Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

a course still true,

What think ye of this man?

 

NAPOLEON “THE LITTLE.”

(“Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!”)

[Bk. III. ii., Jersey, August, 1852.]

 

How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl,

When in the eagle talons ta’en in air! Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey—thou fowl—

I held thee, abject conqueror, just where All see the stigma of a fitting name

As deeply red as deeply black thy shame! And though thy matchless impudence may frame

Some mask of seeming courage—spite thy sneer, And thou assurest sloth and skunk: “It does not smart!”

Thou feel’st it burning, in and in,—and fear None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!

 

FACT OR FABLE?

(BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III.)

(“Un jour, sentant un royal appétit.”)

[Bk. III. iii., Jersey, September, 1852.]

 

One fasting day, itched by his appetite,

A monkey took a fallen tiger’s hide,

And, where the wearer had been savage, tried To overpass his model. Scratch and bite Gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams,

But, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly With crying often: “See the Terror of your dreams!”

Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh. Left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den,

With sleepers’ bones and plumes of daunted doves, And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men,

Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves— He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf

Sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things, As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger’s self!

Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings Till tramps a butcher by—he risks his head—

In darts the hand and crushes out the yell,

And plucks the hide—as from a nut the shell— He holds him nude, and sneers: “An ape you dread!”

H.L.W.

 

A LAMENT.

(“Sentiers où l’herbe se balance.”)

[Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.]

 

O paths whereon wild grasses wave!

O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar! Why are ye silent as the grave?

For One, who came, and comes no more!

Why is thy window closed of late?

And why thy garden in its sear? O house! where doth thy master wait?

I only know he is not here.

Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand

Will feed thee. In the house is none. Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And

O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.

Where is he gone? Into the dark.—

O sad, and ever-plaining surge! Whence art thou? From the convict-bark.

And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.

EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.

 

NO ASSASSINATION.

(“Laissons le glaive à Rome.”)

[Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.]

 

Pray Rome put up her poniard!

And Sparta sheathe the sword; Be none too prompt to punish,

And cast indignant word! Bear back your spectral Brutus

From robber Bonaparte; Time rarely will refute us

Who doom the hateful heart.

Ye shall be o’ercontented,

My banished mates from home, But be no rashness vented

Ere time for joy shall come. No crime can outspeed Justice,

Who, resting, seems delayed— Full faith accord the angel

Who points the patient blade.

The traitor still may nestle

In balmy bed of state, But mark the Warder, watching

His guardsman at his gate. He wears the crown, a monarch—

Of knaves and stony hearts; But though they’re blessed by Senates,

None can escape the darts!

Though shored by spear and crozier,

All know the arrant cheat, And shun the square of pavement

Uncertain at his feet! Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding

And secret-leaguers’ chief, And make no pistol-target

Of stars upon the thief.

The knell of God strikes seldom

But in the aptest hour; And when the life is sweetest,

The worm will feel His power!

 

THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM.

(“Pendant que dans l’auberge.”)

[Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.]

 

While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink, Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink? Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed, A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed, And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear, I known it is the Future—God’s Justicer is here!

 

THE SEAMAN’S SONG.

(“Adieu, patrie.”)

[Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.]

 

Farewell the strand,

The sails expand

Above!

Farewell the land

We love! Farewell, old home where apples swing! Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!

 

Farewell, riff-raff

Of Customs’ clerks who laugh

And shout:

“Farewell!” We’ll quaff

One bout To thee, young lass, with kisses sweet! Farewell, my dear—the ship flies fleet!

The fog shuts out the last fond peep, As ‘neath the prow the cast drops weep. Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird! The whistling wind alone is heard:

Farewell! Farewell!

 

THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.

(“Il neigeait.”)

[Bk. V. xiii., Nov. 25-30, 1852.]

 

It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red! For once the eagle was hanging its head. Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black. The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain. Nor chief nor banner in order could keep, The wolves of warfare were ‘wildered like sheep. The wings from centre could hardly be known Through snow o’er horses and carts o’erthrown, Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn: Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad. The shells and bullets came down with the snow As though the heavens hated these poor troops below. Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold, Who ne’er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung ‘Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.

It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze Whistled upon the glassy endless seas, Where naked feet on, on for ever went, With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent. They were not living troops as seen in war, But merely phantoms of a dream, afar In darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim,— A mystery; of shadows a procession grim, Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim. Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold, A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense, A shroud of magnitude for host immense; Till every one felt as if left alone In a wide wilderness where no light shone, To die, with pity none, and none to see That from this mournful realm none should get free. Their foes the frozen North and Czar—That, worst. Cannon were broken up in haste accurst To burn the frames and make the pale fire high, Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die. Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.

‘Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised O’er regiments. And History, amazed, Could not record the ruin of this retreat, Unlike a downfall known before or the defeat Of Hannibal—reversed and wrapped in gloom! Of Attila, when nations met their doom! Perished an army—fled French glory then, Though there the Emperor! he stood and gazed At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw— He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe. Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love Kept those that rose all dastard fear above, As on his tent they saw his shadow pass— Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas! His fortune’s star! it could not, could not be That he had not his work to do—a destiny? To hurl him headlong from his high estate, Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate. But all the while he felt himself alone, Stunned with disasters few have ever known. Sudden, a fear came o’er his troubled soul, What more was written on the Future’s scroll? Was this an expiation? It must be, yea! He turned to God for one enlightening ray. “Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?” he sighed, But the first murmur on his parched lips died. “Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?” A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet Sprang in the darkness;—a Voice answered; “No! Not yet.”

 

Outside still fell the smothering snow. Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream? It was the vulture’s, but how like the sea-bird’s scream.

TORU DUTT.

 

THE OCEAN’S SONG.

(“Nous nous promenions à Rozel-Tower.”)

[Bk. VI. iv., October, 1852.]

 

We walked amongst the ruins famed in story

Of Rozel-Tower, And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory

And heave in power.

O ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder,

Whilst waves marked time. “Appeal, O Truth!” thou sang’st with tone of thunder,

“And shine sublime!

“The world’s enslaved and hunted down by beagles,—

To despots sold, Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles,

The Right uphold.

“Be born; arise; o’er earth and wild waves bounding

Peoples and suns! Let darkness vanish;—tocsins be resounding,

And flash, ye guns!

“And you,—who love no pomps of fog, or glamour,

Who fear no shocks, Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamor,

Exiles—the rocks!”

TORU DUTT

THE TRUMPETS OF THE MIND.

(“Sonnez, clairons de la pensée!”)

[Bk. VII. i., March 19, 1853.]

 

Sound, sound for ever, Clarions of Thought!

When Joshua ‘gainst the high-walled city fought, He marched around it with his banner high, His troops in serried order following nigh, But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang, Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang. At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king, And at the second sneered, half wondering: “Hop’st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?” At the third round, the ark of old renown Swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud, And then the troops with ensigns waving proud. Stepped out upon the old walls children dark With horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark. At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites, Women appeared upon the crenelated heights— Those battlements embrowned with age and rust— And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust, And spun and sang when weary of the game. At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame, And with wild uproar clamorous and high Railed at the clarion ringing to the sky. At the sixth time, upon a tower’s tall crest, So high that there the eagle built his nest, So hard that on it lightning lit in vain, Appeared in merriment the king again: “These Hebrew Jews musicians are, meseems!” He scoffed, loud laughing, “but they live on dreams.” The princes laughed submissive to the king, Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring, And thence the laughter spread through all the town.

At the seventh blast—the city walls fell down.

TORU DUTT.

 

AFTER THE COUP D’ÊTAT.

(“Devant les trahisons.”)

[Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.]

 

Before foul treachery and heads hung down,

I’ll fold my arms, indignant but serene. Oh! faith in fallen things—be thou my crown,

My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean:

Yes, whilst he’s there, or struggle some or fall,

O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain. Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves—my all,

I ne’er shall see thee with these eyes again.

I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore,

France, save my duty, I shall all forget; Amongst the true and tried, I’ll tug my oar,

And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set.

O bitter exile, hard, without a term,

Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know Who have down-truckled ‘mid the men deemed firm,

And who have fled that should have fought the foe.

If true a thousand stand, with them I stand;

A hundred? ‘tis enough: we’ll Sylla