Each desperate limb to be freed and away,
In sheer paralysis of dismay
Struck stark,—and so, night's abject, stands.

XV.

"Mother, the candle is cowering low
Beneath the night-gust: hoop both hands
About the light, and stoop over, so
The wind from the buffeted flame to shut,
Lest at once in our eyes the darkness blow."
—"What see ye, Rachel?"

XVI.

                                               A square stone cut
With letters. Thick the moss is driven
Thro' the graver's work now blunt and blurr'd:
There be seven words with letters seven:
A finger-touch on the letter third
Of seven in the seventh word,
And the stone is heaved back: earth yawns and gapes:
A cold strikes up the clammy dark,
And clings: a spawn of vaporous shapes
Floats out in films: a sanguine spark
The taper spits: the snaky stair
Gleams, curling down the abyss laid bare,
Where Rabbi Ben Ephraim's treasure is laid.

XVII.

There, they sat them down awhile,
With that terrible joy which cannot smile
Because the heart of it is staid
And stunn'd, as it were, by a too swift pace.
And the wicked Presence abroad on the place
So took them with awe that they rested afraid
Almost to look into each other's face.
Moreover, the nearness of what should change,
Like a change in a dream, their lives for ever
Into something suddenly bright and strange,
Paused upon them, and made them shiver.
The old woman mumbled at length: "I am old:
I have no sight the treasure to find;
I have no strength to rake the red gold;
My hand is palsied, my eye is blind,
Child of my bosom, I dare not descend
To the horrible pit!" And Rachel said:
"I fear the darkness, I fear the dead;
But the candle is burning fast to the end:
We waste the time with words. Look here!
There rests between us and the dark
A few short inches. . . . Mother, mark
The wasting taper! . . . I should not fear
Either the darkness or the dead,
But for certain memories in my head
Which daunt me. . . . We will go, we twain,
Together." The old woman cried again:
"Child of my bosom, I will not descend
To the horrible pit and the candle-end
Is burning down, God curse the same!
I am old, and cannot help myself.
Young are ye! What your beauty brings
Who knows? I think ye keep the pelf,
Ye will let me starve. So the serpent stings
The bosom it lay in! Are ye so tame
Of spirit? I marvel why we came.
Poverty is the worst of things!"
Rachel look'd at the dwindling flame,
And frown'd, and mutter'd, "Mother, shame!
I fear the darkness, because there clings
To my heart a thought, I cannot smother,
Of certain things which, whatever the blame,
Thou wottest of, and I will not name;
For my sins are many and heavy, mother.
Yet because I hunger", and still would save
Some years from sin, and because of my brother
Whom the Greek man sold to be slave to a slave
(May the Lord requite the lying knave!),
I will go down alone to the pit.
Thou therefore, mother, watch, and sit
In prayer for me, by the mouth of the grave
The light will hardly last me, I fear,
And what is to do must be quickly done.
Mercy on us, mother! . . . Look here
Three inches more, and the light will be gone!
Quick, mother, the candle quick! I fear
To be left in the darkness alone."

XVIII.

The mother sat by the grave, and listen'd.
She waited: she heard the footsteps go
Under the earth, wandering, slow.
She look'd: deep down the taper glisten'd.
Then, the voice of Rachel from below:

"Mother, mother, stoop and hold!"
And she flung up four ouches of gold.
The old woman counted them, ouches four,
Beaten out of the massy ore.

"Child of my bosom, blessèd art thou!
The hand of the Lord be yet with thee.
As thou art strong in thy spirit now,
Many and pleasant thy clays shall be.
As a vine in a garden, fair to behold,
Green in her branches, shalt thou grow
And so have gladness when thou art old.
Rachel, Rachel, be thou bold!
More gold yet, and still more gold!"

"Mother, mother, the light burns low.
The candle is one inch shorter now,
And I dare not be left in the darkness alone."

"Rachel, Rachel, go on! go on!
Of thee have I said, She shall not shrink!
Thy brother is yet a bondsman—think!
Yet once more, and he is free.
And whom shall he praise for this but thee?
Rachel, Rachel, be thou bold!
Manassah is groaning over the sea.
More gold yet, and still more gold!"

"Mother, mother, stoop and hold!"
And she flung up from below again
Cups of the carven silver twain.
Solid silver was each great cup.
The old woman caught them as they came up.

"Rachel, Rachel, well hast thou done!
Manassah is free. Go on! go on!
Royal dainties for ever be thine!
Rachel's eyes shall be red with wine,
Rachel's mouth shall with milk be fill'd,
And her bread be fat. I praise thee, my child,
For surely thou hast freed thy brother.
The deed was good, but there resteth another,
And art thou not the child of thy mother?
Once more, Rachel, yet once more!
Thy mother is very poor and old.
Must she close her eyes before
They see the thing she would behold?
More gold yet, and still more gold!"

"Mother, the light is very low.
The candle is well-nigh wasted now,
And I dare not be left in the darkness alone."

"Rachel, Rachel, go on! go on!
Much is done, but there resteth more.
Ye are young, Rachel, shall it be told
That my bones were laid at my children's door?
More gold yet, and still more gold!"