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,
This cruel conflict for pre-eminence,
This keen supplanting of the dearest kin,
Quick seizure and fast unrelaxing hold
Of vantage-place; the stony hard resolve,
The case, 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!
I thank Thee it is over, yet I think
It was a work appointed me of Thee.
How is it? I have striven all my days
To do my duty to my house and hearth,
And to the purpose of my father's race,
Yet is my heart therewith not satisfied.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

21

MOSES ON THE NILE

66 Sisters! the wave is freshest in the ray Of the young morning; the reapers are asleep; The river-bank is lonely; come away!

The early murmurs of old Memphis creep Faint on my ear; and here unseen we stray (Deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn), Save by the dewy eye-glance of the dawn. "Within my father's palace, fair to see,

Shine all the Arts, but oh! this river-side, Pranked with gay flowers, is dearer far to me Than gold and porphyry vases bright and wide; How glad in heaven the song-bird carols free! Sweeter these zephyrs float than all the showers Of costly odors in our royal bowers.

"The sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear: Unloose your zones, my maidens, and fling down To float awhile upon these bushes near

Your blue transparent robes: take off my crown, And take away my jealous veil; for here

To-day we shall be joyous while we lave
Our limbs amid the murmur of the wave.

"Hasten; but through the fleecy mists of morn,
What do I see? Look ye along the stream!
Nay, timid maidens, we must not return!

Coursing along the current, it would seem
An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne,
That from the distant wilderness proceeds,
Downwards, to view our wondrous Pyramids.

66

But stay! if I may surely trust mine eye,
It is the bark of Hermes, or the shell
Of Iris, wafted gently to the sighs

Of the light breeze along the rippling swell;
But no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies

An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest
Looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast.

"He sleeps-oh, see! his little floating bed

Swims on the mighty river's fickle flow, A white dove's nest; and there at hazard led By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro, The cot comes down; beneath his quiet head The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave Appears to rock the child upon a grave.

"He wakes-ah, maids of Memphis, haste, oh, haste!

He cries! alas!--what mother could confide
Her offspring to the wild and watery waste?
He stretches out his arms,-the rippling tide
Murmurs around him where all rudely placed

He rests with but a few frail reeds beneath,
Between such helpless innocence and death.

"Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those
Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes;
Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose

Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes!
Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes;
I would I were his mother; but I'll give
If not his birth, at least the right to live."

Thus Iphis spoke the royal hope and pride

Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh Wandered along the Nile's meandering side;

And these diminished beauties, standing by The trembling mother, watching with eyes wide Their graceful mistress, admired her as she stood, More lovely than the genius of the flood.

The waters broken by her delicate feet
Receive the eager wader, as alone
By gentlest pity led she strives to meet

The wakened babe; and see, the prize is won!
She holds the weeping burden with a sweet
And virgin glow of pride upon her brow,
That knew no flush save modesty's till now.

Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch,
She brought the rescued infant slowly out
Beyond the humid sands; at her approach

Her curious maidens hurried round about
To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch;
Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh
Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye!

Haste thou, who from afar, with doubt and fear,
Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy-
The loved of Heaven! Come as a stranger near,
And clasp young Moses with maternal joy;
Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear
Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden part,
For Iphis knows not yet a mother's heart.

With a glad heart, and a triumphal face,
The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led
The humble infant of a hated race,

Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed;
While, loudly pealing round the holy place

Of Heaven's white throne, the voice of angel

choirs

Intoned the theme of their undying lyres.

"No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below, O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell The torrent of th’Egyptian river. Lo!

Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell, And Goshen shall behold thy people go

Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand, From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land!"

VICTOR HUGO

Translation from the Dublin University Magazine