Poems - Victor Hugo (10 ebook reader TXT) 📗

Something within his royal scope to which to speak.

The throne, on which at length his eyes came back to rest,

Is upheld by rose-crowned Sphinxes, which lyres hold, All cut in whitest marble, with uncovered breast,

While their eyes contain that enigma never told. Each figure has its title carved upon its head:

Health, and Voluptuousness, Greatness, Joy, and Play, With Victory, Beauty, Happiness, may be read,

Adorning brands they wear unblushing in the day.

The Soudan cried: “O, Sphinxes, with the torch-like eye,

I am the Conqueror—my name is high-arrayed In characters like flame upon the vaulted sky,

Far from oblivion’s reach or an effacing shade. Upon a sheaf of thunderbolts I rest my arm,

And gods might wish my exploits with them were their own. I live—I am not open to the points of harm,

And e’en my throne will be with age an altar-stone. When the time comes for me to cast off earthly robe,

And enter—being Day—into the realms of light, The gods will say, we call Zizimi from his globe

That we may have our brother nearer to our sight! Glory is but my menial, Pride my own chained slave,

Humbly standing when Zizimi is in his seat. I scorn base man, and have sent thousands to the grave.

They are but as a rushen carpet to my feet. Instead of human beings, eunuchs, blacks, or mutes,

Be yours, oh, Sphinxes, with the glad names on your fronts! The task, with voice attuned to emulate the flute’s,

To charm the king, whose chase is man, and wars his hunts.

“Some portion of your splendor back on me reflect,

Sing out in praiseful chains of melodious links! Oh, throne, which I with bloody spoils have so bedecked,

Speak to your lord! Speak you, the first rose-crested Sphinx!”

Soon on the summons, once again was stillness broke,

For the ten figures, in a voice which all else drowned, Parting their stony lips, alternatively spoke—

Spoke clearly, with a deeply penetrative sound.

THE FIRST SPHINX.

So lofty as to brush the heavens’ dome, Upon the highest terrace of her tomb Is Queen Nitrocis, thinking all alone, Upon her line, long tenants of the throne, Terrors, scourges of the Greeks and Hebrews, Harsh and bloodthirsty, narrow in their views. Against the pure scroll of the sky, a blot, Stands out her sepulchre, a fatal spot That seems a baneful breath around to spread. The birds which chance to near it, drop down dead. The queen is now attended on by shades, Which have replaced, in horrid guise, her maids. No life is here—the law says such as bore A corpse alone may enter through yon door. Before, behind, around the queen, her sight Encounters but the same blank void of night. Above, the pilasters are like to bars, And, through their gaps, the dead look at the stars, While, till the dawn, around Nitrocis’ bones, Spectres hold council, crouching on the stones.

THE SECOND SPHINX.

Howe’er great is pharaoh, the magi, king, Encompassed by an idolizing ring, None is so high as Tiglath Pileser. Who, like the God before whom pales the star, Has temples, with a prophet for a priest, Who serves up daily sacrilegious feast. His anger there are none who dare provoke, His very mildness is looked on as a yoke; And under his, more feared than other rules, He holds his people bound, like tamèd bulls. Asia is banded with his paths of war; He is more of a scourge than Attila. He triumphs glorious—but, day by day, The earth falls at his feet, piecemeal away; And the bricks for his tomb’s wall, one by one, Are being shaped—are baking in the sun.

THE THIRD SPHINX.

Equal to archangel, for one short while, Was Nimroud, builder of tall Babel’s pile. His sceptre reached across the space between The sites where Sol to rise and set is seen. Baal made him terrible to all alike, The greatest cow’ring when he rose to strike. Unbelief had shown in ev’ry eye, Had any dared to say: “Nimroud will die!” He lived and ruled, but is—at this time, where? Winds blow free o’er his realm—a desert bare!

THE FOURTH SPHINX.

There is a statue of King Chrem of old, Of unknown date and maker, but of gold. How many grandest rulers in his day Chrem pluckèd down, there are now none can say. Whether he ruled with gentle hand or rough, None know. He once was—no longer is—enough, Crowned Time, whose seat is on a ruined mass, Holds, and aye turns, a strange sand in his glass, A sand scraped from the mould, brushed from the shroud Of all passed things, mean, great, lowly, or proud. Thus meting with the ashes of the dead How hours of the living have quickly fled. The sand runs, monarchs! the clepsydra weeps. Wherefore? They see through future’s gloomy deeps, Through the church wall, into the catacomb, And mark the change when thrones do graves become.

THE FIFTH SPHINX.

To swerve the earth seemed from its wonted path When marched the Four of Asia in their wrath, And when they were bound slaves to Cyrus’ car, The rivers shrank back from their banks afar. “Who can this be,” was Nineveh’s appeal; “Who dares to drag the gods at his car-wheel?” The ground is still there that these wheel-rims tore— The people and the armies are no more.

THE SIXTH SPHINX.

Never again Cambyses earth will tread. He slept, and rotted, for his ghost had fled. So long as sovereigns live, the subjects kneel, Crouching like spaniels at their royal heel; But when their might flies, they are shunned by all, Save worms, which—human-like—still to them crawl On Troy or Memphis, on Pyrrhus the Great, Or on Psammeticus, alike falls fate. Those who in rightful purple are arrayed, The prideful vanquisher, like vanquished, fade. Death grins as he the fallen man bestrides— And less of faults than of his glories hides.

THE SEVENTH SPHINX.

The time is come for Belus’ tomb to fall, Long has been ruined its high granite wall; And its cupola, sister of the cloud, Has now to lowest mire its tall head bowed. The herdsman comes to it to choose the stones To build a hut, and overturns the bones, From which he has just scared a jackal pack, Waiting to gnaw them when he turns his back. Upon this scene the night is doubly night, And the lone passer vainly strains his sight, Musing: Was Belus not buried near this spot? The royal resting-place is now forgot.

THE EIGHTH SPHINX.

The inmates of the Pyramids assume The hue of Rhamesis, black with the gloom. A Jailer who ne’er needs bolts, bars, or hasps, Is Death. With unawed hand a god he grasps, He thrusts, to stiffen, in a narrow case, Or cell, where struggling air-blasts constant moan; Walling them round with huge, damp, slimy stone; And (leaving mem’ry of bloodshed as drink, And thoughts of crime as food) he stops each chink.

THE NINTH SPHINX.

Who would see Cleopatra on her bed? Come in. The place is filled with fog like lead, Which clammily has settled on the frame Of her who was a burning, dazzling flame To all mankind—who durst not lift their gaze, And meet the brightness of her beauty’s rays. Her teeth were pearls, her breath a rare perfume. Men died with love on entering her room. Poised ‘twixt the world and her—acme of joys! Antony took her of the double choice. The ice-cold heart that passion seldom warms, Would find heat torrid in that queen’s soft arms. She won without a single woman’s wile, Illumining the earth with peerless smile. Come in!—but muffle closely up your face, No grateful scents have ta’en sweet odors’ place.

THE TENTH SPHINX.

What did the greatest king that e’er earth bore, Sennacherib? No matter—he’s no more! What were the words Sardanapalus said? Who cares to hear—that ruler long is dead.

The Soudan, turning pale, stared at the TEN aghast.

“Before to-morrow’s night,” he said, “in dust to rest, These walls with croaking images shall be downcast;

I will not have fiends speak when angels are addressed.” But while Zim at the Sphinxes clenched his hand and shook,

The cup in which it seems the rich wine sweetly breathes, The cup with jewels sparkling, met his lowered look,

Dwelling on the rim which the rippling wine enwreathes. “Ha! You!” Zim cried, “have often cleared my heated head

Of heavy thoughts which your great lord have come to seek And torture with their pain and weight like molten lead.

Let us two—power, I—you, wine—together speak.”

THE CUP.

“Phur,” spoke the Cup, “O king, dwelt as Day’s god, Ruled Alexandria with sword and rod. He from his people drew force after force, Leaving in ev’ry clime an army’s corse. But what gained he by having, like the sea, Flooded with human waves to enslave the free? Where lies the good in having been the chief In conquering, to cause a nation’s grief? Darius, Assar-addon, Hamilcar; Who have led men in legions out to war, Or have o’er Time’s shade cast rays from their seat, Or throngs in worship made their name repeat, These were, but all the cup of life have drank; Rising ‘midst clamor, they in stillness sank. Death’s dart beat down the sword—the kings high reared, Were brought full low—judges, like culprits, feared. The body—when the soul had ceased its sway— Was placed where earth upon it heavy lay, While seek the mouldering bones rare oils anoint Claw of tree’s root and tooth of rocky point. Weeds thrive on them who made the world a mart Of human flesh, plants force their joints apart. No deed of eminence the greatest saves, And of mausoleums make panthers caves.”

The Cup, Zim, in his fury, dashed upon the floor,

Crying aloud for lights. Slaves, at his angry call, In to him hastily, a candelabra bore,

And set it, branching o’er the table, in the hall, From whose wide bounds it hunted instantly the gloom.

“Ah, light!” exclaimed the Soudan, “welcome light, all hail! Dull witnesses were yonder Sphinxes of this room;

The Cup was always drunk, in wit did ever fail; But you fling gleams forth brightly, dazzling as a torch;

Vainly to quell your power all Night’s attempts are spent; The murky, black-eyed clouds you eat away and scorch,

Making where’er you spring to life an Orient. To charm your lord give voice, thou spark of paradise!

Speak forth against the Sphinxes’ enigmatic word, And ‘gainst the Wine-Cup, with its sharp and biting spice!”

THE LAMP.

Oh, Crusher of Countless Cities, such as earth knew Scarce once before him, Ninus (who his brother slew), Was borne within the walls which, in Assyrian rite, Were built to hide dead majesty from outer sight. If eye of man the gift uncommon could assume, And pierce the mass, thick, black as hearse’s plume, To where lays on a horrifying bed What was King Ninus, now hedged round with dread, ‘Twould see by what is shadow of the light, A line of feath’ry dust, bones marble-white. A shudder overtakes the pois’nous snakes When they glide near that powder, laid in flakes. Death comes at times to him—_Life_ comes no more! And sets a jug and loaf upon the floor. He then with bony foot the corpse o’erturns, And says: “It is I, Ninus! ‘Tis Death who spurns! I bring thee, hungry king, some bread and meat.” “I have no hands,” Ninus replies. “Yet, eat!”

Zim pierced to the very quick by these repeated stabs,

Sprang to his feet, while from him pealed a fearful shout, And, furious, flung down upon the marble slabs

The richly carved and golden Lamp, whose light went out— Then glided in a form strange-shaped,

In likeness of a woman, moulded in dense smoke, Veiled in thick, ebon fog, in utter darkness draped,