Poetry
THE FIRST NINE PLAGUES AN EXTRACT FROM THE POEM �THE EXODUS� Let my people go. The Nile has turned to blood and stained the fertile mud; and no one safely drinks while Egypt�s mother stinks and teems with rotting fish. Pharaoh, grant my wish. Let my people go. The land is green with frogs from rivers, pools and bogs; they sit upon your bed and soil the dough and bread, and none may sleep or eat. Hear me, I repeat. Let my people go. The stroke of Aaron�s rod, the finger-tap of God, has conjured lice from dust and, from your pride, disgust. On man and beast they spring. Grant my wish, O King. Let my people go. Your homes are thick with flies and Egypt, choking, dies; They swarm around your throne while God protects his own and Goshen prospers, free. Pharaoh, hear my plea. Let my people go. The Lord has touched your herds and added deeds to words; and camel, sheep and ass are one afflicted mass, while our beasts idly stray. King, you must obey. Let my people go. The kiln-soot from my hand has settled on the land; its fine and festering grains have blossomed into blains on animal and man. Hear me while you can. Let my people go. The hail has set its sting in every growing thing and shattered every tree, while Goshen prospers, free, with crops in every field. King of Egypt, yield. Let my people go. The high wind from the east has summoned guests to feast: the dense black locust-shower has settled to devour and ravage Egypt�s green. Pharaoh, intervene. Let my people go. The Lord�s unyielding might has robbed your land of sight and closed your father�s eye and blackened Egypt�s sky. Before the final blow, let my people go.
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