are his qualities.—
With such, their love is long and deep in growth
(Like to the rooted spurs of some fair pine
That spreads its beauties by the river's side);
But when the storm is up, all meekness then
Doth lose its privilege, while judgment faints
And patience curdles into feasèd wrath.
They have no force to place against the force,
No temperance stretching into fortitude;
But bind their hands unto their very grief:
Thus all their gentleness is set on fire,
Frighting its boasted guides of many years,
And madness triumphs in the overthrow.
There is no man so dangerous as he
Whose desperation doth contemn his fear;
Except it be the cunning or the wise.

Dan.
Nay, waste no time in scanning his reproof:
We are the gainers, his the loss alone.

Naphtali.
One way we are reveng'd; his grief is vain,
For that the boy still lives upon the earth.

Judah.
And all those curses he hath shed on us
Are blown to waste.

Issachar.
Why, let him go and mystify his days
With an ideal sorrow of the mind,—
His folly thus begets his punishment.

Simeon.
And his loud anger woundeth but himself.

[Exeunt.

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.—
Ah! 'tis some merry sleight: you did expect
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,
And hath been tun'd with love for many years
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?

Issachar.
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,
Arouse your courage, govern your despair;
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,
Or like a mount I'll over-brow thy words,
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.

Issachar.
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
Who teaches us to hate our infamy:
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.

Issachar.
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
Their tenderest kisses on your baby brows:
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.

Jacob.
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
As mountain snow, or wool imbued in milk.—
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,
For it doth burn as it would singe these locks
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,
That through my ear did steal unto my heart,
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,
Far-sighted watchfulness, and wakeful care;
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,
Viewing his downward journey, that doth stretch
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,
But being beset by beasts, did shed his coat,
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
Still war against my judgment and my sense.
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.