And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite.
'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;
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 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 and 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 through 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 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 blazeA tree's head snaps—and there, there, there, there,

there, 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!]

CONFESSIONS
W HAT is he buzzing in my ears?

V “Now that I come to die,
“Do I view the world as a vale of tears?"

Ah, reverend sir, not I!
What I viewed there once, what I view again

Where the physic bottles stand
On the table's edge,—is a suburb lane,

With a wall to my bedside hand.
That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,

From a house you could descry
O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue

Or green to a healthy eye?
To mine, it serves for the old June weather

Blue above lane and wall;
And that farthest bottle labelled “Ether"

Is the house o'ertopping all.

At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,

There watched for me, one June,
A girl: I know, sir, it's improper,

My poor mind's out of tune.
Only, there was a way ... you crept

Close by the side, to dodge
Eyes in the house, two eyes except:

"They styled the house““ The Lodge." What right had a lounger up their lane?

But, by creeping very close, With the good wall's help,—their eyes might

strain
And stretch themselves to Oes,
Yet never catch her and me together,

As she left the attic, there,
By the rim of the bottle labelled “Ether,"

And stole from stair to stair,
And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,

We loved, sir-used to meet:
How sad and bad and mad it was,

But then, how it was sweet!

MAY AND DEATH

I WISH that when you died last May,
1 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!

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, Do all it did for me: Í 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,

Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between That, they might spare; a certain wood

Might miss the plant; their loss were small: But 1,-whene'er the leaf grows there,

Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.

DEAF AND DUMB
A Group by Woolner

NLY the prism's obstruction shows aright

The secret of a sunbeam, breaks its light Into the jewelled bow from blankest white,

So may a glory from defect arise: Only by Deafness may the vexed Love wreak Its insuppressive sense on brow and cheek, Only by Dumbness adequately speak As favoured mouth could never, through the

eyes.