Classic Poem

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 days 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.
“Rachael, Rachael, 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?
Thy mother is very poor and old.
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!”

“Mother, mother, stoop and hold!”

The voice came fainter from beneath;
And she flung up a jewell'd sheath.
The sheath was thick with many a gem;
The old woman carefully counted them.

“Rachel, Rachel, thee must I praise,
Who makest pleasant thy mother's days.
Blessèd be thou in all thy ways!
Surely for this must I praise thee, my daughter,
And therefore in fulness shalt thou dwell
As a fruitful fig-tree beside the water
That layeth her green leaves over the well.
More gold, Rachel, yet again!
And we shall have houses and servants in Spain,
And thou shalt walk with the wealthiest ladies,
And fairest, in Cordova, Seville, or Cadiz,
And thou shalt be woo'd as a Queen should be,
And tended upon as the proud are tended,
And the alguazils shall doff to thee,
For thy face shall be brighten'd, thy raiment be splendid,
And no man shall call thee an evil name,
And thou shalt no longer remember thy shame,
And thy mother's eyes, as she waxes old,
Shall see the thing she would behold—
More gold yet, and still more gold!”

“Mother, the light is very low—
—Out! out! … Ah God, they are on me now!
Mother, mother, they have me, and hold!
Mother, there is a curse on thy gold!
Mother” (the old woman hears with a groan),
“Leave me not here in the darkness alone!”