Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

gone by Stirred ‘neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye?

‘Twas not the steps of that heroic tale That from Arcola marched to Montmirail

On Glory’s red degrees; Nor Cairo-pashas’ steel-devouring steeds, Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids—

Ah! Twas not always these;

‘Twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet, The whirlwind rush of battle ‘neath his feet,

Through twice ten years ago, When at his beck, upon that sea of steel Were launched the rustling banners—there to reel

Like masts when tempests blow.

‘Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar, Nor Pharos on Old Egypt’s coast afar, Nor shrill réveillé‘s camp-awakening sound, Nor bivouac couch’d its starry fires around, Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers, Nor the red lancers ‘mid their wood of spears Blazing like baleful poppies ‘mong the golden ears.

No—‘twas an infant’s image, fresh and fair, With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there.

It lay beneath the smile, Of her whose breast, soft-bending o’er its sleep, Lingering upon that little lip doth keep

One pendent drop the while.

Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined, He wept; that father-heart all unconfined,

Outpoured in love alone. My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child. Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled,

Forgot the world’s lost throne.

Fraser’s Magazine

 

INVOCATION.

[V, vi., August, 1832.]

 

Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tell Where lurks the good invisible Amid the depths of discord’s sea— That seem, alas! so dark to me! Oppressive to a mighty state, Contentions, feuds, the people’s hate— But who dare question that which fate

Has ordered to have been? Haply the earthquake may unfold The resting-place of purest gold, And haply surges up have rolled

The pearls that were unseen!

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

 

OUTSIDE THE BALL-ROOM.

(“Ainsi l’Hôtel de Ville illumine.”)

[VI., May, 1833.]

 

Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight, From step to cornice one grand glare of light; The noise of mirth and revelry resounds, Like fairy melody on haunted grounds. But who demands this profuse, wanton glee, These shouts prolonged and wild festivity— Not sure our city—web, more woe than bliss, In any hour, requiring aught but this!

Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd To sorrow’s sob, although its call be loud. Better than waste long nights in idle show, To help the indigent and raise the low— To train the wicked to forsake his way, And find th’ industrious work from day to day! Better to charity those hours afford, Which now are wasted at the festal board!

And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soul Virtue resides, and Vice has no control; Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin, So fair without—so chaste, so pure within— Whose honor Want ne’er threatened to betray, Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay; Around whose modesty a hundred arms, Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms; For you this ball is pregnant with delight; As glitt’ring planets cheer the gloomy night:— But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad, How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad! Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere, And like your own to you all lots appear; For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes Can see no dark horizon to the skies.

Such is the chance of life! Each gallant thane, Prince, peer, and noble, follow in your train;— They praise your loveliness, and in your ear They whisper pleasing things, but insincere; Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light, Ye seek these realms of revelry each night. But as ye travel thither, did ye know What wretches walk the streets through which you go. Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare Of your great lustre, all expectant there, Watching the passing crowd with avid eye, Till one their love, or lust, or shame may buy; Or, with commingling jealousy and rage, They mark the progress of your equipage; And their deceitful life essays the while To mask their woe beneath a sickly smile!

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

 

PRAYER FOR FRANCE.

(“O Dieu, si vous avez la France.”)

[VII., August, 1832.]

 

O God! if France be still thy guardian care, Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare! The thrones that now are reared but to be broke; The rights we render, and anon revoke; The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs, Flooding our social life as it proceeds; Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one— Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone; Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow; War, darker still and deeper in its woe; One party fall’n, successor scarce preludes, Than, straight, new views their furious feuds; The great man’s pressure on the poor for gold, Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold; Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear, Telling of hate and strife to every ear, That even to midnight sleep no peace is given, For murd’rous cannon through our streets are driven.

J.S. MACRAE.

 

TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT.

(“Canaris! nous t’avons oublié.”)

[VIII., October, 1832.]

 

O Canaris! O Canaris! the poet’s song Has blameful left untold thy deeds too long! But when the tragic actor’s part is done, When clamor ceases, and the fights are won, When heroes realize what Fate decreed, When chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed; When they have shone, as clouded or as bright, As fitful meteor in the heaven at night, And when the sycophant no more proclaims To gaping crowds the glory of their names,— ‘Tis then the mem’ries of warriors die, And fall—alas!—into obscurity, Until the poet, in whose verse alone Exists a world—can make their actions known, And in eternal epic measures, show They are not yet forgotten here below. And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed, Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed, Although our shouts to pigmies rise—no cries To mark thy presence echo to the skies; Farewell to Grecian heroes—silent is the lute, And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?

There was a time men gave no peace To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece! And Canaris’ more-worshipped name was found On ev’ry lip, in ev’ry heart around. But now is changed the scene! On hist’ry’s page Are writ o’er thine deeds of another age, And thine are not remembered.—Greece, farewell! The world no more thine heroes’ deeds will tell.

Not that this matters to a man like thee! To whom is left the dark blue open sea, Thy gallant bark, that o’er the water flies, And the bright planet guiding in clear skies; All these remain, with accident and strife, Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life, Boon Nature’s fairest prospects—land and main— The noisy starting, glad return again; The pride of freeman on a bounding deck Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck, And e’en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea, ‘Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!

Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue, Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view— The sun in golden beauty ever pure, The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure— Thy language so mellifluously bland, Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia’s strand, As Baya’s streams to Samos’ waters glide And with them mingle in one placid tide.

Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms— The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms— The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest! And when thy vessel o’er the foaming sound Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound, At once the point of beauty may restore Smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

 

POLAND.

(“Seule au pied de la tour.”)

[IX., September, 1833.]

 

Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth The mandates of the Tyrant of the North, Poland’s sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears, Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears— Alas! the crucifix is all that’s left To her, of freedom and her sons bereft; And on her royal robe foul marks are seen Where Russian hectors’ scornful feet have been. Anon she hears the clank of murd’rous arms,— The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms! And while she weeps against the prison walls, And waves her bleeding arm until it falls, To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes, And sues her sister’s succor ere she dies.

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

 

INSULT NOT THE FALLEN.

(“Oh! n’insultez jamais une femme qui tombe.”)

[XIV., Sept. 6, 1835.]

 

I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn—

True, fallen; but God knows how deep her sorrow. Poor girl! too many like her only born

To love one day—to sin—and die the morrow. What know you of her struggles or her grief?

Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf

From autumn branches, or a drop of rain That hung in frailest splendor from a bough—

Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God’s day— So had she clung to virtue once. But now—

See Heaven’s clear pearl polluted with earth’s clay! The sin is yours—with your accursed gold—

Man’s wealth is master—woman’s soul the slave! Some purest water still the mire may hold.

Is there no hope for her—no power to save? Yea, once again to draw up from the clay

The fallen raindrop, till it shine above, Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray

Of Heaven’s sunshine, or of human love.

W.C.K. WILDE.

 

MORNING.

(“L’aurore s’allume.”)

[XX. a, December, 1834.]

 

Morning glances hither,

Now the shade is past; Dream and fog fly thither

Where Night goes at last; Open eyes and roses As the darkness closes; And the sound that grows is

Nature walking fast.

Murmuring all and singing,

Hark! the news is stirred, Roof and creepers clinging,

Smoke and nest of bird; Winds to oak-trees bear it, Streams and fountains hear it, Every breath and spirit

As a voice is heard.

All takes up its story,

Child resumes his play, Hearth its ruddy glory,

Lute its lifted lay. Wild or out of senses, Through the world immense is Sound as each commences

Schemes of yesterday.

W.M. HARDINGE.

 

SONG OF LOVE.

(“S’il est un charmant gazon.”)

[XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.]

 

If there be a velvet sward

By dewdrops pearly drest, Where through all seasons fairies guard

Flowers by bees carest, Where one may gather, day and night, Roses, honeysuckle, lily white, I fain would make of it a site

For thy foot to rest.

If there be a loving heart

Where Honor rules the breast, Loyal and true in every part,

That changes ne’er molest, Eager to run its noble race, Intent to do some work of grace, I fain would make of it a place

For thy brow to rest.

And if there be of love a dream

Rose-scented as the west, Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam,—

A something sweet and blest,— A dream of which heaven is the pole, A dream that mingles soul and soul, I fain of it would make the goal

Where thy mind should rest.

TORU DUTT.

 

SWEET CHARMER.[1]

(“L’aube naît et ta porte est close.”)

[XXIII., February, 18—.]

 

Though heaven’s gate of light uncloses,

Thou stirr’st not—thou’rt laid to rest, Waking are thy sister roses,

One only dreamest on thy breast.

Hear me, sweet dreamer!

Tell me all thy fears,

Trembling in song,

But to break in tears.

Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing,

Soft music brings the gentle dove, And fair light falleth like a blessing,

While my poor heart can bring thee only love. Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman?

Yes; for that love perfects my soul. None the less of heaven that my heart is human,

Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.

H.B. FARNIE.

[Footnote 1: Set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.]

 

MORE STRONG THAN TIME.

(“Puisque j’ai mis ma