Browning's Shorter Poems Part 20

In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, And he lay stupid-like,--why, I should laugh; And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,-- Well, as the chance were, this might take or else 90 Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, And give the mankin three sound legs for one, Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, And lessoned he was mine and merely clay.

Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, Making and marring clay at will? So He.

'Thinketh such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord.

'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs 100 That march now from the mountain to the sea; 'Let twenty pa.s.s, and stone the twenty-first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.

'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm.

And two worms he whose nippers end in red: As it likes me each time, I do: so He.

Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, 110 But rougher than His handiwork, be sure!

Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, And envieth that, so helped, such things do more Than He who made them! What consoles but this?

That they, unless thro' Him, do naught at all, And must submit: what other use in things?

'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue; Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay 120 Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth "I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, I make the cry my maker cannot make With his great round mouth; he must blow thro' mine!"

Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease?

Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, What knows,--the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, 130 Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance.

There may be something quiet o'er His head, Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, Since both derive from weakness in some way.

I joy because the quails come; would not joy Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth.

'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, But never spends much thought nor care that way.

It may look up, work up,--the worse for those 140 It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, Who, making Himself feared thro' what He does, Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar To what is quiet and hath happy life; Next looks down here, and out of very spite Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those as hips do grapes.

'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport.

Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books 150 Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'st.i.tched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife: 160 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Caliban; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites.

'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He.

His dam held that the Quiet made all things 170 Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so.

Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.

Had He meant other, while His hand was in, Why not make h.o.r.n.y eyes no thorn could p.r.i.c.k, Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, Like an orc's armour? Ay,--so spoil His sport!

He is the One now: only He doth all.

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.

Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 180 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose.

But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes.

Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, By no means for the love of what is worked.

'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, 190 Than trying what to do with wit and strength.

'Falls to make something; 'piled yon pile of turfs, And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill.

No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'Shall some day knock it down again: so He.

'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! 200 One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.

He hath a spite against me, that I know.

Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?

So it is, all the same, as well I find.

'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, And licked the whole labour flat; so much for spite! 210 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!

'Dug up a newt He may have envied once And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone.

Please Him and hinder this?--What Prosper does?

Aha, if he would tell me how! Not he!

There is the sport: discover how or die!

All need not die, for of the things o' the isle Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; 220 Those at His mercy,--why, they please Him most When ... when ... well, never try the same way twice!

Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.

You must not know His ways, and play Him off, Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, Curls up into a ball, pretending death 230 For fright at my approach: the two ways please.

But what would move my choler more than this, That either creature counted on its life To-morrow, next day and all days to come, Saying forsooth in the inmost of its heart, "Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and always." Ay?

'Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means!

'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. 240

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, And we shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him more, so leave off watching this,-- If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day,--or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow b.u.t.terflies: else, here are we, And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

'Believeth with the life the pain shall stop. 250 His dam held different, that after death He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: Idly! He doth His worst in this our life, Giving just respite lest we die thro' pain, Saving last pain for worst,--with which, an end.

Meanwhile, the best way to escape His Ire Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both.

'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball 260 On head and tail as if to save their lives: 'Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

Even so, 'would have him misconceive, suppose This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, And always, above all else, envies Him; Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, And never speaks his mind save housed as now: Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?" 270 'Would to appease Him, cut a finger off, Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: While myself lit a fire, and made a song And sung it, _"What I hate, be consecrate To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?"_ Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, 280 That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch And conquer Setebos, or likelier He Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.

[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once!

Crickets stop hissing; not a bird--or, yes, There scuds His raven, that hath told Him all!

It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, And fast invading fires begin! White blaze-- A tree's head snaps--and there, there, there, there, there, 290 His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him!

So! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!

'Maketh his teeth meet thro' his upper lip, Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]

"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"

_(See Edgar's song in "Lear.")_

My first thought was, he lied in every word, That h.o.a.ry cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored 5 Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?

What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh 10 Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph 11 For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried.

So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What, with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope 20 Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring,-- I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith, "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;") 30

While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves, and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among "The Band"--to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed 40 Their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. 48

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, 50 Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound, I might go on; naught else remained to do.

So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ign.o.ble nature; nothing throve: For flowers--as well expect a cedar grove!

But c.o.c.kle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove. 60

No! penury, inertness, and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." 66