Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

Electrified you with a look!

Eagle of France! whose vivid wing Did in a hundred places fling A bloody feather, till one night

The arrow whelmed thee ‘neath the wave!

Look up—rejoice—for now thy brave And worthy eaglets dare the light.

ELIZABETH COLLINS.

[Footnote 1: The pupils of the Polytechnic Military School distinguished themselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all the troubles.]

 

TRIBUTE TO THE VANQUISHED.

(“Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.”)

[I. v.]

 

Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past,

By exile given, by exile claimed once more,

Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast.

Whate’er its blame, escort we to our shore

These relics of the monarchy of yore; And to th’ outmarching oriflamme be paid War’s honors by the flag on Fleurus’ field displayed!

Fraser’s Magazine

 

ANGEL OR DEMON.

(“Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu’importe!”)

[I. vii.]

 

Angel or demon! thou,—whether of light

The minister, or darkness—still dost sway

This age of ours; thine eagle’s soaring flight

Bears us, all breathless, after it away.

The eye that from thy presence fain would stray,

Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown

Rests on all pictures of the living day,

And on the threshold of our time alone, Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!

 

Thus, when the admiring stranger’s steps explore

The subject-lands that ‘neath Vesuvius be,

Whether he wind along the enchanting shore

To Portici from fair Parthenope,

Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie,

O’er loveliest Ischia’s od’rous isle he stray,

Wooed by whose breath the soft and am’rous sea

Seems like some languishing sultana’s lay, A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way.

 

Him, whether Paestum’s solemn fane detain,

Shrouding his soul with meditation’s power;

Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain

Of tarantella danced ‘neath Tuscan tower,

Listening, he while away the evening hour;

Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep,

Of that sad city, in its dreaming bower

By the volcano seized, where mansions keep The likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep;

 

Or be his bark at Posillippo laid,

While as the swarthy boatman at his side

Chants Tasso’s lays to Virgil’s pleased shade,

Ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide,

From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied,

From rocky headland viewed, or flow’ry shore,

From sea, and spreading mead alike descried,

The Giant Mount, tow’ring all objects o’er, And black’ning with its breath th’ horizon evermore!

Fraser’s Magazine

 

THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS.

(“Quand longtemps a grondé la bouche du Vésuve.”)

[I. vii.]

 

When huge Vesuvius in its torment long,

Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among,

When its hot lava, like the bubbling wine,

Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine,

Then is alarm in Naples.

 

With dismay,

Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour,

Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay,

Implore the angry Mount—in vain implore!

For lo! a column tow’ring more and more, Of smoke and ashes from the burning crest Shoots like a vulture’s neck reared from its airy nest.

 

Sudden a flash, and from th’ enormous den

Th’ eruption’s lurid mass bursts forth amain,

Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah! then

Farewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fane!

Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain, The while the lava in profusion wide Flings o’er the mountain’s neck its showery locks untied.

 

It comes—it comes! that lava deep and rich,

That dower which fertilizes fields and fills

New moles upon the waters, bay and beach.

Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills

As roll the red inexorable rills; While Naples trembles in her palaces, More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees.

 

Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost,

Dwellings devoured and vomited again.

Roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed.

The waters boiling and the burning plain; While clang the giant steeples as they reel, Unprompted, their own tocsin peal.

 

Yet ‘mid the wreck of cities, and the pride

Of the green valleys and the isles laid low,

The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide,

O’er sea and land; ‘mid all this work of woe,

Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow, Forgetful spares—Heaven wills that it should spare, The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer.

Fraser’s Magazine.

 

MARRIAGE AND FEASTS.

(“La salle est magnifique.”)

[IV. Aug. 23, 1839.]

 

The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright—

The feast to pampered palate gives delight—

The sated guests pick at the spicy food,

And drink profusely, for the cheer is good;

And at that table—where the wise are few—

Both sexes and all ages meet the view;

The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face—

The am’rous youth, the maid replete with grace,

The prattling infant, and the hoary hair

Of second childhood’s proselytes—are there;—

And the most gaudy in that spacious hall,

Are e’er the young, or oldest of them all

Helmet and banner, ornament and crest,

The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest,

The silver star that glitters fair and white,

The arms that tell of many a nation’s might—

Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride,

And all mankind invents for pomp beside,

The wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild—

All these encircle woman, chief and child;

Shine on the carpet burying their feet,

Adorn the dishes that contain their meat;

And hang upon the drapery, which around

Falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground,

Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread,

As the bird’s wing may sweep the roses’ bed.—

Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light, Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site.

 

The chamber echoes to the joy of them

Who throng around, each with his diadem—

Each seated on proud throne—but, lesson vain!

Each sceptre holds its master with a chain!

Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall,

Where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all!

The godlike-making draught that fires the soul

The Love—sweet poison-honey—past control,

(Formed of the sexual breath—an idle name,

Offspring of Fancy and a nervous frame)—

Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night,

Whose languid eye flames when is fading light—

The gallant chases where a man is borne

By stalwart charger, to the sounding horn—

The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose,

Made more to soothe the sight than court repose;

The mighty palaces that raise the sneer

Of jealous mendicants and wretches near—

The spacious parks, from which horizon blue

Arches o’er alabaster statues new;

Where Superstition still her walk will take,

Unto soft music stealing o’er the lake—

The innocent modesty by gems undone—

The qualms of judges by small brib’ry won—

The dread of children, trembling while they play—

The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway—

The note of war struck by the culverin,

That snakes its brazen neck through battle din—

The military millipede

That tramples out the guilty seed—

The capital all pleasure and delight—

And all that like a town or army chokes

The gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes.

The budget, prize for which ten thousand bait

A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait

Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate,

While gleamingly its golden scales still spread—

Such were the meats by which these guests were fed.

 

A hundred slaves for lazy master cared,

And served each one with what was e’er prepared

By him, who in a sombre vault below,

Peppered the royal pig with peoples’ woe,

And grimly glad went laboring till late—

The morose alchemist we know as Fate!

That ev’ry guest might learn to suit his taste,

Behind had Conscience, real or mock’ry, placed;

Conscience a guide who every evil spies,

But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes!

 

Oh! at the table there be all the great,

Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate!

Superb, magnificent of revels—doubt

That sagest lose their heads in such a rout!

In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round,

Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström’s sound;

And the astonished gazer casts his care,

Where ev’ry eyeball glistens in the flare.

 

But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour

Forgetfulness of those without the door—

At very hour when all are most in joy,

And the hid orchestra annuls annoy,

Woe—woe! with jollity a-top the heights,

With further tapers adding to the lights,

And gleaming ‘tween the curtains on the street,

Where poor folks stare—hark to the heavy feet!

Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate,

Some one below will be admitted straight,

Some one, though not invited, who’ll not wait!

Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath—

That stranger enters to be known as Death—

Or merely Exile—clothed in alien guise—

Death drags away—with his prey Exile flies!

 

Death is that sight. He promenades the hall,

And casts a gloomy shadow on them all,

‘Neath which they bend like willows soft,

Ere seizing one—the dumbest monarch oft,

And bears him to eternal heat and drouth,

While still the toothsome morsel’s in his mouth.

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

 

THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR.

(“Non, l’avenir n’est à personne!”)

[V. ii., August, 1832.]

 

Sire, beware, the future’s range

Is of God alone the power, Naught below but augurs change,

E’en with ev’ry passing hour. Future! mighty mystery! All the earthly goods that be, Fortune, glory, war’s renown, King or kaiser’s sparkling crown, Victory! with her burning wings, Proud ambition’s covetings,—

These may our grasp no more detain Than the free bird who doth alight Upon our roof, and takes its flight

High into air again.

Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord’s command, Avails t’ unclasp the cold and closèd hand.

Thy voice to disenthrall, Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side! Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride,

Whom men “To-morrow” call.

Oh, to-morrow! who may dare

Its realities to scan? God to-morrow brings to bear

What to-day is sown by man. ‘Tis the lightning in its shroud, ‘Tis the star-concealing cloud, Traitor, ‘tis his purpose showing, Engine, lofty tow’rs o’erthrowing, Wand’ring star, its region changing, “Lady of kingdoms,” ever ranging.

To-morrow! ‘Tis the rude display Of the throne’s framework, blank and cold, That, rich with velvet, bright with gold,

Dazzles the eye to-day.

To-morrow! ‘tis the foaming war-horse falling; To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling,

‘Tis the red fires from Moscow’s tow’rs that wave; ‘Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain; ‘Tis the lone island in th’ Atlantic main:

To-morrow! ‘tis the grave!

Into capitals subdued

Thou mayst ride with gallant rein, Cut the knots of civil feud

With the trenchant steel in twain; With thine edicts barricade Haughty Thames’ o’er-freighted trade; Fickle Victory’s self enthrall, Captive to thy trumpet call; Burst the stoutest gates asunder; Leave the names of brightest wonder,

Pale and dim, behind thee far; And to exhaustless armies yield Thy glancing spur,—o’er Europe’s field

A glory-guiding star.

God guards duration, if lends space to thee, Thou mayst o’er-range mundane immensity,

Rise high as human head can rise sublime, Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne, Asia from Mahomet; but never gain

Power o’er the Morrow from the Lord of Time!

Fraser’s Magazine.

 

THE EAGLET MOURNED.

(“Encore si ce banni n’eût rien aimé sur terre.”)

[V, iv., August, 1832.]

 

Too hard Napoleon’s fate! if, lone, No being he had loved, no single one,

Less dark that doom had been. But with the heart of might doth ever dwell The heart of love! and in his island cell

Two things there were—I ween.

Two things—a portrait and a map there were— Here hung the pictured world, an infant there: That framed his genius, this enshrined his love. And as at eve he glanced round th’ alcove, Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy, What mused he then—what dream of years