Poems - Victor Hugo (10 ebook reader TXT) 📗

our steps frail? Our eyes dried up and withered? Are our brows Wrinkled? There are no wrinkles in the heart. Ah! when the graybeard loves, he should be spared; The heart is young—that bleeds unto the last. I love thee as a spouse,—and in a thousand Other fashions,—as sire,—as we love The morn, the flowers, the overhanging heavens. Ah me! when day by day I gaze upon thee, Thy graceful step, thy purely-polished brow, Thine eyes’ calm fire,—I feel my heart leap up, And an eternal sunshine bathe my soul. And think, too! Even the world admires, When age, expiring, for a moment totters Upon the marble margin of a tomb, To see a wife—a pure and dove-like angel— Watch over him, soothe him, and endure awhile The useless old man, only fit to die; A sacred task, and worthy of all honor, This latest effort of a faithful heart; Which, in his parting hour, consoles the dying, And, without loving, wears the look of love. Ah! thou wilt be to me this sheltering angel, To cheer the old man’s heart—to share with him The burden of his evil years;—a daughter In thy respect, a sister in thy pity.

 

DONNA SOL. My fate may be more to precede than follow. My lord, it is no reason for long life That we are young! Alas! I have seen too oft The old clamped firm to life, the young torn thence; And the lids close as sudden o’er their eyes As gravestones sealing up the sepulchre.

G. MOIR.

 

THE ROLL OF THE DE SILVA RACE.

(“Celui-ci, des Silvas, c’est l’aîné.”)

[HERNANI, Act III.]

 

In that reverend face Behold the father of De Silva’s race, Silvius; in Rome he filled the consul’s place Three times (your patience for such honored names). This second was Grand Master of St. James And Calatrava; his strong limbs sustained Armor which ours would sink beneath. He gained Thirty pitched battles, and took, as legends tell, Three hundred standards from the Infidel; And from the Moorish King Motril, in war, Won Antiquera, Suez, and Nijar; And then died poor. Next to him Juan stands, His son; his plighted hand was worth the hands Of kings. Next Gaspar, of Mendoza’s line— Few noble stems but chose to join with mine: Sandoval sometimes fears, and sometimes woos Our smiles; Manriquez envies; Lara sues; And Alancastre hates. Our rank we know: Kings are but just above us, dukes below. Vasquez, who kept for sixty years his vow— Greater than he I pass. This reverend brow, This was my sire’s—the greatest, though the last: The Moors his friend had taken and made fast— Alvar Giron. What did my father then? He cut in stone an image of Alvar, Cunningly carved, and dragged it to the war; He vowed a vow to yield no inch of ground Until that image of itself turned round; He reached Alvar—he saved him—and his line Was old De Silva’s, and his name was mine— Ruy Gomez.

 

King CARLOS. Drag me from his lurking-place The traitor!

[DON RUY leads the KING to the portrait behind which HERNANI is hiding.]

 

Sire, your highness does me grace. This, the last portrait, bears my form and name, And you would write this motto on the frame! “This last, sprung from the noblest and the best, Betrayed his plighted troth, and sold his guest!”

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE)

 

THE LOVERS’ COLLOQUY.

(“Mon duc, rien qu’un moment.”)

[HERNANI, Act V.]

 

One little moment to indulge the sight With the rich beauty of the summer’s night. The harp is hushed, and, see, the torch is dim,— Night and ourselves together. To the brim The cup of our felicity is filled. Each sound is mute, each harsh sensation stilled. Dost thou not think that, e’en while nature sleeps, Some power its amorous vigils o’er us keeps? No cloud in heaven; while all around repose, Come taste with me the fragrance of the rose, Which loads the night-air with its musky breath, While everything is still as nature’s death. E’en as you spoke—and gentle words were those Spoken by you,—the silver moon uprose; How that mysterious union of her ray, With your impassioned accents, made its way Straight to my heart! I could have wished to die In that pale moonlight, and while thou wert by.

 

HERNANI. Thy words are music, and thy strain of love Is borrowed from the choir of heaven above.

 

DONNA SOL. Night is too silent, darkness too profound Oh, for a star to shine, a voice to sound— To raise some sudden note of music now Suited to night.

 

HERN. Capricious girl! your vow Was poured for silence, and to be released From the thronged tumult of the marriage feast.

 

DONNA SOL. Yes; but one bird to carol in the field,— A nightingale, in mossy shade concealed,— A distant flute,—for music’s stream can roll To soothe the heart, and harmonize the soul,— O! ‘twould be bliss to listen.

[_Distant sound of a horn, the signal that_ HERNANI must go to DON RUY, who, having saved his life, had him bound in a vow to yield it up.]

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE).

 

CROMWELL AND THE CROWN.

(“Ah! je le tiens enfin.”)

[CROMWELL, Act II., October, 1827.]

 

THURLOW communicates the intention of Parliament to offer CROMWELL the crown.

 

CROMWELL. And is it mine? And have my feet at length Attained the summit of the rock i’ the sand?

 

THURLOW. And yet, my lord, you have long reigned.

 

CROM. Nay, nay! Power I have ‘joyed, in sooth, but not the name. Thou smilest, Thurlow. Ah, thou little know’st What hole it is Ambition digs i’ th’ heart What end, most seeming empty, is the mark For which we fret and toil and dare! How hard With an unrounded fortune to sit down! Then, what a lustre from most ancient times Heaven has flung o’er the sacred head of kings! King—Majesty—what names of power! No king, And yet the world’s high arbiter! The thing Without the word! no handle to the blade! Away—the empire and the name are one! Alack! thou little dream’st how grievous ‘tis, Emerging from the crowd, and at the top Arrived, to feel that there is something still Above our heads; something, nothing! no matter— That word is everything.

LEITCH RITCHIE.

 

MILTON’S APPEAL TO CROMWELL.

(“Non! je n’y puis tenir.”)

[CROMWELL, Act III. sc. iv.]

 

Stay! I no longer can contain myself, But cry you: Look on John, who bares his mind To Oliver—to Cromwell, Milton speaks! Despite a kindling eye and marvel deep A voice is lifted up without your leave; For I was never placed at council board To speak my promptings. When awed strangers come Who’ve seen Fox-Mazarin wince at the stings In my epistles—and bring admiring votes Of learned colleges, they strain to see My figure in the glare—the usher utters, “Behold and hearken! that’s my Lord Protector’s Cousin—that, his son-in-law—that next”—who cares! Some perfumed puppet! “Milton?” “He in black— Yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence!” Still ‘chronicling small-beer,’—such is my duty! Yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones Till Pope and Louis Grand quaked on their thrones, And echoed “Vengeance for the Vaudois,” where The Sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses. He is but the mute in this seraglio— “Pure” Cromwell’s Council! But to be dumb and blind is overmuch! Impatient Issachar kicks at the load! Yet diadems are burdens painfuller, And I would spare thee that sore imposition. Dear brother Noll, I plead against thyself! Thou aim’st to be a king; and, in thine heart, What fool has said: “There is no king but thou?” For thee the multitude waged war and won— The end thou art of wrestlings and of prayer, Of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears And blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless, And homeless lords! The mass must always suffer That one should reign! the collar’s but newly clamp’d, And nothing but the name thereon is changed— Master? still masters! mark you not the red Of shame unutterable in my sightless white? Still hear me, Cromwell, speaking for your sake! These fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted, Have sought for Liberty—to give it thee? To make our interests your huckster gains? The king a lion slain that you may flay, And wear the robe—well, worthily—I say’t, For I will not abase my brother! No! I would keep him in the realm serene, My own ideal of heroes! loved o’er Israel, And higher placed by me than all the others! And such, for tinkling titles, hollow haloes Like that around yon painted brow—thou! thou! Apostle, hero, saint-dishonor thyself! And snip and trim the flag of Naseby-field As scarf on which the maid-of-honor’s dog Will yelp, some summer afternoon! That sword Shrink into a sceptre! brilliant bauble! Thou, Thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state, Brain-turned by safety’s miracle, thou risest Upon the tott’ring stone whilst ocean ebbs, And, reeking of no storms to come to-morrow, Or to-morrow—deem that a certain pedestal Whereon thou’lt be adored for e’er—e’en while It shakes—o’ersets the rider! Tremble, thou! For he who dazzles, makes men Samson-blind, Will see the pillars of his palace kiss E’en at the whelming ruin! Then, what word Of answer from your wreck when I demand Account of Cromwell! glory of the people Smothered in ashes! through the dust thou’lt hear; “What didst thou with thy virtue?” Will it respond: “When battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple On which to lay the head, lulled by the praise Of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers! Wearied of war-horse, gratefully one glides In gilded barge, or in crowned, velvet car, From gay Whitehall to gloomy Temple Bar—” (Where—had you slipt, that head were bleaching now! And that same rabble, splitting for a hedge, Had joined their rows to cheer the active headsman; Perchance, in mockery, they’d gird the skull With a hop-leaf crown! Bitter the brewing, Noll!) Are crowns the end-all of ambition? Remember Charles Stuart! and that they who make can break! This same Whitehall may black its front with crape, And this broad window be the portal twice To lead upon a scaffold! Frown! or laugh! Laugh on as they did at Cassandra’s speech! But mark—the prophetess was right! Still laugh, Like the credulous Ethiop in his faith in stars! But give one thought to Stuart, two for yourself! In his appointed hour, all was forthcoming— Judge, axe, and deathsman veiled! and my poor eyes Descry—as would thou saw’st!—a figure veiled, Uplooming there—afar, like sunrise, coming! With blade that ne’er spared Judas ‘midst free brethren! Stretch not the hand of Cromwell for the prize Meant not for him, nor his! Thou growest old, The people are ever young! Like her i’ the chase Who drave a dart into her lover, embowered, Piercing the incense-clouds, the popular shaft May slay thee in a random shot at Tyranny! Man, friend, remain a Cromwell! in thy name, Rule! and if thy son be worthy, he and his, So rule the rest for ages! be it grander thus To be a Cromwell than a Carolus. No lapdog combed by wantons, but the watch Upon the freedom that we won! Dismiss Your flatterers—let no harpings, no gay songs Prevent your calm dictation of good laws To guard, to fortify, and keep enlinked England and Freedom! Be thine old self alone! And make, above all else accorded me, My most desired claim on all posterity, That thou in Milton’s verse wert foremost of the free!

 

FIRST LOVE.

(“Vous êtes singulier.”)

[MARION DELORME, Act I., June, 1829, played 1831.]

MARION (smiling.) You’re strange, and yet I love you thus.

DIDIER. You love me? Beware, nor with light lips utter that word.