THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD ENDOWMENT FUND ^ fb ^ \J^- c:/' JOSEPH AND HIS BRETHREN. * But if there be in glory aught of good, It may by means far different be attain'd, Without ambition, war, or violence; By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent, By patience, temperance.' Paradise Regaijwd, b. iii. SS-93. JOSEPH AND HIS BRETHREN A DRAMATIC POEM. BY CHARLES WELLS. WITH A.V INTRODUCTION BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Tonbon : CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADH.LY. 1S76. LONDON : PRINTED BV SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET PR SIQG PREFATORY NOTE. It is said that all books find their level sooner or later ; and indeed one would not v.allingly believe that anything of the highest worth can in the end be rejected by the judgment of men. Yet some great works there undoubtedly are which never seem likely to win their due place in general repute. How it is that they miss of fame it were hard to say ; but some cross chance has nevertheless thrown them out of the straight way to it which we should have thought natural for them to take, and triumph ; and time, that sets to right so much, forgets to settle their account with the celebrities and publicities of their day. Some books, like some men, seem to have come into the world with the brand of mischance on them for birthmark. Otherwise it would hardly be needful to refer any reader, at the distance of more than half a century, to an early sonnet of Keats for introduction to the name of Mr. Wells. This sonnet, written be- fore the author's friend had himself come forward as a poet, remains almost the only indication extant, 7Gi303 vi PREFATORY NOTE. besides the all but forgotten existence of his own writings, that such a man was alive in that second golden age of English poetry w^hich was comprised within the first quarter of the nineteenth century ; unless the two or three yet fainter references to be found in the published correspondence of Keats be admitted as further evidence. But about a year after the death of that poet a puny volume, hardly heavier than a pamphlet, labelled ' Stories after Nature,' was cast upon the waters of the world, which received it witli unanimous neglect, and has not yet found it after these many days ; to be followed in two years' time by a ' Scriptural Drama,' bearing the more deco- rous than attractive title of ' Joseph and his Brethren,' and issued under the pseudonym of H. L. Howard; with a preface dated from London, a motto taken from Milton, and two hundred and fifty-two pages of clear print. The book has long since sunk so far out of general sight that the evidence of such details is necessary to convince us that poeni and poet are not as unsubstantial as the personality of the sponsor Howard, as undiscoverable as the reason which may have induced the author to prefer the anonymous form of venture for his first book, the pseudonymous for his second. Assuredly there was in his case no reason for fear or shame in the publication of work not unworthy of the time when England still held, or still divided with the land of Goethe, that place at the head of European literature which France was to assume and retain after the mighty movement of 1830. PREFATORY NOTE. vii Yet, though there was proof enough in the latter of these two Httle books that a new poet was in the world, and one only lesser than the greatest of liis time in some of the greatest qualities of his art, the critics of the minute could not spare even such notice to his work as they had accorded to that of Keats ; not an owl thought it worth while to stretch his throat, not an ass to lift up his heel against the workman. So the books vanished at once ; and now only by such happy chance as sometimes may come to tlie lielp of assiduous research can they be dug up from the cemeteries of literature. At rare casual intervals some thin and reedy note of eulogy has been uttered over the grave of a noble poem, bewitched as it were to a sleep like death ; and has always hitherto failed of a hearing. Nor did even the choice and eloquent words of praise bestowed on it by Mr. Rossetti, in a supplementary chapter to Gilchrist's 'Life of Blake,' succeed in attracting the notice which Blake himseli had not yet won from our generation. Notwithstand- ing, the truth remains, that the author of ' Joseph and his Brethren ' will some day have to be acknowledged among the memorable men of the second great period in our poetiy. The first publication of Mr. ^Vells, written, it is said, in his earliest youth, has much of the charm and something of the weakness natural to the first fligln and the first note of a song-bird whose wings have } et to grow and whose notes have yet to deepen; yet in its first flutterings and twitterings there is a nameless viii PRE FA TOR Y NO TE. grace, a beauty indefinable, which belongs only to the infancy of genius as it belongs onfy to the infancy of life. To a reader of the age at which this book was written it will seem — or so at least it seemed to me — ' perfect in grace and power, tender and exquisite in choice of language, full of a noble and masculine dehcacy in feeling and purpose ; ' and he will be ready to attribute the utter neglect which has befallen it simply ' to the imbecile caprice of hazard and opinion.* Even then, however, he will perceive, if there be in him any critical judgment or any promise of such faculty to come, that the style of these stories is too near poetry to be really praiseworthy as prose; that they relish of a bastard graft; that they halt be- tween two kinds of merit. At times they will seem to him almost to attain the standard of the Deca- meron ; yet even he will remark that they want the direct aim and clear comprehension of story which are never wanting in Boccaccio. That perfect narra- tive power which sustains the most poetical stories even of the fifth day of the Decameron, keeping always in full view the simple prose of the event, is too often lacking here. And the youngest reader will probably take note that ' there is a savour of im- possibility (so to speak), a sort of incongruous beauty dividing the subject and the style, which removes the " Stories after Nature " from our complete apprehen- sion, and baffles the reader's delight in them ; ' that ' even the license of a fairy tale is here abruptly leapt over ; names and places are thrust in which perplex PREFATORY NOTE. ix the very readiest belief even of that factitious kind which we may accord to things practically impossible : EngHsh kings and Tuscan dukes occupy the place reserved in the charity of our imaginations for kings of Lyonesse and princesses of Garba; the language also is often cast in the mould of Elizabethan con- vention ; absolute Euphuism, with all its fantastic coiTuptions of style, breaks out and runs rampant here and there ; especially in a few of the more passionate speeches this starched ugliness of ruff and rebato will be felt to stiffen and deform the style of the same page which contains some of the sweetest and purest English ever written.' On taking up the little book again in after years he will also discern the perceptible influence of Leigh Hunt in some of the stories ; and that sweet and graceful essayist, much of whose critical work, and not a little of his poetical, retains its charm to this day, a soft light fragrance less evanescent than it seems, had set no good example in his short senti- mental narratives for any pupil to follow. One or two at least of the younger poet's stories, had we found them in the ' Indicator ' or some other of Hunt's magazines, we should, I think, have set down as somewhat thin and empty samples of the editor's hastier work ; in others there is a fresh and ex- quisite beauty which is due to no inspiration but his own. But, in whatever degree the undeniable presence of minor faults and mere stains of carelessness may excuse the neglect of Mr. Wells's prose stories, no X PREFATORY NOTE. such plea of passing defect can extenuate the scandal of the fact that to this day his great dramatic poem remains known perhaps on the whole to about half a dozen students of English art. The first part, ending with the sale of Joseph to the Midianites, is written throughout with a wonderful ease and stateliness of manner which recall the more equable cadences of Shakespeare in his earliest period, before he had as yet thoroughly absorbed the bene- ficent influence of Marlowe's more grave and am- bitious example. There is a certain sweet tenuity in the continuous melody of the verse, an evident dis- position to rest too easily contented with the first forms that offer themselves to clothe the first fancies, an ignorance when to stop and where to breathe, a facile indulgence in superfluity of speech, from which the greatest of poets could not disengage his genius without the discipline of time and work. But then, here is also an inborn instinct of style, a simple sense of right, which will not allow the stream of speech to grow harsh or turbid for an instant. Here is a solu- tion of the problem which baffled the aspiration and the endeavour of one of our greatest poets. ' There's such a divinity doth hedge our Shakespeare round,' said Coleridge, ' that we cannot even imitate his style.' He had tried to reproduce it — we must take his word for the fact without hope of further evidence —in the style of his Remorse^ and found in the end — another assertion which taxes our faith as rudely as it violates our reason — that he had throughout PREFATORY NOTE. xi been treading in the steps of Fletcher and Mas- singer. Be that as it may, the hedge which defied the vaulting ambition of that sovereign master of lyric verse has been fairly cleared by the younger rider whose early feat in the race of song found so few spectators to applaud it. There are lines even in the overture of his poem which might, it seems to me, more naturally be mistaken even by an expert in verse for the work of the young Shakespeare, than any to be gathered elsewhere in the fields of English poetry. Take these, of the settnig sun: A god gigantic, habited in gold, Stepping from off a mount into the sea. — (P. 7.) Two such lines, and there are many such, would suflfice, with a certain school of commentators, to establish the unquestionable partnership of Shakespeare in the Eliza- bethan play which should contain them. The pure dramatic quality is perhaps best shown in the characters of Reuben and Issachar, where the poet has found least material for his workmanship in the original story. Especially the rough spite of this latter, as deep and bitter as a cooler or more patient hatred could be, is so well given that his part stands out distinct in our memories till the end; the 'strong ass,' hard and blunt, readiest to strike and slowest to suffer. Jacob again is a clear and vigorous sketch ; all excess of weakness has been avoided, and the baser aspect of age and fondness kept out of our thoughts. There is a genuine force of dramatic effect in his sudden xii PREFATORY NOTE. appearance and upbraiding of the brothers (p. 13). And this passage of Joseph's speech (p. 15) has in it a grand EUzabethan echo: — Would they be envious, let them then be great, Envy old cities, ancient neighbourhoods. Great men of trust and iron-crowned kings ; For household envy is a household rat ; Envy of state a devil of some fear. E'en in my sleep my mind doth eat strange food, Enough to strengthen me against this hate. The next scene, though less effective at first sight, is well placed as an interlude of rest before the harsher action of the drama. The scenes in which Joseph is taken and sold, and the forged news of his death broken to his father, may be commended for a high dramatic insight and delicate justice of arrangement which can only be understood by a straightforward reading. There is something in the description of Rachel (p. 35) which recalls the luxury and exuberance, if not the vigour and concentration, of Marlowe's sweet and fiery raptures. As fine, but in another fashion, is the speech of Reuben which follows it ; full of thought and pUant power compressed into brief grand words. But indeed verses as good as these might be gathered from all parts of the first act, especially in the scene where Joseph is taken from the pit and offered to the merchants — Swarthy Egyptians, yellow as their gold, Riding on mules ; PREFATORY NOTE. xiii a scene which abounds in passages fit for citation; for example, the description of the costly wares and trading life of the Ishmaelites ; and later in the play we may note the imprecations of Reuben on his brethren (too much prolonged it may be, but rich in splendid verses and weighty turns of thought); the gradual breaking of the evil tidings to Jacob; and the lofty prelude-music of the chorus before the second act. But the crowning triumph of the poem is to be found there where the kernel of the whole story lies. Only once before had such a character as that of the heroine been given with supreme success, and only by him who has given all things rightly, in whom there was no shadow of imperfection or failure. In the Cleopatra of Shakespeare and in the Phraxanorof the present play there is the same imperious conscience of power by right of supreme beauty and supreme strength of will; the same subtle sweetness of speech; the same delicately rendered effect of perfection in word and gesture, never violated or made harsh even by extreme pas- sion ; the same evidence of luxurious and patient pleasure found in all things sensually pleasant ; the same capacity of bitter shame and wrath, dormant until the insult of resistance or rebellion has been offered ; the same contemptuous incapacity to under- stand a narrower passion or a more external morality than their own; the same rapid and supple power of practical action. All women in literature after these two seem coarse or trivial when they touch on any- thing sensual ; but in their passion there is nothing xiv PREFATORY NOTE. common or unclean; nothing paltry, no taint of vulgar sin or more vulgar repentance, can touch these two. And this the later poet, at least, has made out of the slightest and thinnest material possible; his original being not only insufficient — the very bare bones of conjecture, the suggestion of a skeleton character — but actually, as far as it was anything at all, so associ- ated with ideas simply ludicrous and base that the very name of ' Potiphar's wife ' has the sound of a coarse by-word. To prove by special reference the truth of what has just been said would be the most inadequate kind of evidence that could be offered; but it must surely be evident to any reader that the manner of Phraxanor's entrance (p. 105) is a noble and most dramatic in- troduction, worthy of Shakespeare's own art and judg- ment. Nor is there any note of weariness or decline in what follows ; but the passion of these scenes is managed with such a noble temperance and so just an art, that a first reading will perhaps hardly suffice to show the author's lofty mastery of his own genius. Such wealth and such wisdom in the use of it, such luxury and such forbearance of style, are in the highest Elizabethan manner. In the next scene Phraxanor reasons of love with an attendant, whose character, the very dimmest sketch possible, is designed seemingly as a relief to her own. There is a flavour of sentimental chastity in the few speeches allotted her which makes them feeble and flimsy enough; but this weak emptiness of PREFATORY NOTE. xv the girl serves somehow to set off and exalt the splendid sensuous vigour of Phraxanor's share in the dialogue. This passage at least (p. 113) has the abso- lute ring of Shakespeare ; 'pure fire indeed.' Attendant. Then, madam, you would say That there is nothing in the world but love. Phraxanor. Not quite ; but I would say the fiery sun Doth not o'ershine the galaxy so far ; Nor doth a torch within a jewell'd mine Amaze the eye beyond this diamond here More than the ruddy offices of love Do glow before the common steps of life. There are in the same scene two magnificent passages of prolonged and subtle rhetoric, finer perhaps as pieces of conscious and imperious sophistry than anything in the way of poetical reasoning that has since been done. The first, a panegyric on the potency of love and masterdom of woman (p. 114). The second (p. 11 7-1 19) is deeper in thought and more intricate in writing than any other speech in the play. It is a subtle plea in defence of inconstancy in women ; this inconstancy, as governed and directed by art and practical skill, being (in the speaker's mind) the substitute for that laborious singleness of heart and devotion of the will to bare truth which make a man the stronger by nature of the two, but which a woman cannot (it is argued) attain or retain without violating her nature and abdicating her power upon man. The queenly sophist then turns back the discourse to questions of love, handling (as it xvi PREFATORY NOTE. were) her own heart deUcately, and weighing before- hand the power of her senses to bear pleasure ; and at length, after all this noble repose of preparation, Joseph enters with a message from his master. This scene is throughout managed with such supreme dex- terity that one overlooks the almost ludicrous or repellent side of it, for which Mr. Wells is not respon- sible. The temptress here is not repulsive, and the hero is hardly ridiculous. These are touches of weighty thought and keen perception not less notice- able than the continuous effusion of verbal luxury; the quiet heavy malice of this is as worthy of Shake- speare as the elaborate and faultless music of the passage on love which precedes it (p. 131). Phraxano7-. I have a mind You shall at once walk with those honest limbs Into your grave. It would be superfluous to remark on the mar- vellous grace and strength of what follows — the subtle rapid changes of passion, the life and heat of blood in every verse, the sublime intense power of contempt which seems to make the written words bite and burn, the swift drainatic unison of so many sudden and sharp fancies of wrath with the aptest and most facile expression. Perhaps, however, the chief success is still behind ; for after the return of Potiphar it must have been a labour of especial diffi- culty to keep up the scene at the same pitch. Never- theless, the writer's power never flags or falls off for PREFATORY NOTE. xvii an instant, from the moment when Phraxanor turns from Joseph towards her returning husband : — My injuries rejoice ; I turn my back on thee as on the dead. — Ah! give me breath. — (P. 146.) The picture of Joseph's fidehty (p. 150) is as fine as her invective; but the sudden turn at the end is worth many pages of luxurious eloquence. Phraxanor. Will you praise him, my honour'd lord ? Potlphar. Why so ? Phraxanor. Because he never must be prais'd again. This is another of those instances of reserve which abound in Shakespeare only. Touches like these occur in Webster, but hardly in any third dramatist. Cyril Toumeur perhaps has hit here and there upon something of the same effect. The hesitation of Potiphar to believe a charge so incongruous as that laid upon Joseph is admirably given ; not less admir- able is the explanation of Phraxanor (p. 152, 153). Joseph's vindication of his father's honour from the taunts of both wife and husband is another noble and quotable passage ; and the fierce brief inquisition of Phraxanor which follows it is as dramatic as anything in the great preceding scene. From the departure of Phraxanor (p. 163) to the end of the play, the interest of it is rather in the poet's power of workmanship than in the subject- matter ; as indeed could not but be, taking into account the reaction which must follow on such xviii PREFATORY NOTE. scenes as those in the house of Potiphar. Yet it should be noted that the famine hi Canaan, the triumphal procession of ' the swart Pharaoh full of majesty,' and finally the advent of Jacob, are all done into words with admirable and equal vigour ; and further stray lines and sentences of exquisite worth might be picked out and strung together till half the book were transcribed. But this is no part of our task. Now that the poem is here at last unearthed and restored to the sight of men, those who will may judge how far the qualities displayed in its highest part?, the capacities implied throughout, fall short of those requisite for a poet who would win in the hardest of all its fields the highest palms reserved for the masters of his art. I should be loth to think that mere accident or mere fashion had such power for evil in the world of imagin- ative work as in the world of actual experience ; but, considering of what precious things that did once exist the stroke of sudden chance or the influence of gradual change has undoubtedly deprived us, we may reasonably fear that the powers which have robbed humanity of so much that it once possessed, may have robbed it also of possibilities not less precious than these foregone possessions. It is probable that the author, it is certain that the reader, of this poem cannot say what fruit the genius which inspired it might have borne, had that genius ever found space to work in and students to work for. It remains only for those who are capable of serious regard for his art PREFATORY NOTE. xix to ])ay, as I do here, the tardy thanks of a later gener- ation to the veteran who, after winnhig his spurs so early in so high a field, retired, without further struggle or pretext, to await for more than half a century, with ' the wise indifference of the wise,' the ultimate award which should concede or reject his claim to a crown Avorth many that have flourished and faded between the morning and the evening of his life. Algernon Charles Swinburne. JOSEPH AND HIS BRETHREN B PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. Jacob, the Patriarch Reuben. Simeon. Levi. Gad. ASHER. Dan. Joseph. Judah. Issachar. Zebulun. Naphtali. Benjamin. j Pharaoh, Kzjig of Egypt. POTIPHAR, a Ruler. PharaoKs Butler. Chief Baker. Steward. )■ Jacobus Sons. Phraxanor, Potiphar's Wife. Attendant on Phraxanor. Ishmaelites, Magicians, Officers, Attendants, Ambassadors, Guards, Egyptians, Ha)~vestinen, ^c. ACT I. Prologue. In the dim age when yet the rind of earth, Unworn by time, gave eager nature life, Zealous to furnish what the seasons wore That in a vigorous brightness flourished ; When light and dark and constellations bright, The splendid sun, the silent gliding moon, Govern'd men's habits ; taught them when to thrive, To rest, and sleep; till, full of temperate years, Rude in their art, and ignorant of all Save passions and affections wild, untaught, They sank like giants in an earthy pit, Leaving the generation of their days 'Tvvixt grief and reverence to mourn their loss And miss them from the village and the field ; — God's voice (that mingled up the beauteous world, Inlaid pure heaven, and sweetly colour'd it; And with the wondrous magic of the clouds Enveils the sacred flooring evermore, Without bright golden, but within more rare) Was then upon the earth and with men's ears Creating reverence and faith and love. — B 2 4 JOSEPH AND act i. Jacob was gone into the vale of years : And like an oak that standeth by a hill, Whose sinuous trunk begins to fret to dust, And sapless knots fail in their iron strength ; Whose ^vrinkled branches drying up with age, Stiff to the winds, with top emblanch'd and bare, Though but poor spoil to winter in its leaves, Yet still it casts a shadow o'er those slips That from its acorns dropp'd into the earth From time to time, and settled, flourish there To keep its memory fresh in seasons new When it is wither'd to the sodden core, And all its beauty faded from the earth : Like to that tree that faileth on the hill Is aged Jacob with the wither'd arms. And like its fruit that chanc'd to spring and grow, Are Jacob's sons that put their promise forth ; And like the guardian shadow from the tree Is Jacob's yearning full of love for them. To Bethel was he come with all his host, His herds and flocks, and men both bond and free, By God's command to sojourn in the land. Down in a valley deep and overbrow'd With sloping pastures skirted round with beech Shadowing the grazing cattle in the breeze, E'en in this vale of Hebron did he halt, And set his tent (rude habitation) To wait with patience the will of Him Supreme in Heaven, on Earth ; for He had said ' Thy seed shall grow and flourish in the land, ACT I. HIS BRETHREN. Outnumbering the sea-sand. Grace shall be thine. My countenance is with thee. Go, and live.' Of all his sons, Joseph, a gentle youth. Tender in years, graceful, and full of strength, Pleas'd Jacob most ; most fill'd his doting mind, Nourish'd his sight, and charm'd his doubting ear. Well might it be ; for he was yet the child Of his declining years, reflecting on His youthful vigour in those days now pass'd When the grown men Reuben and Simeon Were yet but children gleaning in his corn. Merry, and apt to profit by that lore (Or rather simple industry) that kept The image of their Maker fine and clear With wholesome viands, food of a beaded brow. Rachel his wife, and Joseph's mother, died Midway between this Bethel and her home ; And solemnly she was laid up in earth Hard by the highway, and a pillar set, CaU'd by her name ; a tomb of elder years, Old monument of man's affection! For this he lov'd young Joseph, but the more That he was kind and tender to his sire ; Sober'd his youth, and calm'd his sprightly tongue ; And like a mantle warm and comfort-lined Cover'd his father from all outward frets ; And love for love return'd in such a sort, So full of reverence, mild, and duteous. 6 JOSEPH AND act i. That it flow'd blandly from his genial breast And mingled in his being, making his sire Taste the sweet sympathy of unripe age, Which could not be in those his other sons More old, more independent m their love. But there was mischief to this human faith Born of the very goodness that it bred. For Joseph's brethren fretted on the lip, Wrinkled then- brows, and smote upon the earth With boisterous foot, whence envy leaped out. The best would group together in the shade, And sitting 'neath the eglantine and vine That wreath'd a verdurous trellis through the vale, AVould scoff at Jacob's love, that still was spilt (As they would say) unequal on that side Where Joseph kept his stand. Envy, the slug. Had ta'en its second change, and like a worm Stray'd from its blinder chrysalis the brain. And nimble as the blood that scours the veins Lay keenly gnawing in their rancour'd hearts. The shepherd beats his bell ; the tranquil herds Lowing obedience, from the dimpled spring (Where the bright flowers disturb'd with their sweet breath Tremble like starry gems in Dian's hair), Slow wind the hill, and in their staked folds Snuff the fresh straw and scent the keener wind. Crook their sleek knees to welcome night's repose. The Sun while sinking from his daily round ACT I. HIS BRETHREN. Had starr'd the heavens like a fiery flaw, Showing his glory greater than the west : Glancing the Moon and frighting her faint beam, Across the barred portals of the East His fulgent heat reflected glowing fire. The dying embers of the burnish'd king, Now sunk behind the mountain'd hemisphere, Were fading fast away. He was declin'd (Not like pale Cynthia to her bath, a lake Rich in its violet sward and jasmine bowers), A god gigantic habited in gold, Stepping from off a mount into the sea : The evening breeze that whispers of repose. And fans the crimson'd marygold to sleep. Grows sharp and brisk ; and silence on the light Gains step for step, as light retires to shade. The tawny harvestmen from yellow fields Their sweet repast, their lated meal enjoy Hard by their tents, beneath some ample oak, Or vine, or fig-tree burthen'd with its fruit And fragrant to the air. Now Jacob's sons, Who kept their herds and cattle on the hills, Retire from folding to their father's tent. Lo ! Joseph meets them with a welcome smile, — A basket on his head with purple grapes O'erswelling from the brink, and o'er his cap, And hair, and shoulders, hanging gracefully, — Shows like an angel, youthful, beauteous. Stifle your passions, curb your spleens, young men Dull not this image of your father's mind 8 JOSEPH AND act i. By vaporous suggestions of his youth Which oversteps you in the old man's sight. Look on his youth ; be older, and be wise. Scene I. — Outside of yacob' s Tent. Enter Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zebu- LUN, 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, sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 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? — lo JOSEPH AND ACT i. 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 sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. n Than thus outspread to clasp thee to my neck ? — Lo ! see young Joseph weeps. — Issdchar. So do not I. Retibeii. The worse for Issachar. yoseph. 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 1 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 Yore 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. 12 JOSEPH AND ACT I. 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 bedashed with a raven wing, And swath'd in its own fragrance. Issachar. Withered be his heart. I'll lead the way. Rmben. Oh ! you do keep your pity in a cage And whip it to a starv'd obedience. — Our father comes. Forbear. Enter Jacob. y^acob. What's this ? — Cannot I kneel And breathe ray evening prayer for your preserving, But you will fright the Angel from my thought With waspish clamour from your evil throats ? — sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 13 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 hps ; Down with them in the mire close to their feet ; And since they throw away the love of men As 'twere but the contemned rind of life. Like their own oxen let them stoop and feed. Befitting their Avild 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. yudah. We grieve, indeed. That you, so partial, stint us of your love. 'jFacob. 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, forked round with spleen ; And, like the foul and ugly bats of night. 14 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. "yoseph. 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. sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 15 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-crowned kings ; For household en\y 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 humihty; 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. i6 JOSEPH AND act i. yacob. 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 foretelleth such event. Simeon. The moon is risen : shall we in and sup ? J^acob. 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 stififen'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 mid 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. sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 17 Lei'L I know not, I: Yet I do think our honest services Deserve a better treatment than they meet NapJitalL I hate this Joseph, J^udah. So, NaphtaH, 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. Zebuhai. 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 v/as young I was not spoiled 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, 1 8 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. sc. I. I/IS BRETHREN. jtg 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, Forestalled 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 ; c 2 20 JOSEPH AND ACT i. 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, uph olden 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 sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 21 (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 tilings 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 daiy bids us love. Si7neon. 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 IssacJiar. 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 iQw sugar'd words. Cornel In with him! [^Exeunt 22 JOSEPH AhW- ACT I. Scene II. — Outside of yacob^s Tent. — Tivie, Noon. Jacob sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 23 Being brimful of self 111 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 tlie 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. J^oseph. 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: 1'his 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 24 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 25 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 : — 111 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, 26 JOSEPH AND act i. Will give me patience to sustain those rubs That stand betwixt a mortal and his grave. 'yacob. 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 Bc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 27 How they have found the pastures and the springs; And if their cattle thrive upon the ground. 'yosepJi. Thy blessing. 1 am gone. \Exeiint Jacob and Joseph severally. Scene III. — A Vale at DotJian. 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. Zebtilun. 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 globed clover full of honey-dew And sweeter than the cowslip. Issaehar. It is well : But I prefer the hardier mountain-side, 28 JOSEPH AND act i. 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 batde 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. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. Issachar. Tt 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. Zebidun. '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? 30 JOSEPH AND act i. Simeo7t. 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 gorged 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. Suiicon. Yonder he comes. Look at him, Issachar, sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 31 How merry and how wayward in his walk, Poising his staff for very idleness. Issac/iar. 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. 32 JOSEPH AND act i. Zclndun. 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.' IssacJiar. He feeds too well ; He is too full of blood, too sleek and fair, sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 33 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. [AsiJe. 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, [A/oud. So bloody, so unnaturally given. To wish to paint your envy-chased cheeks In the deep crimson that sustains the life Of him, your brother and your father's son ! Issae/iar. 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 \\Tongs us ; but the boy is young, D 34 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. 'yudah. Not I, indeed; I value not his love At the poor siftings of our granary. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 35 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-lacbd veins on either brow, Neath the transparent skin meandering. That with the silvery-leaved 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 Tum'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, D 2 36 JOSEPH AND act i. 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 veined 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 armed 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 sc. in. HIS BRETHREN. 37 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 armed 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 J S JOSEPH AND ACT i. 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 crooked 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. Rejiben. Ye bearded men, with nervous, sinewy limbs ! — Ye demi-giants ! who from forging breasts Toss through constrained 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 ? sc. in. HIS BRETHREN. 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 Hfe 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 39 40 JOSEPH AND act i. 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 Avit : A little fear will never scare our will. Sinieo7i. We will no longer linger o'er this deed. Issachar. But do it, since occasion is at hand. Reube?i. 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 ? Stmeoji. 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 sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 41 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. y^udah. 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 oui selves, 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. 42 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. J^oseph. 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. J^oseph. Oh, cruel Issachar ! — I will not weep. No, though my eyes burn up, I will not weep. Issacha7'. 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 ! sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 43 Zebuhm. 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! Zehdwj. Hail, Prophet ! Dan. Hail! Naphtali. All hail ! Siiiicon. Here, I have gather'd thee a crown of weeds; Thou may'st not stoop — I'll put it on thy head. "yoseph. 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, 44 JOSEPH AND act i. And hearing, grant a boon to one who kneels And almost kisses thy inspired 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. J^tidah. 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. JVa_phtali. Slave ! sc. III. I//S BRETHREN. Levi. A minion — a vicious minion ! J^udah. ' Ho ! spoil his pretty coat. Zebulim. You dreamer ! y^ndah. Boy ! Zebidun. Call down your deity. — Wliere is your deity ? jfudah. 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 ? Lssachar. Oh, no ! Ask our clubs. 45 46 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. sc. in. HIS BRETHREN. 47 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. 48 JOSEPH AND act i. Close on the borders of the wilderness There yawns a dangerous and delved 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. sc. in. HIS BRETHREN. 49 ■Dan. Comfort go with you. Naphtali. Amen, say I. Joseph. . Oh ! Issachar ! — Issachar. Be silent ! — Stop his tongue — away with him. [Examt 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 ! \Exif. 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 failed in his craft. And we at length are righted of our wrongs. — Who kills the kid.? 50 JOSEPH AND act i. Levi. That shall be Judah's care, While I go gather wood to make a fire. 'yudah. 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. jl^udah. 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. Vender'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 sc. in. HIS BRETHREN, 51 Escap'd from spice and aromatic gums, Their precious freight from isles afar remote, — The herald of their progress, for it still FUes 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 bleached 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 E 2 52 JOSEPH AND act i. 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, thougli dangerous. Lroi. That's not the best nor worst. Is it not brave To see strange people, join with many men Of many countries, lodge in walled 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 oflicers 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 borne 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. — sc. III. Ills BRETIIRE.Y. « E'en ill 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. Is sack ar. I cannot say I would. [fudah. 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 sitrht Close as a grave could do it. Issachar. It is well. Daii. It is a tempting chance to have him hence, And saves the crime. 54 JOSEPH AND act i. 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 Ishniaelites. Issachar. Stand there, ho ! merchants. First Ishmc.'Jtte. Strangers, what with us ? Issachar. Whence do ye come, and whither are ye bound? First Ishniaelite. 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 grieved 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 sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 55 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. 'yiidah. 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 Ishniaeiite. 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 ? S6 JOSEPH AND ACT I. 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 bleached 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 charmed 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. Smieon. 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 tav/ny key SC. III. HIS BRETHREN. 57 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. WHiy, there it is ! It is man's other self, With that in hand I lead a charmed life r Without it I may starve upon my wits. Did'st say thou would'st have coin? jl^udah. Aye, merchant, aye. The goods you give us v/ould have each a tongue To tell a secret that must not be known. First Ishmaelite. Say fifteen pieces, if it must be so. Simeo7i. 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. 58 JOSEPH AND act r. 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. Simeon ! Into thy bosom I will run for help. 1 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, sc. III. HIS brethren: 59 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. Issac/iar. 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 6o JOSEPH AND act i. Brimm'd with high feehng, 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 }ou; 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. y^oseph. 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. sc. IV. BIS BRETHREN. 6i 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 Fit 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 caved 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, 62 JOSEPH AND act i. 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 bruised 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 ! — \Hc descends by a rope. sc. V. HIS brethren: 63 Scene V. — A Vale at Dothan. Simeon, Issachar, Judah, &c. sJiariug money. y^udak. Yonder comes Reuben : hide die 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. 'yudah. 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 64 JOSEPH AND act i. 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 : sc. V. HIS BRETHREN. 65 And he that stirs a foot, or moves his staflf, 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'ei 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. — ^Vho 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 called 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, F 66 JOSEPH AND ACT i 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, , 1 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. 'yudah. Whv, 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. sc. V. mS BRETHREN. 67 Reuben. I woo'd you with a lie, which you believ'd Knowing it was a He ; and, Hke 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 ah 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 j Therefore their spirits being thus reprov'd, Having offended Nature's gentleness, Shall die of comfortless and sad disease, And rot upon themselves. F2 68 JOSEPH AND act r. Issachar. Oh ! this is well. Reuben. Take from their food, oh, God ! all wholesome taste, Which Thou hast sent to nourish gencous 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 AVorse 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 bartered Their title to Thy most paternal love. — May they never laugh again! — Simeon. All this is vain! Reiihe7i. 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, sc. V. HrS BRETHREN. 69 Gorging their food with eager discontent While they shall sink and famish on the taint. — Where'er their plough furrows the embrowned 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 curled 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 roU'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, 70 JOSEPH AND act i. 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 ! — 'yudah. This is enough. Retiben. Oh, God ! turn mercy to Thy angel's hands ! — Young Joseph was not pitied in the storm, Therefore no mercy yield ! — Dmi. 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 ! sc. V. HIS BRETHREN. 71 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 ! Naj>JitaH. What good Can come of this ? Reubeti. 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: 72 JOSEPH AND act i: And good will rather perish from the earth Than lay its perfect and congenial hand Upon thy unbless'd head. Jiidah. I have a fear He will betray us to our father's wrath. Reiiben. 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 He, 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, sc. V. HIS BRETHREN. 73 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. Lroi. 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, 74 JOSEPH AND act i. Nor ever saw the fire of his eye, Until this hour : nor such a swohi display Of words and actions ever did I find In any other man. Zebuhm. 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 sc. V. HIS BRETHREN. 75 Doth lose its privilege, while judgment faints And patience curdles into feased 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. J^iidah. 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. \Exeimt. 76 JOSEPH AND act i. Scene N\.— 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 curled 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. — sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 77 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. '^acob. 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 ? SimeoJi. 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. J^acob. Simeon, beware ! you play upon my heart; It is a fragile instrument and old, 78 JOSEPH AND act i. And hath been tun'd with love for many years To thee and to thy brethren — so beware : The strmgs are weak and yielding to the strain, — A httle 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. 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? SC, VI. HIS BRETHREN. 79 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. J^acob. 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, So JOSEPH AND act i. 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. yacob. 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 1 must tell is all too sad, And you have cursed the proclaiming tongue. We that do know the act, did not the act. And therefore have not earned thy rebuke. Reuben. [Aside. Oh! nature, nature; heavy, grievous hour! y^aeob. 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, sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 8i 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. 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. 82 JOSEPH AND ACT i. Issachar. He only faints. Quick ! let us bear him up. Reicben. 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. y^udah. 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. — "Wliat 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 sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 83 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 thins: Deserving of remorse, 1 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. G 2 84 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. J^udah. 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 soiled lips that breathe upon the dust. Blessing your tranquil sleep, have often laid sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 85 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 strayed beard, Wliite 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 bowed 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. 'jl^udah. You us'd no ceremony, Simeon, And did affright him with the blunt display Of that bestained 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. 86 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. yacob. A mystery's upon me ; but rny 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. "jl^acob. 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 sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 87 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. J^acob. Sir, I will not be so. I was all patience when my boy did live, Was all content, and silence, and repose; And shall T 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. J^acob. 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, 88 JOSEPH AND act i. 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. 'yacob. 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, sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 89 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 enthroned 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. 'jFacob. 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. go JOSEPH AND act i. 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 winged 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 duU'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, sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 91 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 (Uke 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-Uve 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 panged recollection. — Ah ! do you weep, my boys ? — You have good cause. 'jfudah. These words of yours do touch us very near. — Father, perchance young Joseph is not slain, 92 JOSEPH AND KQ.^ i. But being beset by beasts, did shed his coat, And is miscarried in some unknown place, And fled away aUve. 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 ghdeth 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 winged 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 sc. VI. HIS BRETHREN. 93 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. END OF THE FIRST ACT. 94 JOSEPH AND act ii. ACT II. Prologue. Sudden authority in those inur'd To forcing of offensive offices On men, in stubbornness and discontent, Begets a churUsh spirit ; hke to his Who tames a bear with hunger and with blows, Turning its nature to his purposes. Treatment hke this young Joseph did receive At the Egyptians' mercenary hands ; Who in their power did indulge themselves In bitter threats, in gmdgings and contempt. These things do little where the greater are ; For Joseph was departed from himself Like one who sleeps and dreameth of events; Or with imagination fondleth still In pain and passion on a former joy : And as he journey'd still he turn'd his face Towards bright Canaan and its misty hills : And as the evening time of folding came, Of morning prayer and brotherly repast. His eyes did pierce to heaven thro' his tears ; And all his features struggled with sharp pain ACT II. HIS BRETHREN. 95 To wear obedience to the will of God, And overtop his sorrow in content. So selfish was he in this heartfelt grief, And so resolv'd to be obedient In all mischance that should befal to him (Seeing he had sought favour at His hand Who cannot know us without patience). That he still bore a cheerful countenance In all his drudgery and offices ; Turning rough speeches with a gentle look. Wooing respect by execution ; And by forbearance and a temperate tongue Stealing from out the bosoms of these men The sting of anger and the fang of wrath. So as their journey did decrease in leagues Their favour and their love did cleave to him. — At length they left the forest and the hill, The wholesome green, and on the barren sands Crept on their burning way, where man ne'er comes. Save the marauder sweeping o'er the plain. Upon a palfrey fleeter than the wind. Fearful of officers and men at arms — Like as the ostrich watchful from afar Measures his flight, and aids him with his wings. Screaming towards the desert hard pursued, Urg'd by the horsemen's javelin and bow Who seek his rolling feathers for their pride : So flies the bandit, coursed by his fears. Bearing large wine-skins from the city gates To his companions in the wilderness, 96 JOSEPH AND ACT ii. Who curse with parched Hps his long delay ; With faces freckled black by the fierce sun, And hands that hunt the lion and the man. They cleanse their scimitars of stained blood And hang their scalding armour on the boughs, Midway within a rugged precipice Browing the raving cataract beneath, While overhead the grey clouds sail in light Like droved camels dreaming in the sun. Long time their wheels indent the weary miles, And many signs and landmarks still remain To cheer their sickening courage and fatigue ; And oftentimes they scare the wary mule And gather'd vultures (sign of carrion), Gorging on what the bear and wolf have left, Greeting disturbance with a deafening cry ; While sailing warily to distant strands They stand and safely watch the slow retreat ; And where a barren rock doth forked rise. Old eagles perch'd, unweaiy of the sun, With dreamy eyes returning his regard As tho' his dazzling fire but lull'd their pride : Meanwhile their eaglets in the gushing spring Which Providence has wisely planted there, Mapping its way upon the level sand. Bathe their young wings. In this immensity Upon the droughthy sands doth silence dwell — And wandering winds are lost in loneliness — Sweeping its level surface without end ; Like to a drove of wolves who miss the track, ACT II. HIS BRETHREN. 97 And wind a circle and shoot forth again, Perplexedly in a maze monotonous Howling their savage discord at the moon. The fiery heat doth beat against the ground In a reflective waste of golden light ; Nor tree, nor shrub chequers the tedious blank : Like a dull stain curs'd o'er with barrenness Sear'd in the angry glances of the sun. — Anon they come unto the oozy Nile, Where the sweet wind doth dally with the sedge. Peopled with insects strange — of gorgeous dyes, Where the secretive sun conception breeds Over the ebbed bottom, that engluts The fecund grain ; so that pale Fear almost Possesseth watchful Famine of his being ; River of speckled snakes and adders blue, And thriving birds that forage in the slime To nourish nestlings on the sandy plain, Tiring the wing towards the wilderness, — Of armed crocodiles, whose scales defy Sol's penetrative beams, in slothful ease Slumbering upon the bosom of the stream, And as a cloud drifts to the tide of air. So they in shapeful course obey the flood. The alligator there in rushy mew Doth snare the supple weasel to his jaws, Scenting the mangled carrion in his throat. — The golden snake out -rolled like a cloud At sunset, when the umber sand gleams red. Teases the restless spirit of a hawk H 98 JOSEPH AND act ii. Who hath descended on his craven food, And widi his ardent eye by fear illum'd, And blacker in its lustre than a swan's, Charmeth his object with his dazzling gaze. Fencing his shifts as valour doth contend With certain fear, seizing his faint regard Until the victim yields to nature's law : The valiant prisoner with the yellow spurs Drops from his prey, is prey'd upon in turn. And now behold ! the guard come scouring in With slacken'd bow athwart the shoulder slung, Cross'd by the taper lance, whose pennon red Plays like a flickering flame upon the wind. Three times they note upon the drowsy horn, — Joyful announce that water is at hand. The o'erwrought camels by their eagerness Had long proclaim'd the presence of fresh springs; Never more welcome was the cry of land To mariners bewilder'd on the main. — And now farewell fatigue and languishment; The many gaps that weariness had made In their long line of march were soon fill'd up, And silence dull was chang'd to cries of joy. As the wild hymn to I sis shakes the air The kneehng camels yield their burdens up. And scour away a swift instinctive course To crop the rare and straggling tufts of grass In the vicinity of water pools. The tents are pitch'd, the horses are all stak'd, And the square bales of merchandise up-pil'd, ACT II. HIS BRETHREN. 99 Show like a circling compact city wall. Now as a swarm of bees when an eclipse Surprises them with artificial night, Come pouring in, wedging the entrance up, Encumbering all the wax-built avenues And golden galleries of their citadel, — So here, oh! wonder, where so late entwin'd Young Silence and old Time slept side by side, On this forlorn and barren wilderness A populous city on a sudden springs, Teeming with man and beast all full of life, Bustle and movement in their enterprise. Now nature's cravings being satisfied. Behold Fatigue, so lately scared aloof, Once more approaching with a stealthy step, And all, enamour'd of its soft embrace, Yield to entranced slumber, shadowy dreams, Fantastic reflex of their wanderings, Form'd of the vastness of the elements ; Light now becomes more solid, never dark When blinded by a heavy summer dew, Barely opaque, and nature's murmurings. Or rather the mysterious life of night, Mingling is lost in an oblivious calm. Thus gentle night into day's mantle glides; It is no more than if the golden day Enfolded her within a silver veil, Or when the diver 'mid the coral rocks Sees many a fathom through the liquid main. And now with wakeful and accustom'd eye H 2 100 JOSEPH AND act n. The guards, attended by their wary dogs, Form a wide circle round the encamped host To keep their weary watch : and as the hours, Though to the sleepers but a single link, To them an endless ever-dragging chain. Touch close upon the middle of the watch, The dogs give sign of interruption. No sound, or near or distant, strikes the ear Upon the velvet carpet of the sands. See yonder sombre mass advancing swift ! Is it the fleeting shadow of a cloud. Or else a compact herd of prowling beasts ? Perhaps, dire danger on these barren plains, Banded marauders on their winged steeds. Who, having track'd their victims through the day. Come now to fall upon them in their sleep. And fill the air with cries of blood and death. But suddenly they stop in mid career As though aware of man's vicinity, These nightly wanderers in the wilderness. Seeking from far a change of pasturage ; The guard whose heart beats fast and audibly Already hath his horn upon his lips, And the keen hound, scarce by a gesture stay'd. Crouches half buried in the indented sand. All needless caution, for the intraders turn With rapid flight towards the mountain'd west. Are sudden lost in dim obscurity, But though the camp still slumbers undisturb'd, 'Tis not for long this sweet oblivion ACT II. HIS BRETHREN. loi For the vex'd guard who rocks him to and fro On the uncertain balance of his spear, At odds with sleep, with eyes weigh'd down, subdued. Whose sense of hearing Hngers on the edge And painful confines of half consciousness, And blendeth with its fading powers : — a noise Like a loud whispering hangeth in the air ! As it approaches nearer it becomes Like the north wind when rushing through the trees, Thence to a roaring and a hissing sound As when the storm makes havoc in the sails And cordage taut of some be-tossbd ship, In answering discord to the seething waves ; Now he looks up, behold, in darken'd space, As a huge dragon stretching many a rood, The birds of night as blended into one, In the obscurity themselves have made, Bent on their measur'd migratory flight, Wing their slow way across the desert sands, Aweary of the forage they have left. Shunning the inhospitable Dead Sea shore. Where fish nor fowl make willing residence, Shaping their course with oblique certitude Towards the ever-teeming fruitful Nile, And now the advance guard wheels above the camp, Sweeps a wide circle and descends more near. With a prolong'd and simultaneous cry, Gives notice to the myriads who respond With deafening clamour warping on the air. Rise higher and hold on their safer course, I02 JOSEPH AND ACT ii. The camp is rous'd in wild bewilderment, All rush in terror madly to their arms, ks, sudden fallen on the day of doom. The morning sees them once more on the march, And many a weary day and lingering night Is still betwixt them and their journey's end. At length they cross and leave the unctuous flood ; Dreamy Egyptians in the outer field Scatter the grain in swolten idleness, And yonder towers and turrets now arise From parched Egypt's city, rude and old. The Egyptian shouted and to Joseph spake : ' Since I do find you worthy of your hire, Courteous and willing in your servitude; Withal endued with a fair knowledge, far Beyond your young experience and your years, I shall dispose you to some officer, Some man of state and good ability ; Whereby the comfort of your life to come Will be increas'd by trust and fair regard, E'en as you rise in favour with your lord : And I shall gain a profit better worth Than were you barter'd at the common mart For common hire.' — Young Joseph but replied: ' God's will be done.' — But this benign intent Was thwarted by the malice of the chief Into whose hands young Joseph fell by lot. And as if fatally he was decreed To drain the cup of anguish to the dregs, Was without mercy driven to the mart sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 103' With every mark of barbarous cruelty. Might it not be design'd by Providence That Joseph's patience and humiHty Should merit the reward and dignities Reserv'd for his high exaltation ? To an Egyptian lord of great estate Nam'd Potiphar, the captain of the guard Of Pharaoh, king of Egypt — unto him Was Joseph sold a bondsman to his will. But Potiphar (a man of gentle blood), Seeing young Joseph's merit, put him straight Into some trust, and by degrees increas'd His favour and regard (following desert). So Joseph lived in honourable bonds, The steward of his household and affairs. Meanwhile his grieved father moum'd his loss As tho' he had been ravish'd from the earth. Scene I. — Potiphar' s House. Potiphar and Joseph. Potiphar. Wear this gold chain. Joseph. You honour me, my lord. Potiphar. Young man, my pride is lesser than my truth, And fair desert should be respected well, But most of all when native in a slave. I04 JOSEPH AND act ii. This chain I give thee, not to pay thy worth, Only to honour it ; for I have found Since thou hast had mine office in thine hand, Thy government has brought me more respect, More honour and renown, than ever yet Did wait upon mine own ; and hence I know Thy God is with thee, that thy office thrives, And I am made partaker of the good; Wherefore I love and honour thee as much As wert thou born my brother. Thy respect Has been to me as great as ever child's Was to its sire : — Faith, it is very strange — It seems man's pleasure is allied to tears. For my eyes burn to talk upon thy love. As tho' I did not leave thee here in trust. But were about to quit thee without date, Forecasting final separation. J^oseph. My most just lord ! Potiphar. I must go hence to-night : The king doth send me on an embassy ; Yet I go not while thou remain'st behind ; Therefore the offices and trusts I leave Sleep in my ear as things already done. Use my house freely; tend my lady's will : Thou'lt find obedience in my trusty slaves, — Therefore command thy pleasures. Thou hast earn'd A fair and honour'd fellowship with me, sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 105 Wherein I gain : so fare thee well, and peace Be ever with thee, guardian of my house. \Exit. y^oseph. How have I earn'd a happiness like this ? Patience, great God, was all my quality ; Thou hast rewarded me beyond my worth. — Ah ! 'tis the way of bounteous Providence With those whose stubbornness doth cede to peace: And he who bears repeated trials well. With gentle and rebukeless temperance, Under the angel's wing doth take his stand ; And for his faith and human fortitude Meets his reward on earth. — Oh ! patience, I never will forsake thee, though this joy Were turn'd into a moan — protect me still. \_Exit. Scene II. — A Chamber in Potiphar's House. Enter Phraxanor and Joseph. Phraxanor, Ha — ha — ha! — I check in my laughter; dost thou notice it? Can'st tell me why ? J^oseph. Madam, I have not thought. Phraxanor. Wert thou to guess on the left side of me Thou'dst wake the knowledge. io6 JOSEPH AND act ii. 'yoseph. How so ? — I do not see. Phraxanor. Because my heart doth grow on the left side. — A grieved spirit oft beguiles itself With laughter and affected idleness ; But all this while a perilous weight will hang About the breast, threatening its boasted peace ; And, like Time's finger on the dial's hand, Will stop it at the hour. — Ah, me ! — alas ! My mirth was of my head, not of my heart, And mock'd my patience. "yoseph. I am griev'd at this. Phraxanor. Nay, no physician e'er did heal a wound By grieving at the hurt. Yet a white hand O'erspreaded by the tendril veins of youth Hath quieted a lady's gentle side, And taught her how to smile. yoseph. . Madam, indeed A simple thing that's honourably fair Doth match my understanding and my wit. A complex riddle I could never learn. And am amaz'd at your astrologers, WTio fancy they foretel the act of Fate, By virtue of their gravity and beards. sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 107 With pondering eye still searching in a cloud, With consecrated wand of ebon wood Still groping for the jewel in the straw. Phraxanor. Oh! wise on the wrong side. If you would learn Strange matters, never choose a woman's tongue; For I perceive you still do swerve aside From tutoring of theirs. jFoscph. Would I could catch The motive of your words. My duty bids To answer you becoming my estate. Phraxanor. You might be pleas'd to catch it from my eyes — Do they look anger'd ? J^oseph. Gentle, to a fault. Phraxanor. They match my heart, for I have passions, sir ; And did I catch them pregnant with a spleen, Fiery or tame, or when I would command Their lustre to be tempting with encouragement, To any friend that's dear unto my breast, I'd pluck them out. yoseph. Madam ? Phraxanor. They are fair eyes — I know they are. For I have often paus'd io8 JOSEPH AXD act ii. At eve of sinking to the silken bath With maiden admiration at their power Reflected in the water hke twin stars; Yours bear upon their colour. Joseph. Madam, you did Command me to your presence, and I pray If you have cause for my attendance here Yet make it known unto your servant's ear. I've learn'd of my lord's kindness the respect Due to your honour'd service, and believe That though he is far distant from his home, His heart remains with me and my good trust. Phraxanor. Joseph, no more of that ! Joseph. Madam, alas! Phraxanor, Thou dwell'dst in Canaan, said'st thou ? Joseph. Madam, I did. What kind of air ? Phraxanor. Joseph. Warm and congenial. Phraxanor. Indeed ? — I've generally heard that men Are favour'd of the climate where they live. sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 109 Bethink thee — surely our hot Egypt has Swollen thy recollection of the place. Thou'rt like a man that's nurtur'd upon ice, Fed with a spongy snow, and rear'd upon A mountain's top where wands do freeze the air. — Congenial, said'st thou ? — There's no drop that's warm Coursing another round those purple veins. — Here, let me touch thy hand — it is cold — cold — I've Egypt's sun in mine. Joseph. Pure fire indeed. You do mistake ; my hand is not so cold; Though I confess I've known it warmer far, For I have struggled against heated blood. And am proficient in forbearances. Phraxanor. Indeed? Are women's wits, then, merely dust Blown by a puff of resolution Into their doting eyes ? Joseph. Wit is but air — For dust the queen becomes ; if she be good. She breaks to gold and diamond dust, past worth, The proper metal of a perfect star : If she be not, embalming is no cure. Phraxanor. Come, Joseph, how you play upon my words — Nay leave this wrangling — thy small mouth in sooth no JOSEPH AND ACT ii. Was made for sweeter talk. Nay, throw aside This ponderous mask of gravity you wear, . Or give it me, and I will cast it forth To where my husband governs his affairs; It will not reach him, nor be recognis'd More than if he were bHnd. — Come here, I say — Come here. J^oseph. What would you, madam ? I attend. Phraxaiwr. Why, put your fingers on my burning brow That you have stirr'd into this quenchable heat. And touch the mischief that your eye has made — Do it, I say, or I will raise the house. — Why, that is well. Now I will never say A sudden word to startle thee again. But use the gentlest breath a woman has. — Aye, now you may remove your hand — yet stay — I did not say withdraw it — you mistake : — You are too jealous of the wondrous toy ; Leave it with me and I will give you mine ; I hold it as a bird that I do love Yet fear to lose. — Fie on that steward's ring — Now should it slip, 'twill fall into my neck. J^oseph. My lord did order, ere he left the house. That certain merchants should be furnish'd forth Of the king's stores, and of his proper trust : They do attend me, and I must not let sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. Ill The keys rust idly at the steward's side. To honourable service I am bound, By duteous love unto our honour'd lord ; And this is just; therefore I take my leave. [Exit. Phraxa?ior. Scar'd like a timid dove when suddenly A human face looks in upon its nest ! Now should I be reveng'd of mine own face, And with my nails dig all this beauty out, And pit it into honeycombs. — Yet, no: I will enjoy the air, feed daintily, Be bountiful in smiles, and grace my charms, As the blown rose is beautified by leaves, Which else shows barely 'mongst the barren twigs: For he who will not stoop him for desire. Strides o'er that pity which is short of death. What ! to be pitied where I would be lov'd ! — Go to — I rather would be scorn'd outright. Nor lose myself in looking for my loss. The spring is full of flowers where to choose; And independence is the art of love. As giving no temptation unto power, Which in the untouch'd heart grows to contempt. She is a fool w ho beats her milky breast To find the pleasure which her lover wears As careless as the feather in his cap. This boy is young, honest, and virtuous : But he is also beautiful to see. It cannot be that honesty which lives 112 JOSEPH AND ACT II. Like to a beggar — or a miser, more — Minute by minute weighing of itself, Should quench the property of youthful blood. — I'll hang my arms, love's trophies, round his neck; No premature dull winter in his hand Will strike the citron from so fair a tree ; Nor will autumnal languishment decaying Leave me to sicken on so fair a stalk. — Vaporous desire like a flame delay'd Creeps with my pulse and babbles of its bounds, Too mean, too limited a girth for it. Impatience frets me — yet I will be proud, And muse upon the conquest ere 'tis won — For won it shall be. — Oh ! dull Potiphar, To leave thy wife and travel for thy thrift, While such a spirit tendeth her her wine. Ho — give me music, there! — play louder — so! \Exit. Scene III. — Potiphar''s House. Enter Phraxanor a:/;^/ Attendant. Phraxanor. Dost thou despise love, then ? Attendant. Madam, not quite; A ruby that is pure is better worth Than one that's flaw'd and streaked with the light: So is a heart. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 113 Pkraxanor. A ruby that is flaw'd Is better worth than one that's sunk a mile Beneath the dry sand of some desert place : So is a heart. Atte7ida?it. Then, madam, you would say That there is nothing in the world but love. Pkraxanor. Not quite : but I would say the fiery sun Doth not o'ershine the galaxy so far; Nor doth a torch within a jewell'd mine Amaze the eye beyond this diamond here. More than the ruddy offices of love Do glow before the common steps of life. Attendant. It is a knowledge worth the stooping for. Pkraxanor. The soul's supremacy admits no sex : I am a woman, and am proud of it. We are content that man shall take the lead, Knowing he ever will look back on us With doting eye, not caring how he steps. Walking thus blindly, we may guide him so That he shall turn which way shall please us best: So we can beckon him where'er we will, And lead him ever round about his grave. And in whene'er we list. All matters that are greater than ourselves I 114 JOSEPH AND act ii. Do trace their secret graces to our hands. For glory captains struggle in the fight, And play against the bulwark of the foe The o'erbrowing engines in the stubborn siege; But love doth brace the garland on his head, Making proud victory sweeter than it is. What warlike prince did doff his laurel yet But he did cast it in some fair maid's lap, Saying, ' My greatness I commit to thee, Mistress of it, and me, and my proud heart ' ? He who has won whate'er he still desir'd, •Strewing his path with flowers of sweet success, Is yet a poor and melancholic man, Sad as a beggar craving in a porch, Being denied the woman he does love. Love doth attach on independency : Bravery of suits enriching the bright eye. Sweetness of person, pleasure in discourse, And all the reasons why men love themselves; Nay, even high offices, renown and pr ise. Greatness of name, honour of men's regard. Power and state and sumptuous array. Do pay a tribute at the lips of love. Fetching their freshness and their darling grace From woman's approbation, — waiting still Close to her elbow till she please to smile Upon the cause whereof the man is proud, And say that it is well : our witchery Doth claim their rarity, as our prime jest: Tho' but the footstool of a royal king, When we betray and trip him to the earth sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. "5 His crown doth roll beneath us. — Horses have not Such power to grace their lords or break their necks As we, for we add passion to our power. They think us gentle, second unto them, And blind them to the wheels whereon we work. Our will is the strong rudder to our bark ; Our wit, the sails ; beauty, the swelling tide; Caprice, the tackle, serving to all winds, — Tho' light as nothing, yet it tells like truth ; And constancy, the anchor that's upheav'd, For ever falling and yet never struck. Thus do we voyage o'er the fickle world, Marking our image upon every wave, Still moving onward to what port we will. Ay, there it is ! who can control our wills ? Judgment and knowledge, grey-beard wisdom, are Devoted straw unto our burning will. — We will not fear : and if we spy a toy We'll reach it from the moon, with sudden hand — Why — what shall stop us in our enterprise? Attendant. Madam, your speech is fire. Phraxanor. Doth it burn you ? Attendant. I did not think that I had liv'd so long As I have liv'd. Phraxanor. Indeed ! — why do you blush ? I 2 ii6 JOSEPH AND act ii. Attendant. Because I never dar'd to trust my thought, And, lo! it has escap'd. Phraxanor. Do you, then, love ? Attendant. In sooth I ever fear'd to call it love: I knew a minstrel who had fallen in love. And, though he sung the more his plaintive notes, Yet never was he merry any more. Phraxajior. A wanton waste of frail mortality To keep the portal of a sepulchre, And wet a pleading lute with mellow tears. And hoop the heart with melancholy strains ! That man does dote upon his very grief; — The gaudy- colour'd story of his mind, Imagination, is his bed-fellow; The past and future being both forgot, The precious present running all to waste. There is an ancient fashion in the world, — E'en sigh and choose again. Attendant. This may be well. Phraxanor. It is the fivefold custom of the day. Attendant. One flower in my bosom were enough. And I have got one in my memory sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 117 I would not part with for a wilderness. Oh ! it is delicate and lovely too, Beyond the grossness of this heartless world. Your pardon, madam, in all your chronicles I never knew you credit your own sex For perfect truth. Phraxajior. Because it is a fable. Attendant. I hope not, madam. Phraxanor. Nay, it is a fable : Give me your arm over these ivory steps, — I'll sit in my lord's high seat, and prove it so. Truth is sublime ; the unique excellence ; The height of wisdom, the supreme of power, The principle and pivot of the world, The keystone that sustains the arched heavens ; And Time, the fragment of Eternity, Eternity itself, but fills the scale In truth's untrembling hand. His votaries Belong to him entire, not he to them ; The immolation must be all complete, And woman still makes reservation. Our feehng doth resemble the king's coin, No counterfeit, for it doth bear our weight. The perfect image, absolute, enthron'd : Now, the king's coin belongs to many men, And only by allowance is call'd his : ii8 JOSEPH AND act ii. Just so our feeling stands with circumstance. Whene'er the king doth give a golden mark, The addition is the image of himself. 'Tis so with woman's feeling — mark me well ; 'Tis true we have the power to love and hate, Indulge antipathies and sympathies ; But power to pierce through thought to absolute truth, — Man's reasoning imagination, — still Is compromis'd in our maternal sex; Ours is a present, not an abstract power; And, with it, so much art, which, in a woman, Did never fail to make a giant kneel. If Art and Honesty do run a race, Which tumbles in the mire ? Ask those who starve. Love is the purest essence of our souls. And who can tell how many modest maids Have paid its tribute in an early tomb. The martyrs of our proper sacrifice ! Question the practice and I do avouch, So marr'd is Nature, that this constancy (The rarest jewel that the world can boast) Is the fine failing of our weaker sex ; For men affirm, and I believe it too. That Truth is greater than the world beside : Therein we flag, herein our weakness faints : Meekness and patience, tenderness and love, These qualities are our inheritance ; Knowledge and wisdom, love of truth and power, Are the strong engines in the heart of man. Our chiefest virtue is our fortitude: sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 119 Yet maids who die in love do lack it much, Showing the world a bauble to their griefs. Our chiefest power is our stubborn will, Which we do lack the constancy to check, Seeing it is our agent and not Truth's, A giant dwarf, to forage for ourselves. Therefore, since Truth requires that I should lay Me prostrate at her foot and worship her, Rather than wield her sceptre and her power, I shall be bold to follow mine own way, And use the world as I find wit and means ; And as I know of nothing but old age To bound my will, so nothing will I fear. — But I waste words ; you do not understand. Attendant. Madam, assuredly your speech doth sound Like sense — I cannot tell Phraxanor. Silence, no more. Suppose you did expect the man you love To wait on you about this place and time, What habit and behaviour would you use ? Attendant. Were I, like you, a lady of estate, I would adorn my brow with a bright star Of crusted diamond's lustre — stain'd with gold, Like to a frosted sunflower, when the morn Blinks in the east, and plays upon its front. My liair should bear a tiara of bright gems ; I20 JOSEPH AND ACT II. And all my velvet should be loop'd about With colours blending into harmony. I would sip water fragranc'd with sweet gum, To give my breathing sweetness. Half reclin'd, I would receive him with a free discourse Which he should lead, wherein I'd acquiesce. Phraxafior. Ah, child ! there lies more mischief in a smile Than in the king's own house, and all his waste . Of wreathed gold and weighty jewelry. — Come, help to dress me straight. Atteiidant. What fashion, madam ? Phraxanor. The sultry hour well suits occasion; — That silk of gossamer like tawny gold — Throw it on loosely : — so, 'tis well ; yet stay, — See to the neck ; fit thou some tender lace About the rim. The precious jewel shown But scantily is oft desired most, And tender nets scare not the timid bird. A little secret is a tempting thing Beyond wide truth's confession. — Give me flowers That I may hang them in my ample hair; And sprinkle me with lavender and myrrh. Zone me around with a broad chain of gold, And wreath my arms with pearls.— So— this will do— And in good time, for yonder Joseph comes, {Aside. Which saves me the command to bring him here : Give me a cup of wine. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 121 Attendant. Amber or purple ? Phraxanor. Amber with the spice of Araby. — I hear his measur'd yet elastic step Staidly advance along the corridor, And from this damask'd alcove unobserv'd Can contemplate his beauty as he comes. What thoughtful wisdom in that face of youth, Blending in sweetness and in harmony; An eye that beams with gravity and fire, — Too much of that : — that must be tam'd, subdued To the great secret, — charm'd to oblivion: — That marble front a veined tablet fair. Whereon my lips shall trace my history ; His hair of that rare tint, nor black nor brown, Of olive amber'd in the sun's bright rays, That love to linger in its massy folds, Which o'er his shoulders, like a vexed wave, Rolls in disorder'd order, gracefully Meandering and curling on itself Youthful jDerfection, like a bursting rose, Glows into manhood, and yet lingers still In the proportions fine of moulding power, Partaking of the flower and the bud. A living grace, repose in action, O'erclouds him like an element divine : A fabled angel waiting for his wings, — Surely this man's inspir'd ! In his r e tiring modesty lies hid ,22 JOSEPH AND ACT 11, A secret charm of native innocence. Ah! too much virtue is a naughty crime That never yet grew old in this grey world. Oh ! for an artist with a subtle hand, A soul inflam'd, ahunger'd of renown, To deck my chamber with this undrap'd grace ! Lo ! I find nature is a novelty, — The silken study of a courtier's life. Fading before this youth's simplicity. Enter Joseph. 'yoseph. Madam, so please PJvaxauor. I'll hear thee by and by. Myrah, depart; yet stay, and first arrange My sandal, that unseemly doth escape. Higher still there, where the transparent silk Tapers towards the ankle. Have a care ; Let me not have to chide this fault again, \Exit Attendant. "jl^oscph. Madam, I have a message from my lord. Phraxanor. Put that to rest. Give me that golden box, Tis fiU'd with precious spikenard, queen of scents, \She spills it on his head- sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 123 'yoseph. Madam, what must I say ? My state is low, Yet you do treat me as you might my lord When he besought your hand. Phraxanor. Must I get up, And cast myself in thy sustaining arms, To sink thee to a seat ? — Come, sit thou here. Now I will neighbour thee and tell thee why I cast that ointment on thee. yoseph. I did not Desire it. Phraxanor. You did ask me for it. yoseph. Madam ! Phraxanor. You breath'd upon me as you did advance, And sweets do love sweets for an offering. My breath is sweet and subtle, yet I dar'd Not put my lips half close enough to thine To render back the favour ; so I say The obligation did demand as much — Why, what amaze is now upon thy face — Will nothing please? yoseph. Madam, your arm — pray move. 124 JOSEPH AND act ii. Phraxanor. You peevish bird — like a sick eagle I Could fain devour, but may not. Joseph. I beseech you, If you respect your place, or my fair name, Undo your prisoning arms and let me go. -i Phraxanor. Tremble to fear the woman you might love. "yoseph. Indeed, I would far sooner honour her. Phraxanor. Cold, cold, still cold ; I eye you like to one That dieth in my arms : beware you chill Me too : you do a wrong, and herein court Much danger. I would risk the world for you ; But blow me cold with your sharp frosty breath. And these same arms that gird you round about May turn to bitter chains. We are most dear In our affections ; in vengeance most resolv'd. Joseph. Madam, I have a spirit beyond fear. God knows the duty that I owe your lord Would break my heart did I commit this sin. But madam, hear the reason that I have, Why my lord's honour dearer is than life. I do remember me, when first I came sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. Into this land of Egypt, fugitive, Forlorn, and wretched, bruised at the heart, An iron collar round about my neck. Degrading mark of bitter servitude, Stall'd in the press of slaves upon the mart, Brimful of misery unto the crown. Forlorn, cast out, abandon'd, and bereav'd, A certain man did look into my face, As though to penetrate my very soul. By slow degrees conviction work'd on him. And through my sufferings he read my heart, And all his features melted at the sight. A sacred pity stole into his eyes, That dwelt on me in gentle tenderness. Oh ! balm of sweetness, what a holy joy Pour'd like a flood into my thousand wounds Of soul and body's sore affliction. Whereof I languish'd in my pilgrimage ! With his own hands he drew my collar off, Nor barter'd with the merchant for my price. He took me to his house, put me in trust. Justly and wisely kept his eyes on me, Weighing with care my actions and desert, And by degrees receiv'd me to his breast, O'erloaded me with benefits, and chang'd A chain of iron for a chain of gold, A wolf-skin kirtle for a purple cloak, A life of wretchedness for one of peace, A broken heart to love and tenderness. This man, so full of human charities, 125 126 JOSEPH AND act ii. Had many precious treasures, which he gave To me in trust, but far above the rest Was one in which all others were absorb'd, As in a holy consecrated shrine. Source of his life, his honour's nourishment, The loss of which would be a fell decree Of shame, despair, and infamy, and death. Madam, this honour'd, honourable man. Was noble Potiphar, your lord and mine. Need I add more ? I pray you let us talk on common things. Phraxanor. Neither I am not beautiful, perhaps, — Set up to be the universal fool. Why, here's a waste of parti-colour'd words — High-sounding phrases, empty eloquence. • My lord ! my lord.' It scenteth of reproach. Sir, have a care — blood waits on insult, ha! One way or other I will have your heart. yoseph. [Aside. This wondrous creature is of faultless mould. And grace plays o'er the movement of her limbs. Her marvellous beauty irresistible, A double charm, abandons languishment, In soft repose, hints at oblivion. In motion her imperious dignity, At secret hours, might dictate to the king. A most unscrupulous voluptuousness Mars Nature in her marvellous qualities; sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 127 A fascinating monster, fatal equally In action or reaction of her love ; Fair flower of poisonous perfume born to kill. Never the demon had an agency Where he had nought to do in work that's done. Take pity on yourself, on me, on him — [Aloud. On me, for you would hate me mortally When once you were awaken'd from this dream, To see the hideous monster you had made. So utterly impossible this seems. That I am prone to think it is a feint To try my truth and prove my honesty. Phraxanor. Ah! 'tis a feint that burns my body up, And stirs my spirit like a raging sea. Think you to pay in words?— deeds — deeds! For I can tell you that you have in hand One who will have no debts. 'yoseph. It is enough. 'Tis time this hopeless contest had an end. I have borne this besieging patiently. Still hoping to arouse your modesty. Oh! do not force the loathing that lies hid Within my gall to rush into my face. Phraxanor. This is the greatest blessing that you shun. Joseph. Or the worst sin. 128 JOSEPH AND act ii. Phraxatwr. Oh ! weigh not with such scales. Joseph. Oh ! madam, have a care. Phraxanor. Listen, or else I'll set my little foot upon thy neck; — • Thou art like a beautiful and drowsy snake, Cold, and inanimate, and coiPd around Upon a bank of rarest sun-blown flowers. My eye shall be the renovating sun "yoseph. Madam, forbear : I'm sick to think on it. Phraxa?ior. You overdo this art, for Nature sure Never did put disgust upon a lip So near a woman's : an empoison'd cup Might curdle all the features of thy face ; But this same blandishment upon my brow Could never chase the colour from thy cheeks. 'ifoseph. Love, being forc'd, so sickeneth the sense, That dull monotony is nothing to it. — A pallid appetite is sweeter far Than shocked modesty and fierce distaste. Phraxanor. You are too dead a weight. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 129 Why, let me go. Phraxaiior. My arms are faint ; smile thou, they're ribs of steel. 'yoseph. The sun ne'er shined in a pitch-black night. Phraxanor. Oh! ignorant boy, it is the secret hour The sun of love doth shine most goodly fair. Contemptible darkness never yet did dull The splendour of love's palpitating light. At love's slight curtains, that are made of sighs, Though e'er so dark, silence is seen to stand Like to a flower closed in the night; Or, like a lovely image drooping down With its fair head aslant and finger rais'd, And mutely on its shoulder slumbering. Pulses do sound quick music in Love's ear, And blended fragrance in his startled breath Doth hang the hair with drops of magic dew. All outward thoughts, all common circumstance, Are buried in the dimple of his smile : And the great city like a vision sails From out the closing doors of the hush'd mind. His heart strikes audibly against his ribs As a dove's wing doth freak upon a cage. Forcing the blood athro' the cramped veins Faster than dolphins do o'ershoot the tide K I30 JOSEPH AND act n. Cours'd by the yawning shark. Therefore I say Night-blooming Ceres, and the star-flower sweet, The honeysuckle, and the eglantine, And the ring'd vinous tree that yields red wine. Together with all intertwining flowers, Are plants most fit to ramble o'er each other. And form the bower of all-precious Love, Shrouding the sun with fragrant bloom and leaves From jealous interception of Love's gaze. — This is Love's cabin in the light of day — But oh ! compare it not with the black night, — Delay thou sun, and give me instant night — Its soft, mysterious, and secret hours ; The whitest clouds are pillows to bright stars, Ah ! therefore shroud thine eyes. Joseph. Madam, for shame ! — Phraxanor. Henceforth, I'll never knit with glossed bone. But interlace my fingers among thine, And ravel them, and interlace again, So that no work that's done content the eye. That I may never weary in my work. J^oseph. Would that my lord were come! Phraxanor. Thy hair shall be The silken trophy of the spirit of Love, Where I will lap, fair chains, my wreathed arms. sc. III. HIS B HE THREAT. 131 What's to be done? Madam, give way, I pray you. Phraxanor. Beware ! you'll crack my lace. 'Joseph. You will be hurt. Phraxa7ior. Oh ! for some savage strength ! yoseph. Away ! away ! Phraxanor. So, you are loose — I pray you kill me — do ! Joseph, Let me pass out at door. Phraxanor. I have a mind You shall at once walk with those honest limbs Into your grave. Joseph. Are you a lady, madam ? Phraxanor. I was so, but I am a dragon now : My nostrils are stuff 'd full of splenetive fire ; My tongue is turned into a furious sting, With which I'll strike you — Ha ! be sure I will Joseph. Madam, I did desire you no offence, K 2 132 JOSEPH AND act ii. Phraxanor. Death and perdition, no ! 'yoseph. Your love is lost on me, And I refus'd your ofifer ; which was wise. Phraxanor. Oh ! was it so? have you so much scorn left? Unload it in my lap — let me have all, That I may hate with cause. Malice is proud, Nor yields to trifles — nay, despise me more. Joseph. I ne'er despis'd the lady of my lord, — Only her vice. Phraxanor. My lord — my lord — canst thou Not mouth that word distinctly from my lady ? My lord ! — He surely shall be paid full home That honours lords above a lady's love. Thou hast no lord but me, — I am thy lord : And thou shalt find it, too— fool that I was To stoop my stateliness to such a calf Because he bore about a panther's hide. That is not blood which fainteth in thy veins, But only infant milk. Thou minion ! Bought up for drudgery with idle gold, How dar'st thou look or wink thy traitorous eye. Much less to think, when I command thy will ? Oh, impudence ! to scorn a noble dame ! sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 133 Were't not that royalty has kiss'd my hand I'd surely strike thee. 'jl^oseph. Madam ! be temperate. Phraxanor. Who bade thee speak, impudent slave? beware ! I'll have thee whipp'd. — Oh ! I am mad to think That ever I should bring myself to scorn For such a stubborn minion as thou art. Ha ! — thou mere shadow — wretched atomy ! — Fill'd full of nothing — making a brave show, Like to a robe blown with the boastful wind — Thou worse than ice, for that melts to the sun — Disgrace to Egypt and her feverish air — Thou shalt not stay in Egypt. Joseph. I grieve at that. P/iraxanor. I am chang'd. Thou shalt stay here — and since I see There is no spirit of life in all this show, Only a cheat unto the sanguine eye, Thou shalt be given to the leech's hands To study causes on thy bloodless heart Why men should be like geese. — A pretty pass I've brought my dauntless spirit to. These knees, That ne'er did bend but to pluck suitors up, And put them out of hope — Oh ! I am mad — These feet by common accident have trod 134 JOSEPH AND act n. On better necks than e'er bow'd to the king; And must I tie them in a band of list Before a slave like thee ? Joseph. Still I look honestly. Phraxanor. Thy looks are grievous liars, like my eyes ; They juggled me to think thou wert a man. If seeming make men thou art one indeed. Seeming, forsooth ! Why, what hadst thou to do, When thou might'st feast thy Hps on my eyehds, To hang thy head o'er thy left shoulder thus (Like to a madman doting on a straw Past the wide wonder of the precious world), Blinking at Honesty, and so beguil'd With its full semblance stuff 'd with nothing real; While I, like a congealed icicle Or some dull yew-tree brooding o'er a grave, Was shunn'd avoidably ?— Thou Honesty! Like the arm'd tooth within the gilded snake, Making its beauty fear'd and yet admir'd. For that its poison is of precious use. Thou that mak'st nothing of a dame like me. Show me thy proper pet, that when one such In all her soberness may meet my eye, I may prepare to burn her with my gaze, And twit her with my scorn. Joseph. Honest women sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 135 Are made of tender stuff, and yet too tough To warp or quail before the eye of vice. Madam, have you no shame ? Phraxanor. Nor will not have : When crowned with success, shame laughs aloud; When conquer'd, shame is of itself asham'd. I am grown childish and inconsequent ; \Aside. Why, what have I to scan that's critical ? My wounded spirit is benumb'd and bruis'd. And seeks to lose itself in wandering. I may be vanquish'd, but never will be weak. Thou art not form'd to love, but ever to be lov'd. [A/oud. J^oseph. [Aside. This fascinating danger walls me round, Leaving no door that's open to escape. She's gone too far for one who ne'er recedes, And her blind passion, as a torch illum'd, Will ne'er recoil before explosion. A single hope remains invisible, A silken thread to carry all this weight. Could I allume a virtuous fire in time, We were all sav'd ! Ah ! feeble enterprise, Dangerous as hopeless : Eloquence and Truth Befriend me in this dire extremity ! 'Tis true there is a common name call'dlove; [A/02/d: But love and love is union opposite, Two flames of different colour and of heat, 136 JOSEPH AND ACT II. One that consumes and one again that charms, Pure element of continuity. Fancy's inconstant idol still remains, — All is not love in sensuality, — A day's beginning and a month to end. Phraxanor. Why, here is heyday logic ! 'tis this hour That I am born ; through all my flowery youth I have been following a miracle, A solid, consequent, substantial dream ; Ha ! ha ! forgive me, Joseph, that I laugh ; Thou art the strangest nothing I e'er saw. 'yoseph. As nothing, then, let me be entertain'd, And leave me to my own oblivion. Seeing that nothing can commit no sin. Enough for me my insignificance. Phraxanor. I am not curious, yet fain would catch This light aerial exposition. Joseph. And to what end ? Alas ! it were in vain ; In measure we advance our roads divide, And only tend to the Antipodes. Your soul and body own but one idea, Nor mine : each tendance, — light and darkness dire! Phraxanor. Now by all nature I am curious. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 137 Lest you suppose me taken in your net Of phrases form'd of silken gossamer, I pray you deign to aid my ignorance. "jFoseph. The first great attribute is modesty, Source of self-government and self-respect : 'Tis ever delicate — in giving all Seems to give nothing, hence equality ; Consciousness absorb'd in sympathy Is ever present abnegation, And therefore generous in tenderness ; The fire that burns is intellectual. So mind and body are combin'd in one — Altar of constancy, high honour's throne, Where reigns in confidence its lord elect. This said, 'tis virtue, — all unsaid is vice, Be it within or else without the laws ; The heart is not a gallery to hang A line of portraits equal fair and false, A gaudy history of sin and shame. Phraxanor. Is there still more of this most precious woof? The spinning out would take a summer's day. Joseph. Yes, madam, there is more : still a last word To waste like those that have preceded it, One supreme thought that you have never had, One that my courage fails me to divulge Without your special approbation. 138 JOSEPH AND act ii. Phraxanor. Joseph lack courage? — Joseph's courage fail? I of all beings cannot credit that ; But since you say in doleful verity I am the source of this fine energy, Not only I consent, but do command. 'yoseph. Wedlock, altho' abandon'd and forgot, Still lives in archives and in chronicles ; Word of reproach to all duplicity. Why marry, being free ? Is't that to-morrow May mock to-day, — that the reputed son Should shame the sire, — a living lie to all Posterity, — inheriting the curse. Dishonouring the line of ancestry? Passion cosmopolite poisons the eye, And demons pass for gods, — the vicious, The vile, the abandon'd, and perchance the slave ! Depository of a glorious race, There breathes not on the earth a nobler man Than your large-hearted and confiding lord. Think on your vows ! Be constant and be wise ! Phraxa7ior. Well, have you ended ? Is there nothing more ? Joseph. Or rather, madam, nothing has been said. Phraxanor. Grace ! Grace ! You grow so dull and tedious sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 139 That if it were not for my traitorous eyes You'd cure me of this passion thro' my ears. Speak, and be brief. — There lacks equality : If, madam, with a virgin heart you woo'd, Unknowing all in native innocence, Seeking a virgin heart to correspond, Tho' somewhat bold, a fascination still Might breed compassion, sympathy, and love Wherein a shock'd imagination Had neither rival nor co-partnership. Yet you ask all ; and think it much to give (Enthron'd on your offended dignity) A yet divided subdivided half, — A soul beyond a body, if you will. But rather say a soulless body's zest, — A self-consuming sacrificing fire Without an echo to its egotism — (Still I insist there's no equality) — A flickering and vacillating flame, Feeding the summer embers of the blood, Where spring and autumn are alike unknown, And winter waits with palsied icy hand, Eager to gather up the parched bones, And prematurely cast them to a grave Where gapes eternity! I am not the senseless creature you suppose, But stand upon my honour, and will have Substance unshadow'd — either all or none. I40 JOSEPH AND act ii. Phraxa?Jor. The great magician has laid by his wand, The circle of his magic art is run. Would you have my opinion of all this ? 'Tis — that we waste our time on idle words. Oh ! I have been a fool to rave about — I have mistook my passion all this while. Thou implement of honesty, it is Not scorn but laughter that is due to thee. I'll keep thee as an antic, that when dull Thou may'st kill heavy time. — Look up, thou slave : A woman's pity lodges by remorse : I never knew a danger I did fear. Think'st thou that honesty will save thee now From ignominious death ? Joseph. God knows, not I ; I never will be guilty of disgrace ; If it do come, I'll bear it as I've borne Your burthens ; sweat I may, — never complain. Phraxanor. Dry as a wild boar's tongue in honesty — And yet that hath an essence tending to Its savage growth. Thou shock of beaten com ! Thou hollow pit, lacking a goodly spring, Tempting the thirsty soul to come and drink. Then cheating him with dust and barrenness ! Thou laughable affection of man's form ! sc. in. HIS brethren: 'ypscph. Madam, you beat the air ; your sarcasm keen Preceding your revenge touches me not ; Your wrath still glances o' the dangerous side, And hits yourself. Phraxaiior. Are all these Canaanites Like you ? ha ! Joseph. An they were, 'twere no disgrace. Phraxmior. I'll prick my arm, and they shall suck the blood, To make men of them — for a need, I trow. Ah ! you poor temperate and drowsy drone — You empty glass — you baulk to eyes, lips, hands — Ha, ha ! I will command the masons straight Hew you in stone and set you on the gate, Hard by the public walk where dames resort; Therein you shall fool more admiring eyes (A plague upon the embers in my throat). For you fool'd mine, and I like company. It is the proper stuff whereof you're made, Your colour and your heat are counterfeit, Like a stone image, fit to be admir'd. But rather to be mock'd than to be lov'd — There shall you stand, the mark of my contempt. Joseph. You do me bitter wrong — unlady-like — 141 142 JOSEPH AND act a. A scourgeable, a scarlet-hooded wrong, When thus you pack my shoulders with your shame. Phraxanor. Ha ! have I touch'd thee ? art thou sensible ? I prythee do not fret, my pretty lute ; I shall shed tears, sweet music, if thou fret. Thou shalt be free, like a rare charmed snake, To range a woman's secret chamber thro' — Here, take my mantle, gird it o'er thy loms. And steep thy somewhat browned face in milk : I have a sister, a young tender thing, To her I will prefer thee, a she squire. To brace her garments, and to bleach her back With sweet of almonds. A dull parrot thou! Tiring her idle ear, and gaping for An almond for thy pains. May the huge snake That worships on the Nile, enring and crush thee ! 'Joseph. This may be well, but it affects not me. Phraxanor. Oh ! madam, do not fret — madam, I say. 'yoseph. Oh, peace ! you pass all bounds of modesty. Phraxanor. Pray write upon thy cap ' This is a man ' — A plague and the pink fever fall on thee ! I am thrown out : thou'st nettled me outright. — sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 143 Who knocks there ? wait awhile, the door is fast — Nay, stand thou here ! I will not let thee pass. Enter Attendant. Attendant. Madam, the noble Potiphar's return'd. J^oseph. My business was to tell you of this thing. But your great passion still o'erflooded it. Phraxanor. I'm sick of two extremes, both desperate. \Aside. Tameness doth lodge in dove-cots in a farm ; Spleen, with wild eagles, in the mountain pines. I'll purchase nothing of this pale tameness : I cannot sue again without disgrace. Yet I would sooner conquer on my knee Than yield me with a crown upon my head To the blank issue of my foil'd desire. I am unus'd to this weak tenderness, This soft return where folly mocks itself : With closed eyes I laugh myself to scorn, — Open I dote past hfe's identity. My passive blood springs sudden to my heart, Seeking for Joseph in each burning vein. Oh ! dream personified of waking sleep. Enchaining charm of body and of mind. Breaking all bounds, flying to either pole, Twining for ever in a circling spell, — 144 JOSEPH AND act ii. Ah ! Joseph, all my fierce disgust lies dead : At sight of thee I e'er return forlorn. Oh^ tyrant Love, thy tyranny is mine ! Bethink thee friend, be merciful in time, [A/oud. Nor over cruel to thyself and me ; — The past shall fade, — memory expire in hope! The spark still burns of all this mighty fire, And love possesses me, that I have lov'd. The setting sun with fiery galaxy O'erfloods the fulgent west with dying gaze, And still I yearn to bathe in such a light. There is a second childhood in departing love, — No tenderness so keen as that adieu ; The blood of Joseph ebbeth from my heart ! — My other self, if you will take my hand, I'll whisper you hereafter. 'Joseph. Madam, no ! Phraxanor. Oh ! fool, you tie a stone about your neck, And cross the yawning gulf upon a reed. Hark! 'tis the main roars hoarsely underneath. \A pause. Phraxanor kneels to Joseph in apparent supplication. J^oseph. Madam, for shame ! Rise, I beseech thee, rise! Kneel to thy husband, and I'll kneel to thee. \She springs to Iter fed. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 145 Phraxanor. By all our altars and their leaping flames, The searching malice of our angry gods, But I will be reveng'd upon thee, slave! Could I have wrung from him a tardy ' yes ' \Asidc. The echo of my laughter had been heard Hence to the desert pyramids and back; For now I loathe him in my inmost soul, — The flame rejected by this wall of ice Returns for ever to consume myself. Withering in my own remorseful fire, Baffled, besham'd, humiliated, lost; But I will be reveng'd I- This is a bitter silence for thee, slave ! \Aloiid. My mind is active. Joseph. Would your heart were so. Phraxanor. My heart, that was so red, is black as night ; I muse on the unfathom'd mystery Of the profound profoundest of the sea, A dwelling of eternal solitude. Confine of life, and realm of mute despair, A spell ne'er broken, save by monsters dire, Unknown to man's imagination. Prowling the desert of this liquid world. For combat or for prey such prison must Be found out, or invented cunningly, The measure of my hatred and revenge. L 1 146 ^:,v. JOSEPH AND act n. By what fierce means I'll drive thee to thy grave, Or shroud thy life to come in misery, I \vill not speak ; so the discovery, Being unsure, will work more bitterly. yoseph. Oh ! dangerous woman, where will all this end? Phraxanor. Woman ! — Woman to me ! \She loosens a little dagger at her tuaist. Assuredly I shall lay hands on you — A common insult in a common name ! Sir, I am Phraxanor, of royal blood, The beautiful, the courted, the ador'd, Who, for the first and last time in her life, Hath vail'd her pride before a slave. — Ha ! Woman ! A word thy blood shall wash away. — He comes ! — An empty urn foUoweth in his train, Whereon is writ, in crimson characters, ' Joseph the Canaanite, the slave of slaves, The vilest of this country and his own.' He comes ! He comes ! my injuries rejoice ! I turn my back on thee as on the dead. E?iter PoTiPHAR and Attendants. Phraxanor. — Ah ! give me breath ! Potlphar. How fares it with my lady ? sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 147 Do you rather choose to strike your gentle breast With violence than press that breast to mine ? Phraxanor. You return merrily, my lord. Potiphar. Why not ? I urg'd my horses onward for thy sake. Phraxanor. The bird doth whistle over hill and dale, Leaving its roost for food and exercise, And joyously it whistles back again ; But all its mirth is turn'd into a moan When in its nest the weasel is espied Sucking its speckled eggs. Potiphar. Why, what is this ? Some witch, or some magician has been here. Your speech is idle, but your look is fierce. — How is this ? Steward, is my household sound ? I will not ask, for never at thy hands Have I found aught but equal justice yet, Duty, and due respect. Embrace me, madam. Phraxanor. Stand off ! impurity doth 'witch my form, Which blood must wash away. I'm haunted here With a loose demon waiting to be chain'd. Potiphar. What dost thou say? L 2 148 JOSEPH AND ACT u. Phraxanor. Listen. Stand forth, thou slave! — Thou Hebrew bondman unto Potiphar, I do forgive thee that thou ap'st the step Of honesty, for thou hast frugal need Of all the good belonging to thy soul, And all the art that thou canst conjure up To get thine evil drift accredited. Potiphar. I hop'd to find a steward of good trust, A wholesome household of good government. And a fair wife content and unaggriev'd. These things I left ; but here, alas ! I find Some perilous rottenness instead of peace. Phraxanor: Pray give me leave. Bondman, report thyself. I do believe thy honesty so great Unto this noble lord, thy master, here, That of the stream of gold from the king's treasury. Which thro' thy hands did course to other men's Around the suburbs and the city mart, No doit did ever stick unto thy palm Tending to thy particular behoof; Nor e'er did gild thy honest fingers more Than in its passage through them ; yea, I think That thou hast prun'd his interest jealously, Hast kept his cares still crouching at his feet. And (rarity of servants) still hast made His interest thine ; and his fair name abroad sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 149 Hast dew'd as freshly as if all his shame Should have been reap'd by thee. Is not this true f" I do believe it. Speak, — and nothing fear. Joseph. This is a little — yet I do not see Why you should wish to prattle of my good. Phraxanor. Right — right. 'yosepJi. But since I have no cause to fear Or any act or accident of mine, My tongue shall show the record of my heart, Just as my deeds did only want a name. When I was brought a stranger to this land And sold unto the chain of my dear lord, Out of an honest bosom I besought That in His mercy God would pity me. And lift me up a little from the dust j Whereat this Master of the universe Did turn my lord's eye in his servant's face ; And he was pleas'd, and tied his trust on me, E'en as a man descending in a pit Doth brace his rope about the safest tree. Fair trust begetteth confidence, for men Do waste the precious treasures of the spring Still looking onward to the spring to come : Therefore my lord did hand me these his keys That never yet had left his proper side. And soundly slept upon my stewardship. 150 JOSEPH AND act ii. Nor ever yet hath act of mine arous'd The peaceful slumber that he hath enjoy'd, Nor spotted— -=— Phraxanor. You grow tedious ; let me Finish the goodly picture of your work. Your trust was pure as silver, bright as flame, Forg'd in your equity, fin'd in your truth. Stubborn in honesty as stapled iron. Your charity was wise, like soaking rain That falleth in a famine on that ground That hath the seed lock'd up — so far all honour : Your love and duty to my lord were like A mine of gold — but out, alas ! the fault — You fell in twain like to a rotten plank When he was tempted in to trust his wealth — There was no bottom to't, he broke his neck. — Will^^M praise limi, my honour'd lord ? Potiphar. Why so ? Phraxanor. Because he never must be prais'd again. A howling dirge for ever in his ears Buries this praise. Steward, give up thy keys. J^oseph. Obedience ever was my fault, my lord. Here I do lay them at your gracious foot: If I did e'er deserve to lose them thus, sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 151 May they fall unto chains and hug me round Like some vile reptile crushing out my life ! Phraxanor. I have a mind to haul thee by the hair, Singular idiot, that cannot fear — My indignation, that should burn thee up, Doth fall like fire on water. Tell me, thou slave. Arise, and front my wrong'd nobility. Nor slink in wonder on thy craven knees. In what part of my body canst thou spy The name impure ? wherein do I look false ? — My lord — my lord — the man that you did love Hath much abus'd me. Potiphar. Ha ! — if it be so Phraxanor. If!— When Phraxanor has said there is no if. Your doubt implied is all excusable, And bred of his profound hypocrisy. But hear us out : simplicity and truth The steward knows command conviction. Say I would change the vintage for the room, Still in the passage I did find him there, Like to a lobbied spaniel that mistakes Some stranger for his owner; like that dog He still would wind about my hasty step. And feign as he would leap into my lap. Whene'er I chanc'd to air me in the street, 152 JOSEPH AND act ii. Still was this steward going the same way. Whene'er I call'd attendance from my slaves, They were employ'd, and he straight started forth. The chamber where you sleep he did invade, But cries and threats yet held him in the slips And scar'd his purpose from him. — If it be so ! Why on this spot, and at this very time You take him laying shameful hands on me. Potiphar. Wherefore did you not give him to the guard ? Phraxanor. Aye, there it is : his art and guile are such (Being more dangerous because unknown) That I dar'd trust my honour in no hand But my dear lord's ; and therefore I bore all (Tho' somewhat ruffled) patient as I could. Potiphar. So honest and so vile? This is most strange. Phraxanor. Oh ! not at all — no whit — 'tis nothing strange. The fox doth never steal into the fold Till he hath forecast all his premises. The thief that scorns your money and is bent To crop the blossom of your secret peace, Comes crown'd with flowers like May, as sweet as June, And with a mask stolen from the wardrobe of Fair honesty, and glean'd of other men. He is the adder both in sight and touch — sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 153 Beautiful malice, glistening, deadly wretci> I will example you : a man so acts Fair with himself and fairer still to you : He passes all his offices and trust, And gleaneth honour in each enterprise. This may not be all honour in the main ; Perchance his face is feign'd. He hath some end Worth all this pains to him in answering. Grant that a base man may live honestly ; Wherein detect him, and how lind him out ? Why, when the secret end for which he works Is laid unguarded 'fore his greedy eyes He draws him to a point : and, let me ask. Is not a woman mettle for this trail ? And does not all this pompous virtue blind Her lord's keen eye, engaging hers the while To lodge him in her thought for his behalf? Am not I fair ? is not the steward good ? Pleasing my lord with his fair services? — My lord, away ; the steward's goodness curds : He casts lascivious eyes unto my bed ; Lays nets about my feet, stuns my sick ears With protestations and beseechings, urg'd With oaths enough to undermine a tower; As tho' my lord were dead and in his grave, Or loosely wiv'd. — Oh! it is very plain. Marvel not I am so completely learn'd In all the meanness of this vicious course ; I have had time to think upon the cause Who bore the penalties. 154 JOSEPH AND act ii. Potiphar. Away, away ! Speak not unto me. Oh! thou shameful boy, Were it not for the virtue of my wife Thou hadst wnuig my heart in grief, with less remorse Than vultures draw the entrails of their prey. Thou most ignoble boy ! lowness, I see, Be it e'er so cherish'd or exalted, will Still turn to its own bias. — Wretched knave. Thou dost abuse sweet nature in thy form 3 Proficient in low craft, not honesty — Artful deceiver to all good men's eyes — Bred, none know where, 'mongst wretched villanies, And nurtur'd by the worst of human kind. Thy father surely was some ruffian knave Joseph. Cut me to pieces, or imprison me, I will not say a word to grieve thine ear, For I do love thee, sir, dear as my life — But by the holy God who reigns above I'll not stand tamely by, these arms unbound, And hear my sire abus'd, for I love him Dearer than the respect I owe to you. Phraxanoi'. Ah ! a filial virtue added to the rest. Who was thy father, didst thou ever know ? Or dost mistake some honest man for him ? 'yoseph. A man who was a herdsman in the vales sc. III. ///-S" BRETHREN. 155 Of gentle Canaan, full of woods and streams ; Who, thro' his industry and honest thrift, Hath oxen, ploughs, and granaries, and tents, Cattle, and bondmen, and a goodly Hock Of noble sons who honour his grey head ; Wherein he feels more happy than a kmg. Ruling of love, not power. Phraxajior. You were resolv'd, Howe'er you love perfection in your sire. To choose a certain and a sudden way To find disgrace, and end your wretched life Despis'd, unnoted, wicked, and forlorn. 'jFoseph. Madam, pray peace. Oh ! is it not enough That you do lead me in a silken string, Like a young heifer to a sacrifice, But you must goad my willingness along. Not my delay ? Phraxauor. What means the slave ? I trow This is some cunning trick to wind about. I do not think that any honest man Could e'er be sire to one so base as thou. 'yoscph. Still I am patient, tho' you're merciless. Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch There is no city feast, nor city show. 156 JOSEPH AND ACT II. The encampment of the king and soldiery, Rejoicings, revelries, and victories, Can equal the remembrance of my home In visible imagination. Even as he was I see my father now. His grave and graceful head's benignity Musing beyond the confines of this world. His world within with all its mysteries. What pompless majesty was in his mien, An image of integrity creates, Pattern of nature, in perfection. Lo ! in the morning when we issued forth. The patriarch surrounded by his sons, Girt round with looks of sweet obedience, Each struggling who should honour him the most; While from the wrinkles deep of many years, Enfurrow'd smiles, like violets in snow, Touch'd us with heat and melancholy cold. Mingling our joy, with sorrow for his age : There were my brothers, habited in skins ; Ten goodly men, myself, and a sweet youth Too young to mix in anything but joy; And in his hands each led a milk-white steer, Hung o'er with roses, garlanded with flowers. Laden with fragrant panniers of green boughs Of bays and myrtle interleav'd with herbs. Wherein was stor'd our country wine and fruit. And bread with honey sweeten'd, and dried figs, And pressed curds, and choicest rarities. Stores of the cheerless season of the year ; sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 157 While at our sides the women of our tribe, With pitchers on their heads, fiU'd to the brim With wine, and honey, and with smoking milk, Made proud the black-ey'd heifers with the swell Of the sweet anthem sung in plenty's praise. Thus would we journey to the wilderness. And fixing on some peak that did o'erlook The spacious plains that lay display'd beneath, Where we could see our cattle, like to specks In the warm meads, browsing the juicy grass, There pitch our tent, and feast, and revel out, — The minutes flying faster than our feet That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice, Making fatigue more sweet by appetit-e. There stood the graceful Reuben by my sire, Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun. And, like him, stealing renovation Into the darkest corner of the soul. And filling it with light. There, women group'd, My sisters and their maids, with ears subdued, With bosoms panting from the eager dance, Against each other lean'd ; as I have seen A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale Oppress'd with rain, upon each other bend, While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some way off My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for fame, Each two with their two heifers harness'd fast Unto the shaft, and labour'd till the sweat Had crept about them like a sudden thaw. Anon they tied an eagle to a tree, 158 JOSEPH AND ACT 11. And strove at archery; or with a bear Struggled for strength of Umb. These were no slaves — No villain's sons to rifle passengers. — The sports being done, the winners claim'd the spoil: Or hide, or feather, or renowned bow, Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse. And then my father bless'd us, and we sang Our sweet way home again. Oft I have ach'd In memory of these so precious hours. And wept upon those keys that were my pride, And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night. Alas ! God willing, I'll be patient yet. Phraxajwr. This must be seen to, it grows dangerous ; \Aside. The fool will steal away my husband's ears, And mar my triumph. 'Tis a sweet report: Thy kin, it seems, did never know of shame \AIoud. Till thou didst earn it. Joseph. Madam, did you speak ? PJu-axanor. Dull minion! yes, I did. Thou hast the blot Of all thy family: their infamy Is thy sole portion, and thou bear'st it well. Joseph. Vex me no more: I bend unto your wrench ; Pray you rest satisfied. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 159 Phraxanor. How came it, sir, Since you have gone so daintily about That you were sold to our Egyptian whips, Far from your boasted family and friends ? It argued not their love or deep regard To covet coin before your company. — Or were you, peradventure, stolen thence? Joseph. Madam, to save a blush, I cannot lie. My brothers sold me to the Midianites. F/iraxatwr. Go to — whose fault was this; or theirs, or thine? yosep/u Both theirs and mine, if I may judge aright. Phraxanor. Ha ! have I track'd you ? Some foul practices, Some evil, like this gross one of to-day, Expell'd you forth of their fair company — You did do vilely. Joseph. No, upon my life. Compassion, not reproof, is all that's due To me for this mischance, Phraxanor. Humph! — I do fear it. i6o JOSEPH AND act ii. Potiphar. Ah, Joseph ! wherefore hast thou done this thing? My choler's melted into burning tears Which rise in sadness from my grieved heart. I had no children, and the love I bore To thee was all paternal, and in spite Of the unnatural wrong, I cannot wring From out my bosom all the rooted love, Lest it should leave a sore and dangerous wound Too near my heart. What's to become of thee? y^oseph. No matter, my good lord ; but talk not thus, Or you will break my heart. Potiphar. Oh! fie— fie— fie!— Joseph. If I did ever wrong thee in an act, In thought, or in imagination, May I taste bread never again. — Oh ! God ! Try me not thus: my infirmity is love. I can be dumb and suffer, but must speak When there's a strife of love between two hearts. Phraxanor. Ha ! thou still weafst thy heart upon tliy tongue, And paint'st the raven white with cunning words: Slave, thou art over-bold, because thou think'st The grossness of thine outrage seals my lips: But thou shalt be deceiv'd; behold this chain : sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. i6i Say, did it fall in twain of its own weight, Or was it broken by thy violence ? Speak — liar! [She plucks him by the beard. "yoseph. Madam, try rather at my heart. Potiphar. Phraxanor, you forget your dignity. Phraxanor. My lord, my indented lips still taste of his. Myrah, bring water here and wash my hand — It is offended by this leprous slave. Passion is privileg'd. Did you but feel My wrong as it doth rankle in my breast You'd cleave him to the girdle. Potiphar. You shall have Full justice for the injury, ne'er doubt. — How durst thou do as thou hast been accus'd? Phraxanor. Thou hast denied me: what hast thou to say? Potiphar. And could st thou deal so shamefully by me ? Phi'axanor. Put him to that ; aye, let him answer that. Joseph. I'm like a simple dove within a net, — M i62 JOSEPH AND act ii. The more I strive, the faster I am bound. My wit is plain and straight, not crooked craft; The sight that reacheth heaven tires in a lane. Phraxanor. You will not answer; 'tis the strangest knave I ever met or heard of in my time : His impudence downright amazes me. — Slave ! do you know you've given me the lie, And laid my honour open to be scom'd? How long, I pray you, must I wait at hand Till you will condescend to cast my crimes And mar my honesty? Joseph. The truth is this : The character my lady hath bestow'd Is borrow'd of herself and fix'd on me To feed her disappointment and revenge. She would have tempted me, but I refus'd To heap up shame on my so honour'd lord. Phraxanor. Ha, ha! — there is your steward, honour'd lord — His master-piece of wit is shown at last. Ha, ha ! — I pray you now take no offence. But let him go, and slip your slight revenge. Now that the man is known I have no fear. Thus cunning ever spoileth its own batch — Doth it not, steward ? Hold him still in trust — But for this fault he were a worthy man. I take my leave, my lord, and shall retire : sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 163 You'll find me in my chamber: linger not, Unless your company should charm your stay, Which I shall take unkind. Steward, farewell ; For ever fare you well; and learn this truth — When women are dispos'd to wish you well Do not you trespass on their courtesy. Lest in their deep resentment you lie drown'd, As now you do in mine. I leave you, sir, Without a single comfort in the world. • \Exit. y^oseph. God is in heaven, madam! with your leave. Potiphar. I have a mind to cut thee all to pieces yoseph. Patience, dear lord ; thou wilt repent my blood. Potiphar. Or tear thee limb from limb, and strew thy bones About the walk where executions are Done in the city. Hark! sweet mercy's gate Now jarreth in my breast to shut thee out, A stranger thence for ever. Thou heldst my heart In trust, but I am glad to find it is Mine own again, since thou'dst have broken it. For thy sake I will never trust to man, Believe in gentle eyes, or honest brows. Or years of service. If it please thine ear (As being thy work of wit perchance it may) Know thou hast broke my faith with the fair world, M 2 1 64 JOSEPH AND ACT ii. And turn'd my eyes suspiciously upon Most honest men: and ever from this hour I do divorce thee, with the rest of men, From my sore bosom, — looking upon all As they did watch the moment to betray; For I did right, yet wrong, in trusting thee. — Go to thy dungeon, go. \Exit. jf^oseph. Ah! go thy ways. — The love I bear thee, noble Potiphar, And loss of thine, doth grieve me far beyond This woman's witchcraft and my own disgrace. — Come, put me underground: though not quite dead, For hope and patience keep me company. \Exit guarded. END OF THE SECOND ACT. sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 165 ACT III. Scene I. — In a Prison. Enter Joseph. "yoseph. There ever is a good side to be found Even in a man's bad fortune : for that I, Who am a prisoner and in disgrace, Do keep the keys, and am the gaoler here. Warder to mine own Hberty and ease. Integrity surmounteth accident; Its grief is pure, and mix'd with charity, Feehng for others more than for itself. In this invisible armour men may stand Within the grasp of danger and of death, And from the profound bottom of the heart Cry out content. — My lord's fair lady now, With eyes as quick to trammel as betray. Hath set her spell upon some other brow. — I, guiltless, suffer; she triumphs guiltily : Therein I am happy, fortunate, and glad. I am condemn'd unjustly by my lord ; But I, thank God, do know my innocence. 1 66 JOSEPH AND act in. And therein am I happy and content. I rise with Heaven, although I fall with man. Like music at a death, there is sweet pain Within the core of griefs, however sad; For retrospection is a precious shade, And God hath taught us there are better things Than any we can wail. That man rejects, And casts his fortune in an ignorant grave, Who thrusts his passion past his patience. Learn to fear God, love honesty, and thrive — Oh, there is physic in our injuries! A crown angelic, mix'd in mortal thorns! Say that you love some lady in her bloom, And she hath set her heart another way, — Still you do love yourself that you did love. And count your riches by your precious loss; And though you balm her memory with your tears, It is a blessing that you still can weep, And be enamour'd of ripe sufferance. — Say that some man hath got a noble heart Tied to the wheel whereon the nation works ; (Such slips there are, and such will ever be) — And say that wheel doth work a jealous round, Having no circle for the general good, But the particular behoof alone Of power abus'd, of grandeur, and renown; Why such a ruddy heart must bear the strain, Living on thought instead of action : And it is true, that they do never break, But, spite of pain, continual and severe, sc. I. HIS brethren: 167 Nourish them proudly, and do hug their griefs, With wonderful affection to the end. What sire hath lost his son, or son his sire, But time hath made his grief a holy joy? That which we lose, we mourn, but must rejoice That we have ever had. Wise Providence Doth star and split our sorrows severally, So that we may not fall into despair. If that the son be vicious, it is well That a vile course hath had a speedy end, — If virtuous, it is a balm that flows Athrough the sorrow of the time to come. I grieve that I have lost my father's house; But how I joy to weep and think of him! I grieve to think upon my brothers' sin ; But I do love my brothers past their sin. — Look up, you men, in poverty and grief: Weigh your deserts, amend the rottenness. And all the goodness nourish in the sun : Look out upon the world, and bow to Heaven, And take your stand as you did mean to run A true and prosperous race. — Remorseless men Are neither fit to live nor fit to die ; — All others are within the pale of hope, And cheerfulness and honesty will soon Lead them to love long life, and love themselves For virtue's sake. — What, ho ! there — up — arise ! 1 68 JOSEPH AND ACT m. Enter Chief Butler and Chief Baker. Chief Butler. Good morrow, Joseph. Chief Baker. Why should we up ? why rise ? Joseph. Because the sun doth through the grating peer. And on its beams ride hopes of better days. The eye of God so sphereth round the world. And penetrates to palaces and cells. Chief Baker. And you are merry that you see the sun Which is shut from you! — Would that my conceits Were fantasied like yours, — then any straw Would serve for laughter and encourage hope. J^oseph. Come — come — you are too dull — churlishly given. Chief Baker. Aye — I am given to a dungeon cell, And, wonderful to you, do not rejoice. 'jfoseph. And do you mumble o'er your just deserts ? What would you have ? You pass from day to day In sloth and idleness, which you do love; — Were you sent forth to grind the public corn, To split with wedges stubborn-grained wood, sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 169 Or task'd to some laborious exercise, You then would loath that life, and groan for this As a sweet pleasure and desir'd retreat. — Oh ! you do bear a poison in your mind That would not let you rest in Paradise. Your discontent doth go a tortoise pace And travels as it sleeps. — For shame — for shame ! — Have you done evil, swerved from the man? And will you sink yourself below the beast, And howl upon your fitting punishment ? Pray you conceive a sober, thoughtful life Is better worth than folly's restless round. Make of your mind a world wherein to dwell ; Your independence then is proof and wise ; And sweet content may mock these rusty keys. — Chief Baker. I marvel much that, being a prisoner. You keep the keys and yet respect the bolts, The means that lock you from your liberty. j Joseph. Because mine honesty is greater far Than love of liberty. Though I were sure That I should linger here till old and grey, I would not break my trust or fly my fate. The first is mean, and robs men of content; The last is cowardly, and lacking power. Chief Baker. Lend me the keys ; I'd answer thy rebuke With opposite action. I70 JOSEPH AND act hi. 'y^oseph. No, stay here and mend. — How is it you do look so sad to-day ? Chief Butler. I dream'd a dream, and it doth make me sad. Like to a thistle in the autumn wind, Each breath that smells of winter makes me shake. And robs me of some down. That which doth touch My estate, doth fright it; and this subtle dream Hath struck me like to news that's suddenly brought To one condemn'd to die — all hope — all fear — And yet more fear than hope ; for he more fears To die, than he did ever love to live : — So fares it with my hopes of liberty : I do more fear to stay within this place, Than I shall love my liberty without. Joseph. Tell me thy dream. Great God doth often show The secret path to good by such small means, Advancing so His majesty on fate, That men are masters of their destiny. A thing like this might save a sinking world. Whatever matters press against the heart, Though e'er so little in thy judgment's eye, Give them a sober ear. No good man's heart Did ever yet betray him, nor prove false To its possessor. Cunning, and craft, and guile. Malice, and thirst of blood, and every ill, Do emanate from passion and the head — Passion, that walks the ward 'twixt heart and brain, sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 171 Like to a mutinous captain arm'd in wrath. True hearts do never mix but in things good, And are benumb'd, insensible, and cold With any who do practise in foul vice; Therefore obey its feelings and discuss them : For human nature hath a curious way In answering ends divine. Tell me thy dream — I hope it tendeth to thy better cheer, For I do love thee well. Chief Butlej: Joseph, give ear ! Lo ! as I stood upon the barren ground A vine crept suddenly from out the earth, And into three fair branches spread itselfj And, climbing up, it did enrobe itself In leaves and tendrils of the palest green. And gradually they chequer'd o'er in hue Of sodden yellow, and the hanging grapes, That were as small and green as early tares, Did swell and pulp them to a luscious round, Lavish in purple richness ; over-bloom'd With fragrant dust, as blue as plums in June — And lo ! within my hand there was a cup, And I did pluck a heavy bunch of grapes. And forthwith press'd them into Pharaoh's cup — And gave him, and he drank. Joseph. Glory to God! Lo, you — I will unravel this your dream, And glad your ears, and renovate your heart : — 172 JOSEPH AND act hi. The branches of the tree are three full days. Within that time shall Pharaoh raise thine head, And thou again shalt fill thy former place, And hand his cup, and have thy stewardship. Now when thou standest at great Pharaoh's side I prythee think on him thou leav'st behind 3 Make mention of me unto Pharaoh's ear : Do not forget our bondage, in that hour; Seek thou to do me good, and speak me fair, For truly I am guiltless of the crime For which I suffer this imprisonment. A tissue of misfortunes is my life: Stolen from my father in the Hebrew land And sold into this country for hard coin, I have no friend to help me, — only God To speak to me, or listen to my griefs ; Wherefore that man who works me any good Doth hate my evil fortune, and I love Him like a brother. — So remember me. Chief Baker. The dream is good, and wisely it is solv'd. — I too have dream'd my dream : the while I stood, Three baskets white were balanc'd on my head; The third being fiU'd with meats of every kind. Even such as Pharaoh's table us'd to bear; And presently the wild birds did descend And eat from out thereof. 'Joseph. Thy dream too hath sc. II. BIS brethren: 173 A mark'd interpretation — heavy doom! The baskets are three days : in three days' space, At Pharaoh's high command, thou shalt be hang'd Upon a tree, where birds shall eat thy flesh. — Good and bad fortune thus on either side Teach me some gladness, that I'm not the last : Leaving me hope that I may win the first — Between them lies content. Scene II. — Pharaoh's Palace. Enter Pharaoh, Officer, Attendants, and Guards. Pharaoh. These dreams do trouble me past sufferance : Something most earnestly they do portend; My spirit is perplex'd, yet dull as lead. — Tedious anxiety and doubt, I see. Bear no respect to kings. Officer. The magi all, as knowing your desire, Are working at the scroll, and tracing out By mysteries and crooked subtleties The meaning of this visitation. — See where they come, but by their faces seem As if their divination was at fault, Or find it dangerous. — 174 JOSEPH AND act hi. Enter Magicians. Pharaoh. Now then, unfold Briefly and plain your knowledge in mine ear; For I am anxious, nor can brook delay — Pharaoh commands! First Magician. All honour to the king ! — The aid of magic and the course of art Have nm their circle : but we cannot find Within the mystic letters of our book An answer to thy dream. Fhaj-aoh. Fie on your beards ! — Fie on your gravity and silent lives, Your figur'd robes, and antic mummery! — I'll never trust you more. — What is all this ? You tell me 'tis your office to divine, And, when I put a question of some pith, Like stammering urchins cry, ' We do not know — We cannot tell, it is not in the book.' — Fie on it all ! your craft is but abuse, Or you disgrace it in your ignorance. — Second Magician. My lord the king doth judge his servants hardly. Pharaoh. Go — go — I do bespeak you very truly. — sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 175 What can I do? How shall I know this thing ? — Without the knowledge I shall never rest — Yet where to gather it ? Now, by my sword, I'd hold that man as dearly as my crown That could unfold me this perplexity. I would exalt him, and would make him feel What generosity a king can pay To those whose wisdom teach him patience. Chief Btitler. Pardon thy servant that he speaks unask'd. I do remember me of heavy faults. The chief of Pharaoh's bakers and myself Did grievously offend our lord the king. And in his justice he imprison'd us : We each did dream a dream : there was a man, A Hebrew youth, imprison'd in that ward ; To him we told our dreams, and he did straight Divine them by interpretation, — And as he did interpret, so the fact Did come to pass. Pharaoh. Swift ! swift ! and fetch this man. — The sweetest honey liveth in the weed ; And boastless wisdom often may be found Where magic never came. Eager desire Scorns nicety of means. The invisible winds Do fly our heavy sails ; and this proud pearl Grew of the dullest fish of all the sea ; Great mountains may be hid within a vale ; 176 JOSEPH AND ACT III. And waking men yet stumble upon fate. A drowning man did never scorn a straw; And I, a king, do catch at this small thread. — Go some, and bid them haste. — Magicians, hear ! You that are like the image by the fount Where water poureth from the gaping mouth, — So fluent wisdom should stream forth of yours. — How is it, being a king, that I have aches ? — How is it, being a king, that I must die ? — Since wisdom is your craft, we'll settle first A simple truth that I have leam'd myself: No man was ever great in wisdom yet (For cunning is but as a rotten bridge) That was not greater in his honesty. First Magician. Kings are kings over men : Nature, a king o'er kings, Pharaoh. Oh, mince it not ! — I am in mind to hear the truth to-day. We are the golden mockeries of our age, And time doth look on us as other specks. Filling a common space in stately tombs; And as a spirit hovering in the air Through space doth muse upon our mortal acts (Who, if the crown be off, knows not the king From any ofiicer), so future time Doth look on us, or sees us not at all. Wliat is the greatest virtue of a king ? sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. i;; Justice. Mercy. Second Magician. Third Magician, First Magician. Humility. Pharaoh. The last is best. — 'Tis better governing the hearts of men Than their sick brains. Magicians. My lord bespeaks him wise. Pharaoh. No, I have not humility enough. I had much rather to be fed on quince Than flattered, for I have been betray'd. Your garments are your traitors, sages hoar : — How gravity doth cover ignorance ! It were a crime in any meaner man To think thee fool, because thy seeming's wise ; And yet my dream is scarcely cold, and thou Canst not unlace it in thy proper craft. Nay, do not wince, dost thou expect to find Flatterers in kings ? Be wise — and love the truth Though it should lay thee open to ne laugh; N 3 78 JOSEPH AND act hi. For laughter is but second unto truth. — Say you, — humihty doth take no towers ; It is the lovehest thing to give to friends, But tames no dangers or fierce enemies. How then am I, being a royal king, Open to knives, besiegings, and attacks, To wear thy cloak of sweet humility? — When power confronts it, as it ever will, It in its own example perisheth. Magician. It hath the art, my lord, to love itself By loving every other thing that's good. Humihty, great king ! hath other names : Its own is all angelical. On earth It takes those names that ape the angel still. In war it is call'd mercy ; and in peace Its proper self. — In both 'tis a fix'd will, A soul of high resolve to put away All spots which chequer truth. 'Tis pure from passion, O'erflows of love and sympathy for good, — Its modesty admits no precedence, And groweth from the boundless truth within ; Its justice weeps at its own punishments. Its power is fortitude ; its will, offence To every evil gnawing at the world. It is the greatest virtue in a king, Therefore, for Egypt's good, encourage it ! sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 179 Ejiter Joseph. Pharaoh. How now? — the man — we'll talk of this again, — His presence likes me. — Hebrew, I am told That divination and unfoldings wise. Spite of thy youth, do wait upon thy tongue. y^oseph. 'Tis not in me: and yet let Pharaoh speak; — A peaceful answer God will give the king. Fharaoh. Lo ! as I dream'd, I stood upon a bank : Out from a river that did wash my feet There did arise seven kine, all fat of flesh, And in the meadow straight they took to feed ; And then behold seven other kine came up, Unlike the first, wither'd, and lean, and poor. So wretched, that I never saw the like In all the land of Egypt till that time. Behold, the last did swallow up the first ; Yet no man should have known it, for they still Were lean and empty, hollow as before. Then I awoke. — And lo ! I dream'd again ! And seven ears did rise up from the ground, All full of com, and ripe, and fit to glean; And seven others rose up after them, Husky and poor, and blighted by the wind ; And those thin ears devoured up the first. Yet show'd no signs of fatness. This I told N 2 i8o JOSEPH AND act in. To sages and magicians ; but none such Can solve the meaning : if thou canst do so. Great thy reward at Pharaoh's hand ! Joseph. Oh king, The Lord herein shows Pharaoh His intent. Thy dreams are one. — The seven wholesome kine Are seven years : the seven wholesome ears Are seven years : behold the dreams are one. And the ill-favour'd seven fleshless kine Are seven years, — the seven blasted ears Are still the same ; and they shall surely be Seven years of famine. Lo ! thy dreams are told. And it will even be as I have said. And God is willing Pharaoh shall foreknow, For seven years the fields shall yield forth grain In such abundance as was never known ; And after that for seven years the ground, Sterile and arid, shall not bear a blade ; And famine shall go out through all the land, And plenty be forgot ; and grievous want Hide in the hollow cheeks of famish'd men. And, for thy dream was doubled unto thee, God has establish'd it shall shortly be. Therefore the king shall cull out some wise man And set him over Egypt at this time, And cause his officers to follow him; — And they shall gather up from out the land The fifth part of its harvest from this waste sc. II. HIS BRETHREN, i8i And fruitful produce that will soon ensue. This shall they do through each of seven years, And garner it, and hoard it in the sheds ; And when the seven years of famine come, Then shall it be as precious as man's life ; And Egypt's king shall live, and all the land ; Nor shall they perish in the general want. This is the truth, oh king ! Pharaoh. Wisdom I see Has left our graver beards, and taken covert In the tongue of youth. Where is a man like this In whom the spirit supreme speaks audibly? I promis'd largely to the man who should Interpret this my dream, a,nd all shall see I will redeem my word. Hebrew, 'tis strange Thy wisdom never yet did reach our ears. yoseph. Like the sea beast, the huge Leviathan, Truth often swims at bottom of the world, While dolphins play above his grained back : So men o'erfigure truth. — The word of God Worketh its secret way, and needs no help. Like to a jewel (hid in desert sands), Of wondrous lustre, as creation old, That finds its way into a nation's eye — A matchless excellence of priceless worth — So precious truth doth jewel the fair world, Or, buried, sleeps unnoted but of God. i82 JOSEPH AND act iii. Pharaoh. Since thou foreknowest all this secret truth None is so fit or worthy as thyself To govern in the land. Over my house Thou shalt be ruler ; as thou seest good. All men shall bow, and only in the Throne Will I be greater than thyself. This ring I strip from mine to grace thine honour'd hand. In token that all Egypt may behold How dear is honesty unto the king, — How precious wisdom ! — You do not rejoice Like one, methinks, so fortunate as you. I see you do not guess I meditate, If grief or care have rudely troubled you, Or that injustice or harsh cruelty Have meddled with your peace, yourself shall sit. Judgment pronounce, and punishment award. J^oseph. -Ah. far from me resentment and revenge, Returning injuries for benefits ! Provided that the king hath confidence In his poor servant's just integrity, Or praise or blame is but indifferent. PharaoJi. Close to my own apartment see him lodg'd. In the same palace, under my own eye ! sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. i8j Scene III. — Atwther part of Pharaoh's Palace. Enter two Officers and Magicians, severally. First Officer. Oh, 'twas a sight ! These sinuous arms of mine Would never let me 'plaud an idle show ; And I have never slept a sleep so sound As after battle with marauders fierce In hoary wilderness or mountain cave : — And yet I swear I sooner would peruse A sight Hke this, than my own scored front, Its gory honours in the plate of steel Reflected of a newly vanquish'd foe. Second Officer. Ne'er did my eyes take in so brave a sight ! — Cloths of all hues, velvets, and softer silks, Like argent skirted as the frized waves, — Colours bright-glowing, harness of beaten gold, And splendid tissue vieing with the sun, Who, as though vex'd with envy, shot his fire In ardent scorn, o'er-gilding all the host. Fi'rst Magician. I pray thee, what was this ? Second Officer. The walls did groan. The trees did bear more men than ever fmit. iS4 JOSEPH AND ACT in. No dangerous edge, but like a swallow perch'd, Some rough Egyptian through his straining eyes (Much like a hungry beggar at a feast) Suck'd in magnificence. — Plenitude fed desire: Appetite crav'd past both. No man did knov/ That was his house, for still it was o'errun By general feet ; all vacancies chok'd up. Three parts o' the city emptied the livers out And chok'd the fourth. It were an easy thing For twenty men-at-arms to sack the thirds, And take the other gazing. Age, youth, brown, fair. Were heap'd-up spoils to wonder; faces were Like stamped coin, huddled in heaps to pay A tribute to the sight. — There was a buzz Vexing the passing breeze, much like to that Whenas a man doth put his wary ear Close to a hive of bees ; and then a shout That made old soldiers redden as they look'd Into each other's thoughts. — Oh, it was rare \ Second Magician, This new-found Joseph's triumph, I suppose^ First Magician. Such boisterous clamour, and such thronged joy^ Is violent waste of human action. The clouds do ever mock the bravest show. Splendour and glory are but folly cloak'd : Wonder is ignorance ; pomp, bright deceit; Nightfall extinguisheth the garish show, sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 185 And then the man must think. But some there are Whose mealy brains will sleep upon the fret, And e'en be dazzled with it for a week, As though the head were stuff'd with barred wheels, Brightly revolving in contrarious ways. — I have no patient ear to taste such trash. Fiist Officer. A sneap, — a sneap, — carry your inky brow And cloudy eye to those who love your caves. Your nightly lamps, your silence, and your scrolls. This your contempt is foolish, and not wise. Come, come, I'll go about with you for this — Your wisdom's like a giant of report. That may be heard and yet is never seen : Sometimes for proof you show his heavy club, His bulky garments, or his sandal old ; And map the hollow rock where he abides. Just such an antic game your gravity Plays off upon the ignorance of men. Folly's allowance is the stock he owns : For so much wisdom he accredits you ; The odds ere ten to one between the two The man is fool'd. We that are men of life, Whose blood is purple with the lusty grape. And purged with the scymitars of foes, Have sharper wits, and travel and observe. I can perceive some glimpse of wisdom in you, Yet not so much as you pretend to own ; Therefore your habit and your craft's a cheat 1 86 JOSEPH AND act hi. Then what a monstrous man are you to rail Upon this kingly festival to-day, Because 'tis like your own deceit, and pla)^s On man's imagination ! — I perceive Your gravity is envious. — Go to — 'Tis not the show you hate, — it is the man, Whose youthful wisdom and diviner sense Have pluck'd your mandes up, and shown the hoof Why, man, by such a practice as this same. You bray upon your own absurdity. He who acknowledgeth a man that's wise. Is counted wise in the acknowledgment : He 'scapeth ridicule, and balms his name. Though he do break his gall. If you will stay And hear me prate a little on this show, Then I may think you flatter not yourself : If not, choke on your prejudice. First Magician. Not I.— I've sometimes heard how kings have been deceiv'd : Things that are easy said are hard to prove. And craft can shape event to circumstance. Though circumstance may shame it in event. You of the sword oft make a gaudy cloak Stand for the captsin, who at issue fails. First Officer. Yea, many a coat is many an officer ; Like a tame leopard that doth lick his pride, sc. in. HIS BRETHREN. 187 Which is his tawny and bespotted skin, — Thus men of blood and men of supine thought Do meet as brother fools when they pretend To undeserved knowledge, or to fame. I do not tell you not to wear your cloak, For man is faulty in convictions ; But I do tell you not to lay the blame On others' folly till you purge your own. And so, great type of wisdom, fare ye well. \Exennt Magicians. Second Officer. 'Faith, you have given his gravity a wrench. First Officer. Oh! hang a fellow with a curled lip, Whose modish form and blank morality Do med'cine to his spleen and crouching pride ! These magi are a double-dealing race. Second Officer. Ha ! WTiat twin riders have just pass'd the gate ? Their horses' nimble heels do beat and bound Fast as a ball that chafes towards the bourne. First Officer. This way they scour abreast, as they did think Lightning was in the wind which they have left. \Enter two Egyptians. What, Pharaoh's page, and not at court todav ? 1 88 JOSEPH AND act hi. First Egyptian. Is the scene over? Second Egyptian. Has the procession pass'd ? First Officer. The sun is all the glory of today That you are like to see. It is aU done. Second Egyptian. I'm like to one who's dropp'd a precious rose Which the smooth tide did give me hope to get ; I barely touch it with my fingers' ends And then it sinks ; so time hath hurried on This goodly show, for which my great desire Has almost crack'd my breath. First Egyptian. Tell us, I pray, What fortune we have miss'd. Second Officer. Why, sir, this much : Fancy you see all stuck together close As many people as a dream would hold : Then, sir, you have a multitude as thick As flies on luscious honey newly spilt ; All passive, downward, active at the head — Behold observers. — In the royal path sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 189 Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in flowers, Sweeping the ground with incense-scented palms : Then came the sweetest voices of the land, And cried, ' Bow ye the knee ! ' — and then aloud Clarions and trumpets broke forth in the air : After a multitude of men-at-arms, Of priests, of officers, and horsed chiefs, Came the benignant Pharaoh, whose great pride Was buried in his smile. I did but glimpse His car, for 'twas of burnish' d gold. No eye Save that of eagles could confront the blaze That seem'd to burn the air, unless it fell Either on sapphire or carbuncle huge That riveted the weight. This car was drawn By twelve jet horses, being four abreast, And pied in their own foam. Within the car Sat Pharaoh, whose bare head was girt around By a crown of iron ; and his sable hair, Like strakey as a mane, fell where it would. And somewhat hid his glossy sun-brent neck And carcanet of precious sardonyx. His jewell'd armlets, weighty as a sword, Clasp'd his brown naked arms — a crimson robe, Deep edg'd with silver, and with golden thread, Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd. Whose broad resplendent braid and shield-like clasps Were boss'd with diamonds large, by rubies fir'd, Like beauty's eye in rage, or roses white Lit by the glowing red. Beside him lay A bunch of poppied corn ; and at his feet I90 JOSEPH AND act hi. A tambd lion as his footstool crouch'd. Cas'd o'er in burnish'd plates I, hors'd, did bear A snow-white eagle on a silver shaft, From whence great Pharaoh's royal banner stream'd, An emblem of his might and dignity; And as the minstrelsy burst clanging forth, With shouts that broke like thunder from the host, The royal bird with kindred pride of power Flew up the measure of his silken cord. And arch'd his cloud-like wings as he would mount, And babble of this glory to the sun. Then follow'd Joseph in a silver car, Drawn by eight horses, white as evening clouds : His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword ; And on his head a crown of drooping corn Mock'd that of Ceres in high holiday. His robes were simple, but were full of grace, And (out of love and truth I speak him thus) I never did behold a man less proud, More dignified or grateful to admire. His honours nothing teas'd him from himself; And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man Who did intend to honour them as much As they could honour liim. Fii'st Egyptian. Why, this was rare. Second Officer. Then came the honour'd elders of the land, Whose sombre habits answer'd to their age. sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 191 Wove of the ancient woof which sibyls love \ — Their faces as old chronicles were mapp'd And furrow'd with an age of mystic thought ; Their snowy hair that mingled with their beards Flow'd o'er their shadowy forms in many a fold, Covering their garments like a silvery cloud At moonlight o'er some darksome sepulchre ; Following the gorgeousness that went before, Thus they crept on as night succeeds the day : In their right hand they bore a charmed wand, And in their left a dusky scroll o'erwrought With hieroglyphics and deep mysteries : Each one was follow'd by his sacred charge, In silver cradles work'd with lotus flowers, Wherein were shrin'd with reverential awe Emblems of Egypt since her antique days (As on her brazen pillars it is writ) Coeval with creation's misty age, — Those venerated old and mystic forms, Sacred receptacles of Egypt's faith : Then came devices work'd in various ways That a fantastic fancy could invent, — The crocodile and serpents of the Nile Mail'd doubly in resplendent jewelry, And chain'd with chains of gold. First Egyptian. I've travell'd much and many countries seen, Frozen and arid, where whole nations swarm'd E'en as they do to build our monuments, 192 JOSEPH AND act hi. Witness'd the cro\Miing of most potent kings, Their advent and their inhumation; But this in gorgeous taste elaborate Surpasses all; — more ! more ! I thirst to hear ! Second Officer. But the chief sight, and far beyond the rest, Was a vast platform ample as a town, Wherein by matchless craftsmen had been set A thousand springs: — and on as many wheels It rolled not, but glided undulant, So that no shock could jar its precious freight. Drawn by some hundred trained elephants All hous'd in velvet and in cloth of gold, And on it was bestow'd with wondrous art Forest and rocky fastness, wood and glen, Peopled with all that nature could bestow Of savage beauty, beast or bird or fish. Behold a mimic Nile appear'd to flow From end to end, and its inhabitants By snare or force from out the parent flood. Monster or reptile, had been gather'd here;— Their keepers, habited in caney sedge, Diff'ring but little from their dang'rous charge. With chain and club still kept a wary eye,— While on an elevated stand a troop Of chosen archers with a single aim Stood ready, with a hundred arrows dra^vn, To strike all danger with a sudden death. Huge serpents wound about the sapling trees, sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 193 While others, charm'd, wander'd at liberty, Or undulating in their graceful folds, Folio vv'd a shepherd with his reedy pipe, Proud of their tam'd and willing servitude, Mark'd by the jewell'd collar round their necks. Here plaintive syrens in their crystal caves, With star-flower crowns and lotus garland tress'd In their down-flowing and enrobing hair, — There fabled men and women of the deep, Deck'd in the secret treasures of the sea. The mountains had been robb'd, the eagle's home Rifled, and pillag'd was the vulture's hold. The supple panther and white elephant, The hoary lion with his ivory fangs, The barred tiger with his savage eye, The untam'd zebra, beasts from foreign lands, Beauteous or rare, were with nice judgment rang'd. Bowers there were, sweet shrubs and brilliant flowers, And nymphs, and dance, and festival, and song, — Then the ten thousand actors in this scene. In costumes of all hues and qualities, Each suited to the office that he held. There was a man, if man he could be call'd. Who had no age, being neither old nor young, Chain'd by an iron girdle to a tree ; — A giant monster, dwarf'd, deform'd, and grim, Whose muscles seem'd to roll upon his bones. That never knew an honest covering ; And through his matted hair his kindling eyes Loom'd on his destin'd mortal enemy : o 194 JOSEPH AND act ui. The wondrous snowy brilliance of his teeth, Perfection mocking his deformity, Gleam'd through the swarthy freckles of his skin, Bronz'd in a life's defiance to the sun. On either side an Ethiopian youth, Perfect in symmetry and supple grace, With naked skin of satin ebony Zon'd by a belt of emerald and gold, Held one an antique ewer fiU'd with wine ; The other a huge vermaille-fretted cup. To serve the giant culprit's privilege, And feed his courage for the coming fight. Ferocious as his deed, all criminals Were spotless in his brute comparison; — Slave, he had slain his master while asleep, And had devour'd his heart. A fasting lion in a rocky den, Disdaining other than the flesh of man, And destin'd to devour him in his turn In the arena when the fight was done. Was chain'd before him, not so far apart But that the mingling of their fetid breath And fiery eyes returning glare for glare Gave foretaste of defiance, blood for blood; — Anon the famish'd monster beats the air, And rearing o'er his prey his hideous roar, Seems to shake Pharaoh and his mighty host. Into his native den meanwhile the man, Equally mad with courage and with wine. Braves and defies, and with his sinewy arms sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 195 Throws forth to grapple with his horny hands, Emboss'd and rigid in their iron strength, All arm'd with nails yellow as eagle's claws Prepar'd to plough his victim to the bone : He laugh'd a hideous and cavern'd laugh, ' As echo'd from some monster of the woods. Grave soldiers doubted of the victory The lion or the man. Then in the midst of all rose high in air A towering pagoda, on whose top An ample platform of sweet cedar wood, Reclin'd a monster frightful to behold, — A dragon body with a human head. His eyes were sapphires burning in their orbs^ And all his scales of massive jewelry So artfully bestow'd that the sun's beams Play'd on a thousand scintillating rays DazzUng in their harmonious brilliancy ; His hair of diamond sparkles threaded lithe ; • His teeth of pearls matchless in shape and size. Pallid and pure, opaque, of the moon's tint Seen through a white and soft unveiling cloud ; His face incongruous ponderous iron-wood. Marbled with yellow veins of native growth. Wrinkled and old, and black as ebony, Carv'd in a torment by fanatic hands, In form and colour ghastly hideous, — The man, the brute, the demon mystical ; — And 'neath his gaping mouth his nether lip Was pierc'd and drooping with a golden ring o 2 196 JOSEPH AND ACT III. Broad as your palm, besmear'd promiscuously (Priceless defiance of contemned art) With gems creation-born so primitive That time, impatient at their latent growth, Grew fretful and expos'd them to the light, — Ransom of old from three barbaric kmgs, Grand masterpiece indeed, ignoble strife Of that once brilliant race undeified, Of fallen angels forfeit of their wings. Around the potent god a hundred priests Burnt incense, and with bodies lowly curb'd Utter'd his name with gravity and awe, While on each stage a widen'd turret, throng'd With magi of the temple, sumptuously Adorn'd in all the splendour of their caste : Following at intervals the signal given By the high-priest, as suddenly inspir'd These beat their gongs, and all the countless host Turn'd to the beast adoring. — Great Pharaoh reverently touch'd his front, While Joseph's sadness struggled with a smile. Such life and movement ne'er was seen before. Sieges and single combats, eddy fights, On mount or plain in swift succession came ; And the imperial army, foot and horse, Wag'd mimic war, but somewhat dangerous, Rous'd by contagious ardour of the scene; And many a feud and private enmity Had this day sanguinary issue found, Were it not writ in crimson characters sc. IV. HIS BRETHREN. 197 On a gigantic banner snowy-white, Wav'd ever to the trumpet s warning sound, — ' Mark ! He who sheds a drop of human blood Daring this day of plenty and of peace Shall by the royal archers of the king Be put to sudden death. Joseph, the lord And governor of Egypt, thus decrees Glory and honour to his living God.' Scene IV. — A Meadow. Enter Joseph attended, a7id Harvestraen severally. 'jl^oseph. Now, are the men at labour in the fields ? First Hai-vestman. As thick as bees, great sir, and not one drone Amongst them. y^oseph. Let them lose no single grain. Plenty sometimes proves coy, and like a maid Who fears a waste because too easy won, Will frown and turn upon your confidence : Then thriftless prodigals do think on orts, Envy your beggars, and o'er-beat the straw, Where struggling grains are jewels. Fi?'st Harvestman. I am come, Commanded by your steward, to unfold igS JOSEPH AND act in. The issue of our labour. All the west Of this great city, e'en from bound to bound, Hath not a shed, or tent, or arched roof, Where lay our city stores, but it is gorg'd Brim-full of weighty grain ; nay, not a crack Or crevice doth remain of pubhc holds But it is chok'd with it, and yet men flock With empty purses and with laden cars Craving for coin, and sick at plenteousness. I left some hundreds thronging by the way, Out of all spirit that your steward paus'd To purchase more till you had given command. 'Joseph. Go, lade thy asses with two sacks of coin : Buy all thou canst, and do not 'bate in price, But pay the equal sum that I have fix'd For every measure ; and although these men Will race to rid them of their future bread, We will not therefore in our better sense Take mean advantage of their ignorance. — Besides, their coin must every piece come back When their need presses. First Ifarvestma7i. But, my gracious lord, What can we do with such a waste of corn Unless we raise a mountain on the ground And leave the dew and sun our harvestmen To form a rind, and thus to roof itself? sc. IV. HIS brethren: 199 y^oseph. Call all the carpenters and builders round, And over-pay them half their proper hire ; And all the youth who have the strength to leap, And all the old men that can touch the ground, And let these last go out into the fields And gather stover, rushes, reeds, and fern : Command the first hew down the sapling oaks, And bring them to the city, and there build A granary to reach three thousand feet ; And let the thatchers thatch it from the rain. Cram that, and if the land still throws her fraught, Then raise another. First Harvestman. I will see it done. Joseph. This officer shall go along with thee. See that the men who labour in my rule Are amply paid, according to their work, At shut of eve. Without a metal spur, That which I order will be sloven'd o'er. The eye and appetite thus over-fed, Will turn the stomach of their gratitude. And Heaven's bounty will be scorn'd to waste : A miner's eye is sick of swarthy gold. Fi7'st Harvestmmi. The bidding of my lord shall be perform 'd. \Exit. 200 JOSEPH AND act hi. 'yoseph. The air is never cold, nor burning hot ; And usual extremity is sunk In temp'rate days, and nourishing moist nights. Birds swarm, and flowers blow, as if all things Yielded to some magician's fantasy- Laughter is heard wherever you can turn. And men are fat as puttocks in a cage, Fed choicely for the knife. — And such a turn Would famine fain bestow on us withal — E'en things of slothful life do feel the change ; The crocodile hath left her slimy bed Encradled in the rushes of the Nile, And makes a journey over marsh and flat To hide her early eggs. Fierce snakes do quit The rooted bottoms of the lordly woods. And prey in meadows. Eagles have been seen To settle in the city, and the kids And heifers do break through the pasture bound; A general and uncheck'd liberty, Bred of this sudden change, doth tempt all things To shun the habits of old circumstance. Herein man's image too may be espied ; As when a beggar finds a miser's hoard, To right and left he scatters it away Till he is once more brought unto a crutch ; And men will sleep upon a dangerous ground Nor dream of yawning earthquake underneath. Great God doth jerk our judgments oftentimes — sc. IV. HIS BRETHREN. Raises the fear, or punishes the fault — But out, alas ! once more the cup is full, And sudden we are drunk. Men, in the mass, Buy dear experience to throw away. This lean and frightful famine now at hand Will shake our city; some two seasons gone, And then comes waste, and old abuse, and want. So the great moral is thus cast away. And wisdom in the public walk lies dead. Men will be men, while God is merciful ! 20 1 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 202 JOSEPH AND ACT iv. ACT IV. Scene I. — Canaan, y^acob'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 sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 20j From all the thousand grains we scatter'd forth, Comes in the emerald livery of spring To cheer our anxious and desponding sight. Etitej- Jacob and Benjamin. yacob. How fare my sons ? Naphtali. Tdly, against our wills. "y^acob. 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. 'to' J^acob. 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 204 JOSEPH AND act iv. 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. J^acob. 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 ? Alas ! I know net; 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 parched 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 sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 205 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 ? Zebidun. 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 sumnier'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. 2o6 JOSEPH A. YD act iv. Zebidun. 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 Uke the empty lions howling here.' Reuben. Yea, man's chief lesson is extremity. He never knows what precious comfort is Till it is lost. "yiidah. 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 parched thirst Exchang'd for renovation and fresh joy. Now all our minutes, fledg'd with leaden wings. Are like to notes struck from a domed beil By a vast giant with an iron club. The time we held as musing vacancy sc. I. HIS BRETHREN. 207 We find was sweet content; and all in vain We try to touch the hour with cheerfiilness Which hangs about us like a brooding cloud. Issachar. Yea, who shall mend it ? What's the best to (io ? 'jFacob. 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 hnger thus in want. Go, every man, Excepting Benjamin, my youngest boy; Him I will keep, lest danger by the way Should be enamourVl of his tender youth, And rob me of his sight. Naphtali. Better we may, — Much worse we cannot be. Jacob. Heaven prosper you. [Exeunt. *■ 2oS JOSEPH AND act iv. Scene II.— A Hall. Joseph, seated on a high seat somewhat apart . Ofificers, Citizens, and Attendants. y^oseph. 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 grieved 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 afllicts him. There's a precious door. sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 209 And througli 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 Uve. J^oseph. 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. 2IO JOSEPH AND ACT IV. Enter Simeon, Reuben, Issachar, Dan, Judah, Zebulun, Naphtali, Levi, Gad, and Asher. J^oseph. Strangers ! What men are these ?— not Egypt born- Great God ! they are my brothers— sure they're come Driven from valed tents in search of food. My blood doth throng for passage to my heart, And mounts again with an enforced flow. Instinctive to look out upon itself, Warming its kindred veins!— they are my brothers. [Aside. Reuben. Great ruler, hail ! yoseph. \Aside. Ha! that is Reuben's voice. Reuben. - Vouchsafe to look upon thy servants' wants. 'ytidah. 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. sc. II. HIS BRETHREN. 2:1 'yoseph. \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. yoseph. 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 com. yoseph. [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 : p 2 212 JOSEPH AND ACT IV. 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, \Aloiid. As spies, to see its nakedness. — Tell me — Have you a father ? J^udah. 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. — \_Exeufit 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 sc. III. HIS BRETHREN. 213 Up the high mountain, where I keep my state, And we will live in dearest fellowship. Scene III. — A Priso)i. Simeon, Reuben, Issachar, Dan, Judah, Zebulun, Naphtali, Levi, Gad, and Asher. — Joseph un- perceived. 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. yndah. 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. 214 JOSEPH AND act iv, Lezn. Where'er he is, great God ! have eyes on him. Issachar. It was an evil thing, and I repent. Simeon. So, [ssachar, 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. 'y^udah. 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. 'yoseph. 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. sc. III. mS BRETHREN. 21 = 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. 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, 6^r. y^oseph. 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 boimd. 2i6 JOSEPH AND act iv. 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. J^udah. Thy servants bow them even to the earth. And beg my lord will deal with them as they Shall prove to him. \Exmnt. J^osepk. 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. sc. IV. ins BRETHREN. 217 Scene IV. — Jacob's Tent. Enter Reuben, Zebulun, Dan, and Naphtai.i. 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. Zebniun. 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. yacob. 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. 2i8 JOSEPH AND act iv. y^udah. Thou sayest unto thy sons, 'Go forth, buy com ; 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. J^acob. Why did you deal So hardly with me as to tell the man That I had yet another son at home ? Jiidah. 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.' 'yacob. Benjamin is all I'hat 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. sc. IV. HIS BRETHREN. 219 "yacob. 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. J^acob. 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 5 And if we had not linger'd o'er this thing. We had been down into the land, and back. J^udah. Nay, let my father trust the lad with me ; 220 JOSEPH AND ACT iv. I will be bond and surety that he shall Return to thee. And if I bring hirn 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 ! Jiidah. 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. J^acob. Amen — amen ! — \Jixit. sc. IV. HIS BRETHREN. 221 Enter Tssachar. "y lid ah. 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 witli 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 forked waves, — Let us but think our former life hath been 222 JOSEPH AND ACT IV. 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 Hojcse. 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 : sc. V. HIS BRETHREN. 223 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. yiidah. 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. Steivard. 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 224 JOSEPH AND act iv. 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, o^c. 'yoseph. 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. 'yudah. 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. sc. V. HTS BRETHREN. 225 Joseph. Ah! say you so ? and is your father well — The venerable man of whom you spake, — And is he yet alive ? "yudah. 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 com, 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 ? Q 226 JOSEPH AND act iv. 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 mounieth 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 couitesy is choice, but liberal. sc. V. HIS BRETHREN. 227 Benjamin. Oh ! it will glad my father much to hear Of your great kindness to his lovfed son. Since I am Rachel's child and Joseph's brother, There was a vast ado to bring me forth : Old J acob'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. Q 2 228 JOSEPH AND act iv. Benjamin. I have been told so, sir. J^oseph. A blessing on them. — Clo 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 AVith keeping back my tears. — Oh ! great Nature, I never did expect thou wouldst inflict So deep a joy as this! — my heart mil send Its perfect feeling welling to my eyes — The secret is too big for one frail breast ! \Exit. sc. VL HIS BRETHREN. 229 Scene VI. — A JRoom in y^oseph'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 1 ' 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, 230 JOSEPH AND act iv, (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 bom. 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.— .-^ Hall in yosepEs House. Joseph, Officer, ^^c. — Enter Reuben, Simeon, Levi, JUDAH, ISSACHAR, ZeBULUN, DaN, NaPHTALI, GaD, AsHER, and Benjamin. 'jFoseph. Ah ! wherefore has thou done this evil thing ? Wottest thou not that such a man as I sc. VII. HIS BRETHREN. ii\ Can easily divine ? Was it so well, After my bounty and my goodness shown, To fail as you have done ? What shall we say? — What can we speak, my lord ? Behold, we kneel. AV'e are the bondmen of my lord, both we, And he, the boy, with whom the cup was found. y^oseph. 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. y^iidah. 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. 232 JOSEPH AND act iv. That we dare not return without the boy, Lest we should lose him by a broken heart. 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 boyj 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 sc. VII. HIS BRETHREN. 233 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. 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? 'yudah. 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 — 234 JOSEPH AND act iv. 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 hfe ; 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. \Exeiint. Scene NIW.— Jacob's lent. 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 ; sc. vni. HIS BRETHREN. 235 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 blessed dream as this, And wake a common man. Reicben. BeHeve 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, ' Arid 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 urged 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, 236 JOSEPH AND ACT IV. 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 Avept 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. Zcbubiii. 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. sc. IX. HIS BRETHREN. 237 J^acob. 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. Simeo)L. Lo ! here are all the waggons and the food. yacob. 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 Bcershcba. ^KCO'S, asleep, amidst great splendour. A Voice spcakcth from above. The wind dies azvay. 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 riset/i, a}idbowcth down. y^acob. 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, 238 JOSEPH AND ACT IV. 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 aged 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 famovis nation, favour'd of the Lord. Enter Benjamin. Benjaniiji. What, ho ! father, arise — the morning breaks, And all our tribe are eager to depart. yacob. 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, sc. IX. HIS BRETHREN. 239 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, RoUeth 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 swathbd 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! 240 JOSEPH AND act iv, ^acob. 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. Be7yamin. 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 sc. IX. HIS BRETHREN. ii,\ 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 hves ! — 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. yacob. Thy question is offence enough alone ; For it lacks faith, which is a boundless space. R 242 JOSEPH AND act 3 v. 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. 'yacob. 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. 'yacob. 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. sc. IX. HIS BRETHREN. 243 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 t'o that Which in the deepest shade of autumn dwells, And mingled with the colour of my dream. R 2 244 JOSEPH AND act iv. And lo ! there was a ladder on the earth, The top of which did reach unto the heavens, Tn 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 utrer darkness from my sight. And as I woke my jcrtnts 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, — sc. IX. HIS BRETHREN. 245 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 raised 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. 246 JOSEPH AND act iv. 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. Steztjard. All hail to Joseph's brother ! y^udah. His steward, I think? Stewai'd. Your countenance lives in my memor}^ — 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, — sc. X. HIS BRETHREN. 247 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 yovirself Weep in eachother's arms; a thousand since Have pass'd me and re-pass'd me, yet no one Do I remember. 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. 'yiidah. You do bespeak him with a loving tongue. Stcwa7-d. Each man who serveth him excels his trust, 248 JOSEPH AND ACT IV. 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. 'J^ lid ah. He is a proper lord, and we shall soon See him in Egypt. Steivard. 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 sc. XI. HIS BRETHREN. 249 Into this hollow vale. I had command To outride the slow procession o'er the hills, And greet the aged Jacob in these words: ' Young Joseph, thy dear son, is coming on To fill his father's arms. Praise be to God ! ' 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. \Exeiint severally. Scene y^\.—The Vale. Enter Jacob and his Tribe, Joseph, Brethren, Officers, Attendants, &=€. yacob. 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! 250 JOSEPH AND ACT iv. jl^oseph. This is not well. — I live, and am not dead; and God, you see. Has honour'd me beyond my patience. y^acob. 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. y^oseph. 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 ! sc. XI. ff/S BRETHREN. 251 "yoseph. 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. 'yoseph. 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; 252 JOSEPH AND HIS BRETHREN. act iv. 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. yacob. Joseph, art thou ill ? Thou lookest very pale. y^oseph. 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. 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HONE'S SCRAP-BOOKS : The Miscellaneous Collections of William Hone, Author of "The Table- Book," " Every-Day Book," and " Year- Book " : being a Supplement to those works. With Notes, Portraits, and nume- rous Illustrations of curious and eccentric objects. Crown 8vo. VIn preparatiort HOOD'S (Tom) FROM NOWHERE TO THE NORTH POLE : A Noah's Arkaeological Narrative. By Tom Hood. With 25 Illustra- tions by W. Brunton and E. C. Barnes. Square crown 8vo, in a handsome and specially-designed binding, gilt edges, 6.?. " Poor Tom Hood ! It is very sad to turn over the droll pages of ' From Nowhere to the North Pole,' and to think that he will never make the young people, for whom, like his famous father, he ever had such a kind, sympathetic heart, laugh or cry any more. This is a birthday story, and no part of it is better than the first chapter, concerning birthdays in general, and Frank's birthday in particular. The amusing letterpress is profusely interspersed with the jingling rhymes which children love and learn so easily. Messrs. Brunton and Barnes do full justice to the writer's meaning, and a pleasanter result of the harmonious co-operation of author and artist could not be desired." — Times. HOOD'S (Tom) HUMOROUS WORKS. Edited, with a Memoir, by his Sister, Frances Freeling Broderip. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with numerous Illustrations, 6s. \_Iii the press. CHATTO &^ WIND US, PICCADILLY. 15 HOOD'S (Thomas) CHOICE WORKS, in Prose and Verse- IncludinK the Cream of the Comic Annuals. With Life of the Author, Portrait/ and over Two Hundred original Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 7.T. dd. "The volume, which contains nearly Soo pages, is liberally illustrated with facsimile cuts of Hood's own grotesque sketches, many of them pictorial puns, which always possess a freshness, and never fail to raise a genuine laugh. We have here some of Hood's earlier attempts, and his share of the ' Odes and Addresses to Great People.' Then we have the two series of ' Whims and Oddities,' which ought to be prescribed for nervous and hypochondriacal people : for surely more mirth was never packed into the same compass before, more of the rollicking abandonment of a rich, joyous humour, or more of the true geniality of nature which makes fun so delightful and leaves no after-taste of unkindness in the mouth. ' The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies' will be found here in unabridged form, together with 'Hero and Leander,' a number of ' Minor Poems,' among which we meet with some very pretty fancies — the well-known 'Retrospective Review,' and ' I Remember, I Remember' — Hood's contributions to the (7f/«, including 'The Dream of Eugene Aram,' 'The Cream of the Comic Annuals' — in itself a fund of merriment large enough to dispel the gloom of many a winter's evening — and the 'National Tales.' This is a fair representative selection of Hood's works, many of which have been hitherto inaccessible e.xcept at high prices. ISIost of the best known of his comic effusions — those punning ballads in which he has never been approached — are to be found in the liberal co'Iection Messrs. Chatto & Windus have given to the public." — Bir- viinghaiii Daily Mail. HOOKER'S (Sir 'Wmiam) EXOTIC FLORA. Containing Figures and Descriptions of Rare or otherwise interesting Exotic Plants. With Remarks upon their Generic and Specific Characters, Natural Orders, Culture, (fee. Con- taining 232 large and beautifully Coloured Plates. Three Vols., imperial 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, £,6 6s. HOOKER AND GREVILLE'S ICONES FILICUM ; or, Figures and Descriptions of Ferns, many of which have been altogether un- noticed by Botanists, or have been incorrectly figured. With 240 beautifully Coloured Plates. Two Vols., folio, half-morocco, gilt, ^12 12s. 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