The maiden lowered the pitcher to her hand
And hasted, saying, “ Drink, my lord; I will
Draw more, until thy camels have their fill:
Then filled the trough, refreshing all his band.
And the man, wondering at her, held his peace
Until the caravan was given water,
Then said, "I pray thee, tell, who is thy sire?"
For yet he knew not if his search should cease;
And she said, answering him, "I am the daughter
Of Bethuel, son to Nahor." Nigher
To her he drew, and bending to the sod,
The fair descendant hailed of Abraham's line
As Isaac's wife. He saw the hand divine,
And bowing down his head, he worshipped God.
And her people blessed Rebekah, saying,
"Thou art our sister. Be thou the mother
Of many millions!" And she arose, she
And her damsels, and rode upon the camels.
And she went forth from among her kindred
And from her country, pre-ordained of God
To become the mother of nations.
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 surfg 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
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