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

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, 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.

'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 butterflies: else, here are we,
And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

'Believeth with the life the pain shall stop.
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

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?"
'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,
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,
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!]

SAUL

ROBERT BROWNING

XIII

"Yea, my King,"

I began "thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring

From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by

brute:

In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears

fruit.

Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,-how its stem trembled first

Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst

The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn

Broke a-bloom and the palm tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn,

E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight,

When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight

Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and branch

Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall staunch

Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine.

Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy

More indeed, than at first when, inconscious, the life of a boy.

Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast done

Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the

sun

Looking down on the earth, tho' clouds spoil him, tho' tempests efface,

Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere

trace

The results of his past summer-prime,-so, each ray of thy will.

Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill Thy whole people, the countless, with ardour, till they too give forth

A like cheer to their sons: who in turn, fill the South and the North

With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past!

But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last.

As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, So with man-so his power and his beauty forever take flight. No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er

the years!

Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's!

Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb-bid arise

A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies,

Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know?

Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go In great characters cut by the scribe,-Such was Saul, so he did;

With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,— For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend,

In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend

(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, the statesman's great word

Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophetwinds rave:

So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!"

And before it not seldom hast granted Thy help to essay,
Carry on and complete an adventure,-my shield and my sword
In that act where my soul was Thy servant, Thy word was
my word,-

Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavour
And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless

as ever

On the new stretch of heaven above me-till, mighty to save, Just one lift of Thy hand cleared that distance-God's throne from man's grave!

Let me tell out my tale to its ending-my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part,

As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep!

For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves

Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine.

XV

I say then, my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more strong, Made a proffer of good to console him-he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see-the huge sweat that his countenance bathes,

He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore,

And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory, ere error had bent