Of innocence and perfectness of life, Pass not unto my children from their sire, As unto me they came of mine; they fit Neither to Jacob nor to Jacob's race. Think ye, my sons, in this extreme old age And in this failing breath, that I forget How on the day when from my father's door, In bitterness and ruefulness of heart, How on that day I seemed unto myself And briers that labour and that sweat of brow He still must spend to live? Sick of my days, I wished not life, but cried out, Let me die; But at Luz God came to me; in my heart He put a better mind, and showed me how, While we discern it not, and least believe, On stairs invisible betwixt His heaven Many, since I upon the field of Luz And gall and wormwood mingled with my love. The time would fail me should I seek to tell Of a child wronged and cruelly revenged (Accursed was that anger, it was fierce, That wrath, for it was cruel); or of strife And jealousy and cowardice, with lies deaths. sicknesses, and sudden These many things against me many times, The ploughers have ploughed deep upon my back, And made deep furrows; blessèd be His name Who hath delivered Jacob out of all, And left within his spirit hope of good. Come near to me, my sons: your father goes, The hour of his departure draweth nigh. Ah me! this eager rivalry of life, Quick seizure and fast unrelaxing hold Of vantage-place; the stony hard resolve, The chase, the competition, and the craft, Which seems to be the poison of our life, And yet is the condition of our life! To have done things on which the eye with shame Looks back, the closed hand clutching still the prize!— Alas! what of all these things shall I say? Take me away unto Thy sleep, O God! Scenes Change.-The Pair are wedded and are blest; He ruled the Land, but sterile was the Earth Dry as the parched Rock, yet not distressed An unseen Plenty came Dearth, upon the Like a full Stream; and lo! as Merchants came, A mingled race, to buy their Households food, All praise his foresight; all revere his Name The Great, the Wise, the Bountiful and Good! Then by that noble Youth, behold, there stood Strange Fate!-his Brothers, trembling at their Lot. The Lordly Man them questioned; they replied: "Our Father lives; One Brother, and beside That one"-they looked abashed-"one more, my Lord, is not." He then beheld his Father and his Race, Who found Protection from that bounteous hand. Jacob had Honour, and his Brethren Grace, And Joseph saw them in that Pres ence stand. Strange joy he felt; for in his Dream He as that princely Youth did seem; And felt that Glory new of all the Scene. But, as the Tidings of that Glory rose, The gorgeous Scene appeared about to close; For all the People shout, and all the Host Of Egypt joined, along the Red-Sea Coast, In one loud peal of Praise; and was it joy? Oh, no! it was the call his Masters gave, That from his Vision drew the Hebrew Boy To know himself a Slave! While on his Ear that Shout of Triumph broke, Joseph unwilling to the Call awoke; He saw far off the Egyptian Turrets gleam, And wept his cruel Fate, and longed again to dream. GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832). THE PATRIARCHAL HOME. (From "Joseph and His Brethren.") Joseph. Still I am patient, tho' you're merciless. Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch Rejoicings, revelries, and victories, 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. The patriarch surrounded by his sons, Girt round with looks of sweet obedience, Each struggling who should honor 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 Had crept about them like a sudden thaw. Anon they tied an eagle to a tree, And strove at archery; or with a bear Struggled for strength of limb. were no slaves These 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. CHARLES JEREMIAH WELLS (1800-1879). THE TRIUMPH OF JOSEPH. (From "Joseph and His Brethren.") IN the royal path Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in flowers, Sweeping the ground with incensescented palms: Then came the sweetest voices of the land, And cried, "Bow ye the knee!"—and then aloud Clarions and trumpets brake forth in the air: After a multitude of men-at-arms, Was buried in his smile. I did but glimpse His car, for 't was of burnish'd gold. No eye Save that of eagles could confront the blaze That seemed 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 edged with silver, and with golden thread, Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd, Whose broad resplendent braid and shield-like clasps Were bossed with diamonds large, by rubies fir'd, Like beauty's eye in rage, or roses white Lit by the glowing red. Beside him lay A bunch of poppied corn; and at his feet A tamed lion as his footstool crouch'd. Cas'd o'er in burnished plates I, hors'd, |