<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506354" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Caliban upon Setebos or, Natural Theology in the Island</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself.&quot; <br> (David, Psalms 50.21) <br> ['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, <br> Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, <br> With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. <br> And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, <br> And feels about his spine small eft-things course, <br> Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: <br> And while above his head a pompion-plant, <br> Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, <br> Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, <br> And now a flower drops with a bee inside, <br> And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,-- <br> He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross <br> And recross till they weave a spider-web <br> (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) <br> And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, <br> Touching that other, whom his dam called God. <br> Because to talk about Him, vexes--ha, <br> Could He but know! and time to vex is now, <br> When talk is safer than in winter-time. <br> Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep <br> In confidence he drudges at their task, <br> And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, <br> Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! <br> 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, <br> But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; <br> Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: <br> Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, <br> And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: <br> He hated that He cannot change His cold, <br> Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish <br> That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, <br> And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine <br> O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, <br> A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; <br> Only, she ever sickened, found repulse <br> At the other kind of water, not her life, <br> (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) <br> Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, <br> And in her old bounds buried her despair, <br> Hating and loving warmth alike: so He. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, <br> Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. <br> Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; <br> Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, <br> That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown <br> He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye <br> By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue <br> That pricks deep into oak warts for a worm, <br> And says a plain word when she finds her prize, <br> But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves <br> That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks <br> About their hole--He made all these and more, <br> Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? <br> He could not, Himself, make a second self <br> To be His mate; as well have made Himself: <br> He would not make what He mislikes or slights, <br> An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains: <br> But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, <br> Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be-- <br> Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, <br> Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, <br> Things He admires and mocks too,--that is it. <br> Because, so brave, so better though they be, <br> It nothing skills if He begin to plague. <br> Look, now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, <br> Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived, <br> Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,-- <br> Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, <br> Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; <br> Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, <br> And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. <br> Put case, unable to be what I wish, <br> I yet could make a live bird out of clay: <br> Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban <br> Able to fly?--for, there, see, he hath wings, <br> And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, <br> And there, a sting to do his foes offence, <br> There, and I will that he begin to live, <br> Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns <br> Of grigs high up that make the merry din, <br> Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. <br> In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, <br> And he lay stupid-like,--why, I should laugh; <br> And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, <br> Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, <br> Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,-- <br> Well, as the chance were, this might take or else <br> Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, <br> And give the mankin three sound legs for one, <br> Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg <br> And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. <br> Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, <br> Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, <br> Making and marring clay at will? So He. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, <br> Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. <br> 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs <br> That march now from the mountain to the sea; <br> 'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, <br> Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. <br> 'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots <br> Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; <br> 'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, <br> And two worms he whose nippers end in red; <br> As it likes me each time, I do: so He. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, <br> Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, <br> But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! <br> Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, <br> And envieth that, so helped, such things do more <br> Than He who made them! What consoles but this? <br> That they, unless through Him, do nought at all, <br> And must submit: what other use in things? <br> 'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint <br> That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay <br> When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: <br> Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay <br> Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: <br> Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth <br> &quot;I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, <br> I make the cry my maker cannot make <br> With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!' <br> Would not I smash it with my foot? So He. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? <br> Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, <br> What knows,--the something over Setebos <br> That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, <br> Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. <br> There may be something quiet o'er His head, <br> Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, <br> Since both derive from weakness in some way. <br> I joy because the quails come; would not joy <br> Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: <br> This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. <br> 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, <br> But never spends much thought nor care that way. <br> It may look up, work up,--the worse for those <br> It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos <br> The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, <br> Who, making Himself feared through what He does, <br> Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar <br> To what is quiet and hath happy life; <br> Next looks down here, and out of very spite <br> Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, <br> These good things to match those as hips do grapes. <br> 'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. <br> Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books <br> Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: <br> Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, <br> Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; <br> Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; <br> Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe <br> The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; <br> And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, <br> A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, <br> Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, <br> And saith she is Miranda and my wife: <br> 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane <br> He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; <br> Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, <br> Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, <br> And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge <br> In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; <br> A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. <br> 'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, <br> Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He. <br> His dam held that the Quiet made all things <br> Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. <br> Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. <br> Had He meant other, while His hand was in, <br> Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, <br> Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, <br> Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint <br> Like an orc's armour? Ay,--so spoil His sport! <br> He is the One now: only He doth all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> 'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. <br> Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? <br> 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast <br> Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, <br> But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate <br> Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes. <br> Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, <br> Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, <br> By no means for the love of what is worked. <br> 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world <br> When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, <br> And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, <br> Than trying what to do with wit and strength. <br> 'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, <br> And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, <br> And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, <br> And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, <br> And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, <br> Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. <br> No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; <br> 'Shall some day knock it down again: so He. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> 'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! <br> One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. <br> He hath a spite against me, that I know, <br> Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why? <br> So it is, all the same, as well I find. <br> 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm <br> With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises <br> Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, <br> Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, <br> Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, <br> And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite. <br> 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) <br> Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: <br> Often they scatter sparkles: there is force! <br> 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once <br> And turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone. <br> Please Him and hinder this?--What Prosper does? <br> Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He! <br> There is the sport: discover how or die! <br> All need not die, for of the things o' the isle <br> Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; <br> Those at His mercy,--why, they please Him most <br> When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice! <br> Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. <br> You must not know His ways, and play Him off, <br> Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: <br> 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears <br> But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, <br> And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: <br> 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, <br> Curls up into a ball, pretending death <br> For fright at my approach: the two ways please. <br> But what would move my choler more than this, <br> That either creature counted on its life <br> To-morrow and next day and all days to come, <br> Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, <br> &quot;Because he did so yesterday with me, <br> And otherwise with such another brute, <br> So must he do henceforth and always.&quot;--Ay? <br> Would teach the reasoning couple what &quot;must&quot; means! <br> 'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> 'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, <br> And we shall have to live in fear of Him <br> So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, <br> If He have done His best, make no new world <br> To please Him more, so leave off watching this,-- <br> If He surprise not even the Quiet's self <br> Some strange day,--or, suppose, grow into it <br> As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, <br> And there is He, and nowhere help at all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> 'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. <br> His dam held different, that after death <br> He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: <br> Idly! He doth His worst in this our life, <br> Giving just respite lest we die through pain, <br> Saving last pain for worst,--with which, an end. <br> Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire <br> Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, <br> Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, <br> Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. <br> 'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball <br> On head and tail as if to save their lives: <br> Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose <br> This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, <br> And always, above all else, envies Him; <br> Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, <br> Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, <br> And never speaks his mind save housed as now: <br> Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, <br> O'erheard this speech, and asked &quot;What chucklest at?&quot; <br> 'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, <br> Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, <br> Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, <br> Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: <br> While myself lit a fire, and made a song <br> And sung it, &quot;What I hate, be consecrate <br> To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate <br> For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?&quot; <br> Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, <br> Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, <br> That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch <br> And conquer Setebos, or likelier He <br> Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Browning">Robert Browning</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506354" data-title="Caliban upon Setebos or, Natural Theology in the Island de Robert Browning" data-description="&quot;Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself.&quot; (David, Psalms 50.21) ['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. ..."></div> </div> </div>

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