| |
I IN the cave, which he had paid for with his gold, | |
| Had Abraham laid Sarah unto rest; | |
| And, being past the ordinary old, | |
| Sent forth his steward on a far behest— | |
| To bring from out his fatherland a wife | 5 |
| Of their own kindred for his son. But life | |
| Ebbed from him ere the man had long been gone. | |
| Yet died he calmly, dreaming all was done | |
| Because he wished it and so loved his son. | |
| |
| Isaac was gentle; his full beard was soft; | 10 |
| His eyes were often on the sky, and oft | |
| They wandered o’er the grass, for much he mused | |
| Though rarely spoke; in ample robes was used | |
| Reserved to walk. A long slow summer dawn, | |
| His youth had stretched beyond the usual bound; | 15 |
| Most men are fathers ere his heart had found | |
| Preluding stir, desire that to be born | |
| Grows urgent. Now one afternoon he went | |
| To sigh out in lone fields the sadness pent | |
| By the day’s toil; for they had been his friends | 20 |
| Who were his parents. Age at times descends | |
| As youth to fill her place grows ripe when, though | |
| Offices be mutually transferred, yet no | |
| Breach ever yawns, though he tend who was tended. | |
| Fresh start they never made, since nothing ended, | 25 |
| Till even the last parting had proved kind. | |
| And, underneath a sycamore reclined, | |
| Isaac thought of them till he ceased to think; | |
| For all the cordial stillness of the weather | |
| Had passed into his soul, and, link by link, | 30 |
| Had melted sorrow’s chain. Attuned together, | |
| The fields, the trees, the dipping dales and tops | |
| Russet and mellow with their ripening crops, | |
| The far-off stretches where rich aliens dwelt, | |
| The sky’s vast peace, worked through him till he felt | 35 |
| So happy that he laughed there to himself— | |
| A governed laugh of sound uneager health, | |
| The warm content of every wholesome limb. | |
| Then, when at sundown hints were borne to him | |
| Of tinkling camel-bells and dogs that barked, | 40 |
| He backed his ear with hollow hand and harked, | |
| Saying, “A coming of much folk is clear!”— | |
| Rising, “’Tis from the north-east that they near!”— | |
| Then smiled: for all at once his mind awoke; | |
| With bliss poured in, as red wine brims a cup, | 45 |
| Swam richly round, conceiving beauty’s charm, | |
| The presence of a person sooth as balm | |
| Perpetual in his tent. So he walked on | |
| To meet them with wild heart. Shapes wound anon | |
| Up from the vale, where deepened more and more | 50 |
| The phantom dusk. ’Twas Eliezer sate | |
| The foremost camel; but the next in state | |
| Surpassed all others; to her whom it bore | |
| The trusty steward, questioned, prompt replied; | |
| She veiled herself forthwith. Holding his side, | 55 |
| Isaac was forced to stop; and they stopped then, | |
| While down she lighted ’mong the serving-men, | |
| Who parted; and half-running forth she came. | |
| Surely, though soft, a new voice called his name? | |
| He waited to make sure. She was so young…. | 60 |
| But lo! her veil hung in her way; his tongue | |
| Seemed tied; she tripped, tripped, stumbled, fell—too soon | |
| Was touching to the earth her brow in sign | |
| She owned him lord. Mute at portent malign | |
| He sobbed, ran, raised, and saw her face—a boon | 65 |
| For utter wonder. She was very fair, | |
| And seemed but frail to carry so much hair; | |
| Strung pearls, looped round her brow by tens and twelves. | |
| From tapping soft-brown temples scarce had ceased; | |
| Her eyes abashed looked up despite themselves— | 70 |
| They did so long to see; and were so pleased, | |
| Seeing, to rest on him. He did not kiss; | |
| She kissed him—curbed the impulse, forward rushed | |
| And gasped, while he blushed even as she blushed; | |
| For thought grew purple with conceiving his | 75 |
| Strange backwardness to kiss. Suffered to doubt, | |
| Hangs she in two minds or to cry or pout? | |
| There is not time; their lips are mutually met, | |
| Till laughter part both radiant faces wet; | |
| Since joy robs grief of tears, has all and wants more yet. | 80 |
| |
| At length he found that his held both her hands, | |
| Straight to be worshipped—gently smoothed of dust, | |
| For she had soiled them falling. Who would thrust | |
| On such absorption? Eliezer stands | |
| And waits till they are speckless; then is heard, | 85 |
| But hardly listened to, though, duties said, | |
| He has commenced his tale—stopped, when a word | |
| The first time uttered turned his master’s head | |
| With “Ah?—Rebekah? Is thy name so sweet? | |
| Methinks I heard it broken at my feet, | 90 |
| Stooping to raise thee? Pieced again at last, | |
| ’Twas slow in coming; for it came too fast, | |
| Even as thou didst, late to come to me…. | |
| Yet am I grown?…. for such felicity | |
| I feel still childish.” Thus, with many a break | 95 |
| Toward the roused tents, they, through the gloaming, make; | |
| The steward tells his tale, is questioned now, | |
| And oft ignored before the time allow | |
| A perfect answer. So to Sarah’s tent | |
| They came, though stopping all the way they went. | 100 |
| |
| She was inside; he had not longed for this | |
| And yet it seemed to pass the bounds of bliss; | |
| Enraptured he could neither act nor think. | |
| But the whole weary journey forced her sink | |
| Upon a camel’s saddle draped with skins, | 105 |
| All of a heap—bead-work and quilted things | |
| Bunched up about her languid form, her head | |
| Seeking with droop and loll a needed bed. | |
| Two heavy lids had shut him from her eyes, | |
| But one hand warm in his kept paradise | 110 |
| About her spirit, while the novel scent | |
| Of new surroundings nourished its content. | |
| Her nurse saw now and understood her case; | |
| Calling for water, which his hand-maids brought, | |
| Softly she bathed the almost sleeping face. | 115 |
| Isaac, by this made capable of thought, | |
| Ordered the daintiest feast his stores could yield; | |
| Sent for soft cushions, built a pillow throne | |
| Before which, all devotion, down he kneeled, | |
| Pressing choice morsels to her drowsy lips, | 120 |
| Wooing their toil as rivals of his own; | |
| Or in the pure milk dipped her finger-tips | |
| To please himself, which pleased her most of all. | |
| But still the head would obstinately fall, | |
| Fain of those pillows. So her nurse must plead | 125 |
| That sleep, not food, is now the crying need. | |
| Like one who doth receive unlooked-for gift, | |
| While friends uncord it, sits, and cannot lift | |
| Finger to help them—he, whose full veins beat, | |
| Whose eyes swim, kneels, while care uncases feet, | 130 |
| Plunges them in a basin of bright gold, | |
| Despite their timid shrinking from the cold. | |
| His worship of their beauty freed the tongue | |
| Of the old crone, as she the towels wrung, | |
| To tell how at a stream that morning they | 135 |
| Had halted, when, by parasol green-shaded, | |
| Her mistress traced its windings some short way | |
| To where, supported by each arm, she waded | |
| Over worn hummocked rock. “Pools floored with sand | |
| She lingered at—for pleasure, paced alone; | 140 |
| But out flew, like a scared bird, either hand | |
| Soon as her toes encountered the least stone, | |
| With ‘Ah! Oh!’ frightened—laughing at her fear | |
| To find help still so opportunely near. | |
| A special toilet afterward went through | 145 |
| To please thee—please her, all that we could do | |
| Might barely that, my lord; the water failed | |
| And, for it would distort her, was assailed | |
| With numberless rebukes, half-laughing things | |
| Which wed the rippling mischief that it sings.” | 150 |
| All this, as flowers the dew, he mute receives; | |
| Watches lithe arms glide forth from quilted sleeves, | |
| Watches two women lift her up and hold | |
| Her off the ground while, broidered fold on fold, | |
| Rich skirts creep down the white-stoled tender form, | 155 |
| Till her feet droop above an emptied nest | |
| As some young almost mother bird’s, whose rest | |
| Deserts her there, till she can lay her eggs. | |
| She hovers just above with pendant legs | |
| Until her time be come, and will not stray; | 160 |
| Thus speakingly suspended those feet sway | |
| Helplessly there. Then at his breast he caught; | |
| They moved her as a corpse is moved, he thought. | |
| Straight, as by fresh disaster overtaken, | |
| He sees her tresses, from their pearled net shaken, | 165 |
| Come tumbling forth in downy deluge black. | |
| |
| A bed had been preparing at the back; | |
| Beyond the region of the lamp’s warm glow, | |
| Whispering maids glid dimly to and fro; | |
| Till, called at last, they round their mistress bent, | 170 |
| Then bore her o’er hush carpets through the tent, | |
| And gave her leave to sleep “long as she could”, | |
| Laughed and withdrew to share the dainty food. | |
| Isaac sat long on through the night, aloof | |
| From the rich bed where that soft breather slept. | 175 |
| Though she was near him, under the same roof, | |
| He like a bodiless soul one station kept: | |
| External things usurped him through and through; | |
| His lips burned not to kiss, his voice to woo, | |
| Nor for a great embrace did his arms ache; | 180 |
| Sheer bliss retained only his eyes awake, | |
| Only his ears alert, only this thought, | |
| Which could to clearness by no means be brought— | |
| How, weighed with his good fortune, he was naught. | |
| |
II Ah! wakes she? Nay, but in her slumber speaks; | 185 |
| For back in Haran, gladdening friends, her mind | |
| Goes through its smiling kingdom like a queen, | |
| Bestowing praise and finding all things well. | |
| At even, now, wends staidly down to draw | |
| The water duly; and perchance, these words | 190 |
| Confused beyond his skill, once blessed the ear | |
| Of faithful Eliezer—smiled she thus? | |
| Ah, time goes fast with her, if it be so! | |
| For now at last her words are audible: | |
| “‘Thou art our sister, be thou mother fair | 195 |
| Unto a thousand million!’—so they said.” | |
| She smiles, “O nurse! and it may be I shall!” | |
| With that appears content and journeys on— | |
| And happy journeys doubtless—all the way | |
| A second time from Haran thitherward. | 200 |
| |
| He knelt enraptured at so gracious sign. | |
| Lay there no wonder here?—this virgin come | |
| So far and trustfully for his content? | |
| From inward question, overwhelmed, he ceased, | |
| Yet marvelled in believing—borne to awe, | 205 |
| Yearned, stranded on that utmost shore of thought. | |
| Half-drowned, thus, some exhausted seaman (late | |
| Sport of proud crests on the high-running sea) | |
| Scans long, with still bleared eyes, deep-wooded slopes | |
| Close-folded up at dusk, where ocean ends. | 210 |
| So his mind fed not yet, but gazed and gazed, | |
| By slow degrees assured of what it saw | |
| Lie curled together, hugging ease. Rich forms, | |
| Prepared for motherhood and ready now, | |
| Wait ’neath warm wraps, as under snow the glebe, | 215 |
| Lowly and safe. She lies with face laid soft | |
| To nest in both her hands, which hollow down | |
| The pillow, while her hair mingles with night;— | |
| One darkness, one deep odor, one repose | |
| Divine with promise. Evenly breathe her lips: | 220 |
| Her face set to cleave the gulf of sleep, | |
| As on tense rigid wings the kite high up | |
| Holds its own way through limitless blue noon. | |
| To watch her silent progress through an hour, | |
| Real, yet a vision, drew him through flown days | 225 |
| And sucked him down like a grown plant shrunk back | |
| Within its earliest compass green and fresh. | |
| Till, in his brooding trance diminished, he, | |
| Transformed into a lightsome child once more, | |
| Found native just that way of settling down | 230 |
| To slumber which her weary limbs re-found. | |
| Yet not to sleep; to hide is thus crouched low, | |
| Ishmael bidding him. They are alone, | |
| Strayed from the tents in bright discovery | |
| Of common things and neighbor banks and trees. | 235 |
| He then, as bidden, ’neath a boulder curled, | |
| Watches his elder, planted firm, await, | |
| On sturdy legs among stout thistle-clumps, | |
| A goat that butts full tilt—and all too weak | |
| For such suspense, loses the feel of it. | 240 |
| Ishmael, triumphant, “Not afraid?” had laughed. | |
| Himself then smiled, from absence coming back; | |
| Nor tried to explain why he was found so calm. | |
| Again, shrunk up with fear, bound hand and foot, | |
| Upon an altar laid at noon, he aches; | 245 |
| A knife arrests its plunge—so long that fear | |
| Escapes him; thus lies on in sweet content, | |
| Even as she does, till the angel-voice | |
| Cries “Abraham, Abraham!” bringing him his soul | |
| Truant, as seemed, a long while—strange with awe. | 250 |
| The servants laugh outside; his dreams disperse; | |
| But still he kneels spell-bound beside the bed | |
| His need of prayer frustrating utterance. | |
| Yet, sensible what stars watch oe’r the tent, | |
| Silence and stillness give him strength to feel | 255 |
| His babyhood and boyhood, manhood, one | |
| With her to be possessed soon, with his bride. | |
| In attitude, relation and resource | |
| One under heaven, one in peace and hope. | |
| He knows his father’s wealth lies round him safe; | 260 |
| His mother’s life had used this furniture; | |
| Unto his offspring for unnumbered years | |
| These pastures, wells and pleasant distances | |
| Are pledged by Elohim. It seems enough: | |
| His spirit feels indeed—too much, too much! | 265 |
| |
| A joyous wedding theirs in the old days; | |
| No stint of cheer; to welcome limit none. | |
| Yet tardily the promise worked for them: | |
| Rebekah waited long ere she grew great, | |
| Then went with twins who strove within her womb. | 270 |
| Made anxious thus, enquiring of the Lord, | |
| To her was straight returned, for comfort, this: | |
| “Two nations are within thy womb, and from | |
| Thy bowels shall two peoples separate: | |
| The one people shall be stronger than the other, | 275 |
| And the elder he shall serve the younger brother.” | |
| Now when the day of her deliverance was, | |
| Red and all over as an hairy coat | |
| Forth came the first child: “Esau” called they him. | |
| But since his brother grasped him by the heel | 280 |
| As he came forth the second, him they named | |
| “Jacob”, for that he held him by the heel. | |
| Her women had much mirth to witness it. | |
| Bringing the sturdy boys for her to see, | |
| When eased of pain, yea, merry were their hearts | 285 |
| Yet more; for that meek mother fears her babes | |
| And shrinks from having them laid close to her, | |
| So timid she. But when the younger yearns | |
| And stretches both precocious greedy hands | |
| Towards the fairest face yet seen, him swift | 290 |
| She takes, and holds henceforward next her heart. | |
| For thus her soul had taken bent to love | |
| Those who lay claim to service, but to dread | |
| Those who in self-reliance ask for naught— | |
| Even since, a child, she first had wended out | 295 |
| At herding-time, down to the village well, | |
| Holding her mother’s hand; had picked her way | |
| (Warned to avoid the puddles, choice of shoes | |
| Silk-broidered by maternal love and pride) | |
| And seen the poorer children splash and wade, | 300 |
| And not been bold, and learned no daring ways, | |
| But had grown patient, sage, a nurse of dolls: | |
| Who, late at length, was Jacob’s fond, fond nurse | |
| But could not love her hardy Esau so. | |
| |
| Thus those whose life was peace, gave birth to strife. | 305 |
| Out of the meek came greed, and by content | |
| Were clamoring nations reared to age-long war. | |
| |
