Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

sound. “Forward,” said Canute, raising his proud head. There fell a second stain beside the first, Then it grew larger, and the Cimbrian chief Stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw naught. Still as a bloodhound follows on his track, Sad he went on. ‘There fell a third red stain On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled; Howbeit Canute forward went no more, But turned on that side where the sword arm hangs. A drop of blood, as if athwart a dream, Fell on the shroud, and reddened his right hand. Then, as in reading one turns back a page, A second time he changed his course, and turned To the dim left. There fell a drop of blood. Canute drew back, trembling to be alone, And wished he had not left his burial couch. But, when a blood-drop fell again, he stopped, Stooped his pale head, and tried to make a prayer. Then fell a drop, and the prayer died away In savage terror. Darkly he moved on, A hideous spectre hesitating, white, And ever as he went, a drop of blood Implacably from the darkness broke away And stained that awful whiteness. He beheld Shaking, as doth a poplar in the wind, Those stains grow darker and more numerous: Another, and another, and another. They seem to light up that funereal gloom, And mingling in the folds of that white sheet, Made it a cloud of blood. He went, and went, And still from that unfathomable vault The red blood dropped upon him drop by drop, Always, for ever—without noise, as though From the black feet of some night-gibbeted corpse. Alas! Who wept those formidable tears? The Infinite!—Toward Heaven, of the good Attainable, through the wild sea of night, That hath not ebb nor flow, Canute went on, And ever walking, came to a closed door, That from beneath showed a mysterious light. Then he looked down upon his winding-sheet, For that was the great place, the sacred place, That was a portion of the light of God, And from behind that door Hosannas rang. The winding-sheet was red, and Canute stopped. This is why Canute from the light of day Draws ever back, and hath not dared appear Before the Judge whose face is as the sun. This is why still remaineth the dark king Out in the night, and never having power To bring his robe back to its first pure state, But feeling at each step a blood-drop fall, Wanders eternally ‘neath the vast black heaven.

Dublin University Magazine

[Footnote 1: King Canute slew his old father, Sweno, to obtain the crown.]

 

THE BOY-KING’S PRAYER.

(“Le cheval galopait toujours.”)

[Bk. XV. ii. 10.]

 

The good steed flew o’er river and o’er plain, Till far away,—no need of spur or rein. The child, half rapture, half solicitude, Looks back anon, in fear to be pursued; Shakes lest some raging brother of his sire Leap from those rocks that o’er the path aspire.

On the rough granite bridge, at evening’s fall, The white horse paused by Compostella’s wall, (‘Twas good St. James that reared those arches tall,) Through the dim mist stood out each belfry dome, And the boy hailed the paradise of home.

Close to the bridge, set on high stage, they meet A Christ of stone, the Virgin at his feet. A taper lighted that dear pardoning face, More tender in the shade that wrapped the place, And the child stayed his horse, and in the shine Of the wax taper knelt down at the shrine.

“O, my good God! O, Mother Maiden sweet!” He said, “I was the worm beneath men’s feet; My father’s brethren held me in their thrall, But Thou didst send the Paladin of Gaul, O Lord! and show’dst what different spirits move The good men and the evil; those who love And those who love not. I had been as they, But Thou, O God! hast saved both life and soul to-day. I saw Thee in that noble knight; I saw Pure light, true faith, and honor’s sacred law, My Father,—and I learnt that monarchs must Compassionate the weak, and unto all be just. O Lady Mother! O dear Jesus! thus Bowed at the cross where Thou didst bleed for us, I swear to hold the truth that now I learn, Leal to the loyal, to the traitor stern, And ever just and nobly mild to be, Meet scholar of that Prince of Chivalry; And here Thy shrine bear witness, Lord, for me.”

The horse of Roland, hearing the boy tell His vow, looked round and spoke: “O King, ‘tis well!” Then on the charger mounted the child-king, And rode into the town, while all the bells ‘gan ring.

Dublin University Magazine

 

EVIRADNUS.

THE KNIGHT ERRANT.

(“Qu’est-ce que Sigismond et Ladislas ont dit.”)

[Bk. XV. iii. 1.]

 

I.

THE ADVENTURER SETS OUT.

What was it Sigismond and Ladisläus said?

I know not if the rock, or tree o’erhead, Had heard their speech;—but when the two spoke low, Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go Through all their branches, just as if that way A beast had passed to trouble and dismay. More dark the shadow of the rock was seen, And then a morsel of the shade, between The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem Like spectre walking in the sunset’s gleam.

It is not monster rising from its lair, Nor phantom of the foliage and the air, It is not morsel of the granite’s shade That walks in deepest hollows of the glade. ‘Tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale But living man in rugged coat of mail. It is Alsatia’s noble Chevalier, Eviradnus the brave, that now is here.

The men who spoke he recognized the while He rested in the thicket; words of guile Most horrible were theirs as they passed on, And to the ears of Eviradnus one— One word had come which roused him. Well he knew The land which lately he had journeyed through.

He down the valley went into the inn Where he had left his horse and page, Gasclin. The horse had wanted drink, and lost a shoe; And now, “Be quick!” he said, “with what you do, For business calls me, I must not delay.” He strides the saddle and he rides away.

II.

EVIRADNUS.

Eviradnus was growing old apace, The weight of years had left its hoary trace, But still of knights the most renowned was he, Model of bravery and purity. His blood he spared not; ready day or night To punish crime, his dauntless sword shone bright In his unblemished hand; holy and white And loyal all his noble life had been, A Christian Samson coming on the scene. With fist alone the gate he battered down Of Sickingen in flames, and saved the town. ‘Twas he, indignant at the honor paid To crime, who with his heel an onslaught made Upon Duke Lupus’ shameful monument, Tore down, the statue he to fragments rent; Then column of the Strasburg monster bore To bridge of Wasselonne, and threw it o’er Into the waters deep. The people round Blazon the noble deeds that so abound From Altorf unto Chaux-de-Fonds, and say, When he rests musing in a dreamy way, “Behold, ‘tis Charlemagne!” Tawny to see And hairy, and seven feet high was he, Like John of Bourbon. Roaming hill or wood He looked a wolf was striving to do good. Bound up in duty, he of naught complained, The cry for help his aid at once obtained. Only he mourned the baseness of mankind, And—that the beds too short he still doth find. When people suffer under cruel kings, With pity moved, he to them succor brings. ‘Twas he defended Alix from her foes As sword of Urraca—he ever shows His strength is for the feeble and oppressed; Father of orphans he, and all distressed! Kings of the Rhine in strongholds were by him Boldly attacked, and tyrant barons grim. He freed the towns—confronting in his lair Hugo the Eagle; boldly did he dare To break the collar of Saverne, the ring Of Colmar, and the iron torture thing Of Schlestadt, and the chain that Haguenau bore. Such Eviradnus was a wrong before, Good but most terrible. In the dread scale Which princes weighted with their horrid tale Of craft and violence, and blood and ill, And fire and shocking deeds, his sword was still God’s counterpoise displayed. Ever alert More evil from the wretched to avert, Those hapless ones who ‘neath Heaven’s vault at night Raise suppliant hands. His lance loved not the plight Of mouldering in the rack, of no avail, His battle-axe slipped from supporting nail Quite easily; ‘twas ill for action base To come so near that he the thing could trace. The steel-clad champion death drops all around As glaciers water. Hero ever found Eviradnus is kinsman of the race Of Amadys of Gaul, and knights of Thrace, He smiles at age. For he who never asked For quarter from mankind—shall he be tasked To beg of Time for mercy? Rather he Would girdle up his loins, like Baldwin be. Aged he is, but of a lineage rare; The least intrepid of the birds that dare Is not the eagle barbed. What matters age, The years but fire him with a holy rage. Though late from Palestine, he is not spent,— With age he wrestles, firm in his intent.

III.

IN THE FOREST.

If in the woodland traveller there had been That eve, who lost himself, strange sight he’d seen. Quite in the forest’s heart a lighted space Arose to view; in that deserted place A lone, abandoned hall with light aglow The long neglect of centuries did show. The castle-towers of Corbus in decay Were girt by weeds and growths that had their way. Couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantine In subtle scaling warfare all combine. Subject to such attacks three hundred years, The donjon yields, and ruin now appears, E’en as by leprosy the wild boars die, In moat the crumbled battlements now lie; Around the snake-like bramble twists its rings; Freebooter sparrows come on daring wings To perch upon the swivel-gun, nor heed Its murmuring growl when pecking in their greed The mulberries ripe. With insolence the thorn Thrives on the desolation so forlorn. But winter brings revenges; then the Keep Wakes all vindictive from its seeming sleep, Hurls down the heavy rain, night after night, Thanking the season’s all-resistless might; And, when the gutters choke, its gargoyles four From granite mouths in anger spit and pour Upon the hated ivy hour by hour.

As to the sword rust is, so lichens are To towering citadel with which they war. Alas! for Corbus—dreary, desolate, And yet its woes the winters mitigate. It rears itself among convulsive throes That shake its ruins when the tempest blows. Winter, the savage warrior, pleases well, With its storm clouds, the mighty citadel,— Restoring it to life. The lightning flash Strikes like a thief and flies; the winds that crash Sound like a clarion, for the Tempest bluff Is Battle’s sister. And when wild and rough, The north wind blows, the tower exultant cries “Behold me!” When hail-hurling gales arise Of blustering Equinox, to fan the strife, It stands erect, with martial ardor rife, A joyous soldier! When like yelping hound Pursued by wolves, November comes to bound In joy from rock to rock, like answering cheer To howling January now so near— “Come on!” the Donjon cries to blasts o’erhead— It has seen Attila, and knows not dread. Oh, dismal nights of contest in the rain And mist, that furious would the battle gain, ‘The tower braves all, though angry skies pour fast The flowing torrents, river-like and vast. From their eight pinnacles the gorgons bay, And scattered monsters, in their stony way, Are growling heard; the rampart lions gnaw The misty