Chapter 17

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 through Him, do naught at all, 115 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 through mine!" 125 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 135 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 cuttlefish, Who, making Himself feared through what He does, Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar To what is quiet and hath happy life; 145 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, aye, and sport. Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books 150 Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'stitched 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 155 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 165 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 horny eyes no thorn could prick, Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, 175 Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, Like an orc's armor? Aye--so spoil His sport! He is the One now: only He doth all.

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. Aye, himself loves what does him good; but why? 180 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places fleshmeat 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, 185 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 summertime, 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, 195 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 favors Prosper, who knows why? So it is, all the same, as well I find. 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm 205 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 labor 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. 215 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: 225 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defense: '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 Tomorrow and next day and all days to come, Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, 235 "Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and always."--Aye? 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-- 245 If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day--or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow butterflies: 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 through pain, Saving last pain for worst--with which, an end. 255 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; 265 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 275 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, 285 There scuds His raven that has 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! Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! 'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip, Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!] 295

MAY AND DEATH

I wish that when you died last May, Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of spring's delightful things; Aye, and, for me, the fourth part, too.

A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps! 5 There must be many a pair of friends Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm Moon-births and the long evening-ends.

So, for their sake, be May still May! Let their new time, as mine of old, 10 Do all it did for me: I bid Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.

Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak, 15 Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between--

That, they might spare; a certain wood Might miss the plant; their loss were small: But I--whene'er the leaf grows there, Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. 20

PROSPICE

Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, 5 The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go; For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, 10 Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 15 And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold. 20 For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 25 Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

A FACE

If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! No shade encroaching on the matchless mold Of those two lips, which should be opening soft 5 In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all; but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burthen of honey-colored buds to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. 10 Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, How it should waver on the pale gold ground Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb 15 Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb; But these are only massed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), 20 All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

O LYRIC LOVE

O lyric Love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire-- Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, Took sanctuary within the holier blue, And sang a kindred soul out to his face-- 5 Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart-- When the first summons from the darkling earth Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, And bared them of the glory--to drop down, To toil for man, to suffer or to die-- 10 This is the same voice; can thy soul know change? Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help! Never may I commence my song, my due To God who best taught song by gift of thee, Except with bent head and beseeching hand-- 15 That still, despite the distance and the dark, What was, again may be; some interchange Of grace, some splendor once thy very thought, Some benediction anciently thy smile: --Never conclude, but raising hand and head. 20 Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, Their utmost up and on--so blessing back In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, 25 Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!

PROLOGUE TO PACCHIAROTTO

Oh, the old wall here! How I could pass Life in a long midsummer day, My feet confined to a plot of grass, My eyes from a wall not once away!

And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe 5 Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, In lappets of tangle they laugh between.

Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims 10 The body--the house, no eye can probe-- Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs?

And there again! But my heart may guess Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps; So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess 15 Died out and away in the leafy wraps!

Wall upon wall are between us; life And song should away from heart to heart! I--prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start-- 20

Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing That's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring Of the rueful neighbors, and--forth to thee!

HOUSE

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself? 25 Do I live in a house you would like to see? Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf? "Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key"?

Invite the world, as my betters have done? "Take notice: this building remains on view, 30 Its suites of reception every one, Its private apartment and bedroom too;

"For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." No: thanking the public, I must decline. A peep through my window, if folk prefer; 35 But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!

I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced And a house stood gaping, naught to balk Man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced. 40

The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, The inside gaped; exposed to day, Right and wrong and common and queer, Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay.

The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt! 45 "Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth! What a parcel of musty old books about! He smoked--no wonder he lost his health!

"I doubt if he bathed before he dressed. A brasier?--the pagan, he burned perfumes! 50 You see it is proved, what the neighbors guessed: His wife and himself had separate rooms."

Friends, the goodman of the house at least Kept house to himself till an earthquake came; 'Tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast 55 On the inside arrangement you praise or blame.

Outside should suffice for evidence; And whoso desires to penetrate Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense-- No optics like yours, at any rate! 60

"Hoity-toity! A street to explore, Your house the exception! '_With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart_,' once more!" Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

SHOP

So, friend, your shop was all your house! 65 Its front, astonishing the street, Invited view from man and mouse To what diversity of treat Behind its glass--the single sheet!

What gimcracks, genuine Japanese: 70 Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog; Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese; Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog: Queer names, too, such a catalogue!

I thought, "And he who owns the wealth 75 Which blocks the window's vastitude, --Ah, could I peep at him by stealth Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude On house itself, what scenes were viewed!

"If wide and showy thus the shop, 80 What must the habitation prove? The true house with no name a-top-- The mansion, distant one remove, Once get him off his traffic-groove!

"Pictures he likes, or books perhaps; 85 And as for buying most and best, Commend me to these City chaps! Or else he's social, takes his rest On Sundays, with a lord for guest.

"Some suburb-palace, parked about 90 And gated grandly, built last year; The four-mile walk to keep off gout; Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer-- But then he takes the rail, that's clear.

"Or, stop! I wager, taste selects 95 Some out o' the way, some all-unknown Retreat; the neighborhood suspects Little that he who rambles lone Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!"

Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence 100 Fit to receive and entertain-- Nor Hampstead villa's kind defense From noise and crowd, from dust and drain-- Nor country-box was soul's domain!

Nowise! At back of all that spread 105 Of merchandise, woe's me, I find A hole i' the wall where, heels by head, The owner couched, his ware behind --In cupboard suited to his mind.

For why? He saw no use of life 110 But, while he drove a roaring trade, To chuckle, "Customers are rife!" To chafe, "So much hard cash outlaid Yet zero in my profits made!

"This novelty costs pains, but--takes? 115 Cumbers my counter! Stock no more! This article, no such great shakes, Fizzes like wildfire? Underscore The cheap thing--thousands to the fore!"

'Twas lodging best to live most nigh 120 (Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) Receipt of Custom; ear and eye Wanted no outworld: "Hear and see The bustle in the shop!" quoth he

My fancy of a merchant-prince 125 Was different. Through his wares we groped Our darkling way to--not to mince The matter--no black den where moped The master if we interloped!

Shop was shop only: household-stuff? 130 What did he want with comforts there? "Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, So goods on sale show rich and rare! '_Sell and scud home_' be shop's affair!"

What might he deal in? Gems, suppose! 135 Since somehow business must be done At cost of trouble--see, he throws You choice of jewels, everyone, Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun!

Which lies within your power of purse? 140 This ruby that would tip aright Solomon's scepter? Oh, your nurse Wants simply coral, the delight Of teething baby--stuff to bite!

Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took 145 Your purchase, prompt your money rang On counter--scarce the man forsook His study of the "Times," just swang Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang--

Then off made buyer with a prize, 150 Then seller to his "Times" returned; And so did day wear, wear, till eyes Brightened apace, for rest was earned; He locked door long ere candle burned.

And whither went he? Ask himself, 155 Not me! To change of scene, I think. Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf, Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink, Nor all his music--money-chink.

Because a man has shop to mind 160 In time and place, since flesh must live, Needs spirit lack all life behind, All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, All loves except what trade can give?

I want to know a butcher paints, 165 A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute!

But--shop each day and all day long! 170 Friend, your good angel slept, your star Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong! From where these sorts of treasures are, There should our hearts be--Christ, how far!

HERVE RIEL

I

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French--woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, 5 With the English fleet in view.

II