JACOB'S PILLOW
In the sea of Rabbinical lore,
Is a mystical legend of yore,
Of Jacob, who wandered afar.
In anguish of spirit, sore-pressed,
He lay on the desert to rest,
'Neath the light of a tremulous star.
And the moss-covered stones that he saw
Grew still in their wonder and awe,
That the father of Israel's race
Should seek in the gloom of the plain
Surcease of his anguish and pain,
To lay himself down in that place.
Then they clamored in audible tones,
In the mystical language of stones,
Each claiming pre-eminent right
To be chosen as Israel's bed,
To pillow the wanderer's head
As he lay in the desert that night.
Each stone to the other laid claim
To the honor and marvellous fame,
As, contending, they scattered his way;
But the presence of Jacob was there,
Like the sanctified incense of prayer,
And in rapturous silence they lay.
But a marvellous destiny-true
To the grandeur of Israel's few
Who invoked the religion of man-
Rewarded the rivalling stones,
In harmony blending their tones
Like the hue of a rainbow's span.
For they merged and they mingled in one
In the droop of the glowing sun,
And from all but a single stone
Was molded for Israel's bed,
To pillow the wanderer's head,
As he lay with his God alone.
And when morn shot her glorious beams,
As seraphic as Israel's dreams,
The pillow of mystical story
He knew in the depth of night
Had invoked the angels of light
To compass the heavens in glory.
An altar to Heaven he raised,
And the God of his father he praised,
As he set up the pillow of fame.
And the legend still further has said
That thus was the corner-stone laid
Of the Temple to Israel's name.
Like the stones so scattered and riven,
Was thus a heritage given
To a race bearing proudly their pain;
But the fragments in one shall combine
To build up the faith of all time
And the Temple of God to regain.
JOSEPH AND HIS BRETHREN
JOSEPH 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,
Th'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 pompous majesty was in his mien!
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 honor him the most;
While, from the wrinkles deep of many years,
Enfurrowed 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 stored our country wine and fruit,
And bread with honey sweetened, and dried figs,
And pressed curds, and choicest rarities,
Stores of the cheerless season of the year;
While at our sides the women of our tribe,
With pitchers on their heads, filled to the brim
With wine and honey, and with smoking milk,
Made proud the black-eyed 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 would 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 appetite.
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 stole o'er them. Some way off My brothers pitched the bar, or ploughed for fame, Each two with their two heifers harness'd fast
Unto the shaft, and labored till the sweat
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. 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 those so precious hours,
And wept upon these keys that were my pride,
And soak'd my pillow through the heavy night.
Alas! God willing, I'll be patient yet.
THE TRIUMPH OF JOSEPH
Came maidens robed in white, enchained 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, of horsèd chiefs,
Came the benignant Pharaoh, whose great pride
Was buried in his smile. I did but glimpse
His car, for 'twas of burnished gold. No eye
Save that of eagles could confront the blaze
That seemed to burn the air, unless it fell
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