Poems - Victor Hugo (10 ebook reader TXT) 📗

class="calibre5">More richly farming clown; Nowhere a broader square reflects

Such brilliant mansions, tall,— Away, ye merry maids, etc.

Nowhere a statelier abbey rears

Dome huger o’er a shrine, Though seek ye from old Rome itself

To even Seville fine. Here countless pilgrims come to pray And promenade the Mall,— Away, ye merry maids, etc.

Where glide the girls more joyfully

Than ours who dance at dusk, With roses white upon their brows,

With waists that scorn the busk? Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes—

Compared with these, how small! Away, ye merry maids, etc.

A blossom in a city lane,

Alizia was our pride, And oft the blundering bee, deceived,

Came buzzing to her side— But, oh! for one that felt the sting,

And found, ‘neath honey, gall— Away, ye merry maids, etc.

Young, haughty, from still hotter lands,

A stranger hither came— Was he a Moor or African,

Or Murcian known to fame? None knew—least, she—or false or true,

The name by which to call. Away, ye merry maids, etc.

Alizia asked not his degree,

She saw him but as Love, And through Xarama’s vale they strayed,

And tarried in the grove,— Oh! curses on that fatal eve,

And on that leafy hall! Away, ye merry maids, etc.

The darkened city breathed no more;

The moon was mantled long, Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak

Upon the steeples’ throng; The crossway Christ, in ivy draped,

Shrank, grieving, ‘neath the pall,— Away, ye merry maids, etc.

But while, alone, they kept the shade,

The other dark-eyed dears Were murmuring on the stifling air

Their jealous threats and fears; Alizia was so blamed, that time,

Unheeded rang the call: Away, ye merry maids, etc.

Although, above, the hawk describes

The circle round the lark, It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass

Had eyes but for her spark— A spark?—a sun! ‘Twas Juan, King!

Who wears our coronal,— Away, ye merry maids, etc.

A love so far above one’s state

Ends sadly. Came a black And guarded palanquin to bear

The girl that ne’er comes back; By royal writ, some nunnery

Still shields her from us all Away, ye merry maids, and haste

To gather ere they fall!

H. L. WILLIAMS

 

MAZEPPA.

(“Ainsi, lorsqu’un mortel!”)

[XXXIV., May, 1828.]

As when a mortal—Genius’ prize, alack! Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back,

Thou reinless racing steed! In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star, Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, far

Out of the flow’ry mead,— So—though thou speed’st implacable, (like him, Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim,

As if each stride the nearer bring Him to the grave)—when comes the time, After the fall, he rises—KING!

H.L. WILLIAMS

 

THE DANUBE IN WRATH.

(“Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?”)

[XXXV., June, 1828.]

 

The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams:—

Ye daughters mine! will naught abate Your fierce interminable hate? Still am I doomed to rue the fate

That such unfriendly neighbors made? The while ye might, in peaceful cheer, Mirror upon your waters clear, Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear,

And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!

Fraser’s Magazine

 

OLD OCEAN.

(“J’étais seul près des flots.”)

[XXXVII., September 5, 1828.]

 

I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight, Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright;

Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye; And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around, Seem’d to question with moody, mysterious sound,

The waves, and the pure stars on high. And the clear constellations, that infinite throng, While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song,

Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze— And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest, Chorus’d forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest

“Creator! we bless thee and praise!”

R.C. ELLWOOD

 

MY NAPOLEON.

(“Toujours lui! lui partout!”)

[XL., December, 1828.]

 

Above all others, everywhere I see

His image cold or burning! My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free

The thoughts within me yearning. My quivering lips pour forth the words

That cluster in his name of glory— The star gigantic with its rays of swords

Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.

I see his finger pointing where the shell

Should fall to slay most rabble, And save foul regicides; or strike the knell

Of weaklings ‘mid the tribunes’ babble. A Consul then, o’er young but proud,

With midnight poring thinned, and sallow, But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,

And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.

And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame

Whole nations’ contact urging To gain his soldiers gold and fame

Oh, Sun on high emerging, Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells

Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells,

Into his host of half-a-million heroes!

What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.

No weight of arms enfolded Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart

Which Nature—not her journeymen—self-moulded. Let sordid jailers vex their prize;

But only bends that brow to lightning, As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs

Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright’ning.

Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true!

Yet lingers still some power— In tears of woe man’s metal may renew

The temper of high hour; For, bating breath, e’er list the kings

The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings

And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle!

And, lastly, grandest! ‘tween dark sea and here

Eternal brightness coming! The eye so weary’s freshened with a tear

As rises distant drumming, And wailing cheer—they pass the pale

His army mourns though still’s the end hid; And from his war-stained cloak, he answers “Hail!”

And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid!

H.L. WILLIAMS.

 

LES FEUILLES D’AUTOMNE.—1831.

 

THE PATIENCE OF THE PEOPLE.

(“Il s’est dit tant de fois.”)

[III., May, 1830.]

 

How often have the people said: “What’s power?” Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour Has onward borne, as in a fevered dream, Such quick reverses, like a judge supreme— Austere but just, they contemplate the end To which the current of events must tend. Self-confidence has taught them to forbear, And in the vastness of their strength, they spare. Armed with impunity, for one in vain Resists a nation, they let others reign.

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

 

DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER.

(“Souvent quand mon esprit riche.”)

[VII., May 18, 1828.]

 

When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled, Floats on in repose round this wonderful world,

Oft the sacred fire from heaven— Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul— Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole

Its upward course is driven,

Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought,

With every quarter’s wind; It regards from those radiant vaults on high, Earth’s cities below, and again doth fly,

And leaves but its shadow behind.

In the glistening gold of the morning bright, It shines, detaching some lance of light,

Or, as warrior’s armor rings; It forages forests that ferment around, Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found,

Where the west its radiance flings.

Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head Where snow-clad Alps around are spread,

By furious gale ‘tis thrown. From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away, And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray,

The giant mountain’s crown!

Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled, In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed;

On its side the rainbow plays, And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below, The last slanting ray on its crest of snow

Makes its cap like a crater to blaze.

In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light, The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight,

The eagle afar is driven; The deluge but roars in despair to its feet, And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet,

So near doth it rise to heaven.

Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear, Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near;

On the starry vault to gaze, And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night, On th’ horizon high heaving, like arches of light,

Till again the sun shall blaze.

For then will the glacier with glory be graced, On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed,

The morn its echoes greet; Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life, Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife,

When waters on waters meet.

As the spirit of poesy touches my thought, It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought,

From earth, with the waters of pain. As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends, These fly to the heavens—their course never ends,

But descend to the ocean again.

Author of “Critical Essays.”

 

THE POET’S LOVE FOR LIVELINESS.

(“Moi, quelque soit le monde.”)

[XV., May 11, 1830.]

 

For me, whate’er my life and lot may show, Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem’ry’s glow,

Turmoil or peace; never be it mine, I pray, To be a dweller of the peopled earth, Save ‘neath a roof alive with children’s mirth

Loud through the livelong day.

So, if my hap it be to see once more Those scenes my footsteps tottered in before,

An infant follower in Napoleon’s train: Rodrigo’s holds, Valencia and Leon, And both Castiles, and mated Aragon;

Ne’er be it mine, O Spain!

 

To pass thy plains with cities scant between, Thy stately arches flung o’er deep ravine,

Thy palaces, of Moor’s or Roman’s time; Or the swift makings of thy Guadalquiver, Save in those gilded cars, where bells forever

Ring their melodious chime.

Fraser’s Magazine

 

INFANTILE INFLUENCE.

(“Lorsque l’enfant parait.”)

[XIX., May 11, 1830.]

 

The child comes toddling in, and young and old With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold,

And artless, babyish joy; A playful welcome greets it through the room, The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom,

To greet the happy boy.

If June with flowers has spangled all the ground, Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around

Draws close the circling seat; The child still sheds a never-failing light; We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright

Watches its tottering feet.

Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw, We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law,

Or politics, or prayer; The child comes in, ‘tis now all smiles and play, Farewell to grave discourse and poet’s lay,

Philosophy and care.

When fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep Lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep

The dark stream sinks and swells, The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o’er the sea, Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy

Of birds and chiming bells;

Thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field, Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield

When breathed upon by thee, Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays, And morn pours out its flood of golden rays,

When thy sweet smile I see.

Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue; And little hands that evil never knew,

Pure as the new-formed snow; Thy feet are still unstained by this world’s mire, Thy golden locks like aureole of fire

Circle thy cherub brow!

Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes.

Though weak thine infant feet, What strange amaze this new and strange world gives To thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives

In virgin body sweet.

Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile, And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile,

Quick changing tears and bliss; Thy soul expands to catch this new world’s light, Thy mazed eyes to