Poems - Victor Hugo (10 ebook reader TXT) 📗

child— Not harming it—and to the woodland, wild With secret streams and lairs, bore off his prey— The beast, as one might cull a bud in May. It was a rosy boy, a king’s own pride, A ten-year lad, with bright eyes shining wide, And save this son his majesty beside Had but one girl, two years of age, and so The monarch suffered, being old, much woe; His heir the monster’s prey, while the whole land In dread both of the beast and king did stand; Sore terrified were all.

 

By came a knight That road, who halted, asking, “What’s the fright?” They told him, and he spurred straight for the site! The beast was seen to smile ere joined they fight, The man and monster, in most desperate duel, Like warring giants, angry, huge, and cruel. Stout though the knight, the lion stronger was, And tore that brave breast under its cuirass, Scrunching that hero, till he sprawled, alas! Beneath his shield, all blood and mud and mess: Whereat the lion feasted: then it went Back to its rocky couch and slept content. Sudden, loud cries and clamors! striking out Qualm to the heart of the quiet, horn and shout Causing the solemn wood to reel with rout. Terrific was this noise that rolled before; It seemed a squadron; nay, ‘twas something more— A whole battalion, sent by that sad king With force of arms his little prince to bring, Together with the lion’s bleeding hide.

Which here was right or wrong? Who can decide? Have beasts or men most claim to live? God wots! He is the unit, we the cipher-dots. Ranged in the order a great hunt should have, They soon between the trunks espy the cave. “Yes, that is it! the very mouth of the den!” The trees all round it muttered, warning men; Still they kept step and neared it. Look you now, Company’s pleasant, and there were a thou— Good Lord! all in a moment, there’s its face! Frightful! they saw the lion! Not one pace Further stirred any man; but bolt and dart Made target of the beast. He, on his part, As calm as Pelion in the rain or hail, Bristled majestic from the teeth to tail, And shook full fifty missiles from his hide, But no heed took he; steadfastly he eyed, And roared a roar, hoarse, vibrant, vengeful, dread, A rolling, raging peal of wrath, which spread, Making the half-awakened thunder cry, “Who thunders there?” from its black bed of sky. This ended all! Sheer horror cleared the coast; As fogs are driven by the wind, that valorous host Melted, dispersed to all the quarters four, Clean panic-stricken by that monstrous roar. Then quoth the lion, “Woods and mountains, see, A thousand men, enslaved, fear one beast free!” He followed towards the hill, climbed high above, Lifted his voice, and, as the sowers sow The seed down wind, thus did that lion throw His message far enough the town to reach: “King! your behavior really passes speech! Thus far no harm I’ve wrought to him your son; But now I give you notice—when night’s done, I will make entry at your city-gate, Bringing the prince alive; and those who wait To see him in my jaws—your lackey-crew— Shall see me eat him in your palace, too!” Next morning, this is what was viewed in town: Dawn coming—people going—some adown Praying, some crying; pallid cheeks, swift feet, And a huge lion stalking through the street. It seemed scarce short of rash impiety To cross its path as the fierce beast went by. So to the palace and its gilded dome With stately steps unchallenged did he roam; He enters it—within those walls he leapt! No man!

 

For certes, though he raged and wept, His majesty, like all, close shelter kept, Solicitous to live, holding his breath Specially precious to the realm. Now death Is not thus viewed by honest beasts of prey; And when the lion found him fled away, Ashamed to be so grand, man being so base, He muttered to himself, “A wretched king! ‘Tis well; I’ll eat his boy!” Then, wandering, Lordly he traversed courts and corridors, Paced beneath vaults of gold on shining floors, Glanced at the throne deserted, stalked from hall To hall—green, yellow, crimson—empty all! Rich couches void, soft seats unoccupied! And as he walked he looked from side to side To find some pleasant nook for his repast, Since appetite was come to munch at last The princely morsel!—Ah! what sight astounds That grisly lounger?

 

In the palace grounds An alcove on a garden gives, and there A tiny thing—forgot in the general fear, Lulled in the flower-sweet dreams of infancy, Bathed with soft sunlight falling brokenly Through leaf and lattice—was at that moment waking; A little lovely maid, most dear and taking, The prince’s sister—all alone, undressed— She sat up singing: children sing so best. Charming this beauteous baby-maid; and so The beast caught sight of her and stopped—

 

And then Entered—the floor creaked as he stalked straight in. Above the playthings by the little bed The lion put his shaggy, massive head, Dreadful with savage might and lordly scorn, More dreadful with that princely prey so borne; Which she, quick spying, “Brother, brother!” cried, “Oh, my own brother!” and, unterrified, She gazed upon that monster of the wood, Whose yellow balls not Typhon had withstood, And—well! who knows what thoughts these small heads hold? She rose up in her cot—full height, and bold, And shook her pink fist angrily at him. Whereon—close to the little bed’s white rim, All dainty silk and laces—this huge brute Set down her brother gently at her foot, Just as a mother might, and said to her, “Don’t be put out, now! There he is, dear, there!”

EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.

 

LES QUATRE VENTS DE L’ESPRIT.

 

ON HEARING THE PRINCESS ROYAL[1] SING.

(“Dans ta haute demeure.”)

[Bk. III. ix., 1881.]

 

In thine abode so high

Where yet one scarce can breathe, Dear child, most tenderly

A soft song thou dost wreathe.

Thou singest, little girl—

Thy sire, the King is he: Around thee glories whirl,

But all things sigh in thee.

Thy thought may seek not wings

Of speech; dear love’s forbidden; Thy smiles, those heavenly things,

Being faintly born, are chidden.

Thou feel’st, poor little Bride,

A hand unknown and chill Clasp thine from out the wide

Deep shade so deathly still.

Thy sad heart, wingless, weak,

Is sunk in this black shade So deep, thy small hands seek,

Vainly, the pulse God made.

Thou art yet but highness, thou

That shaft be majesty: Though still on thy fair brow

Some faint dawn-flush may be,

Child, unto armies dear,

Even now we mark heaven’s light Dimmed with the fume and fear

And glory of battle-might.

Thy godfather is he,

Earth’s Pope,—he hails thee, child! Passing, armed men you see

Like unarmed women, mild.

As saint all worship thee;

Thyself even hast the strong Thrill of divinity

Mingled with thy small song.

Each grand old warrior

Guards thee, submissive, proud; Mute thunders at thy door

Sleep, that shall wake most loud.

Around thee foams the wild

Bright sea, the lot of kings. Happier wert thou, my child,

I’ the woods a bird that sings!

NELSON R. TYERMAN.

[Footnote 1: Marie, daughter of King Louis Philippe, afterwards Princess of Würtemburg.]

 

MY HAPPIEST DREAM.

(“J’aime à me figure.”)

[Bk. III. vii. and viii.]

 

I love to look, as evening fails, On vestals streaming in their veils, Within the fane past altar rails,

Green palms in hand. My darkest moods will always clear When I can fancy children near, With rosy lips a-laughing—dear,

Light-dancing band!

Enchanting vision, too, displayed, That of a sweet and radiant maid, Who knows not why she is afraid,—

Love’s yet unseen! Another—rarest ‘mong the rare— To see the gaze of chosen fair Return prolonged and wistful stare

Of eager een.

But—dream o’er all to stir my soul, And shine the brightest on the roll, Is when a land of tyrant’s toll

By sword is rid. I say not dagger—with the sword When Right enchampions the horde, All in broad day—so that the bard May sing the victor with the starred

Bayard and Cid!

 

AN OLD-TIME LAY.

(“Jamais elle ne raille.”)

[Bk. III. xiii.]

 

Where your brood seven lie,

Float in calm heavenly,

Life passing evenly, Waterfowl, waterfowl! often I dream

For a rest

Like your nest,

Skirting the stream.

 

Shine the sun tearfully

Ere the clouds clear fully,

Still you skim cheerfully, Swallow, oh! swallow swift! often I sigh

For a home

Where you roam

Nearing the sky!

 

Guileless of pondering;

Swallow-eyes wandering;

Seeking no fonder ring Than the rose-garland Love gives thee apart!

Grant me soon—

Blessed boon!

Home in thy heart!

 

JERSEY.

(“Jersey dort dans les flots.”)

[Bk. III. xiv., Oct. 8, 1854.]

 

Dear Jersey! jewel jubilant and green,

‘Midst surge that splits steel ships, but sings to thee! Thou fav’rest Frenchmen, though from England seen,

Oft tearful to that mistress “North Countree”; Returned the third time safely here to be, I bless my bold Gibraltar of the Free.

Yon lighthouse stands forth like a fervent friend,

One who our tempest buffets back with zest, And with twin-steeple, eke our helmsman’s end,

Forms arms that beckon us upon thy breast; Rose-posied pillow, crystallized with spray, Where pools pellucid mirror sunny ray.

A frigate fretting yonder smoothest sky,

Like pauseless petrel poising o’er a wreck, Strikes bright athwart the dearly dazzled eye,

Until it lessens to scarce certain speck, ‘Neath Venus, sparkling on the agate-sprinkled beach,

For fisher’s sailing-signal, just and true,

Until Aurora frights her from the view.

In summer, steamer-smoke spreads as thy veil,

And mists in winter sudden screen thy sight, When at thy feet the galley-breakers wail

And toss their tops high o’er the lofty flight Of horrid storm-worn steps with shark-like bite, That only ope to swallow up in spite.

L’ENVOY.

But penitent in calm, thou givest a balm,

To many a man who’s felt thy rage, And many a sea-bird—thanks be heard!—

Thou shieldest—sea-bird—exiled bard and sage.

 

THEN, MOST, I SMILE.

(“Il est un peu tard.”)

[Bk. III. xxx., Oct. 30, 1854.]

 

Late it is to look so proud,

Daisy queen! come is the gloom Of the winter-burdened cloud!—

“But, in winter, most I bloom!”

Star of even! sunk the sun!

Lost for e’er the ruddy line; And the earth is veiled in dun,—

“Nay, in darkness, best I shine!”

O, my soul! art ‘bove alarm,

Quaffing thus the cup of gall— Canst thou face the grave with calm?—

“Yes, the Christians smile at all.”

 

THE EXILE’S DESIRE.

(“Si je pouvais voir, O patrie!”)

[Bk. III. xxxvii.]

 

Would I could see you, native land, Where lilacs and the almond stand Behind fields flowering to the strand—

But no!

Can I—oh, father, mother, crave Another final blessing save To rest my head upon your grave?—

But no!

In the one pit where ye repose, Would I could tell of France’s woes, My brethren, who fell facing foes—

But no!

Would I had—oh, my dove of light, After whose flight came ceaseless night, One plume to clasp so purely white.—

But no!

Far from ye all—oh, dead, bewailed! The fog-bell deafens me empaled Upon this rock—I feel enjailed—

Though free.

Like one who watches at the gate Lest some shall ‘scape the doomèd strait. I watch! the tyrant, howe’er late,

Must fall!

 

THE REFUGEE’S HAVEN.

(“Vous voilà dans la froide Angleterre.”)

[Bk. III. xlvii., Jersey, Sept. 19, 1854.]

 

You may doubt I find comfort in England

But, there, ‘tis a refuge from dangers! Where a Cromwell dictated to Milton,

Republicans ne’er can be strangers!

 

VARIOUS PIECES.

 

TO THE NAPOLEON COLUMN.

[Oct. 9, 1830.]

 

When with gigantic hand he