Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

me a moral to essay. This moment to the misty grave is due, And far too vile and little human you To see your evil ways. Your fingers lack The human power your shocking deeds to track. What use in darkness mirror to uphold? What use your doings to be now retold? Drink of the darkness—greedy of the ill To which from habit you’re attracted still, Not recognizing in the draught you take The stench that your atrocities must make. I only tell you that this burdened age Tires of your Highnesses, that soil its page, And of your villanies—and this is why You now must swell the stream that passes by Of refuse filth. Oh, horrid scene to show Of these young men and that young girl just now! Oh! can you really be of human kind Breathing pure air of heaven? Do we find That you are men? Oh, no! for when you laid Foul lips upon the mouth of sleeping maid, You seemed but ghouls that had come furtively From out the tombs; only a horrid lie Your human shape; of some strange frightful beast You have the soul. To darkness I at least Remit you now. Oh, murderer Sigismond And Ladisläus pirate, both beyond Release—two demons that have broken ban! Therefore ‘tis time their empire over man And converse with the living, should be o’er; Tyrants, behold your tomb your eyes before; Vampires and dogs, your sepulchre is here. Enter.”

 

He pointed to the gulf so near. All terrified upon their knees they fell. “Oh! take us not in your dread realm to dwell,” Said Sigismond. “But, phantom! do us tell What thou wouldst have from us—we will obey. Oh, mercy!—‘tis for mercy now we pray.” “Behold us at your feet, oh, spectre dread!” And no old crone in feebler voice could plead Than Ladisläus did.

 

But not a word Said now the figure motionless, with sword In hand. This sovereign soul seemed to commune With self beneath his metal sheath; yet soon And suddenly, with tranquil voice said he, “Princes, your craven spirit wearies me. No phantom—only man am I. Arise! I like not to be dreaded otherwise Than with the fear to which I’m used; know me, For it is Eviradnus that you see!”

XVII.

THE CLUB.

As from the mist a noble pine we tell Grown old upon the heights of Appenzel, When morning freshness breathes round all the wood, So Eviradnus now before them stood, Opening his visor, which at once revealed The snowy beard it had so well concealed. Thin Sigismond was still as dog at gaze, But Ladisläus leaped, and howl did raise, And laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloud That sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed. “‘Tis but an old man after all!” he cried.

Then the great knight, who looked at both, replied, “Oh, kings! an old man of my time can cope With two much younger ones of yours, I hope. To mortal combat I defy you both Singly; or, if you will, I’m nothing loth With two together to contend; choose here From out the heap what weapon shall appear Most fit. As you no cuirass wear, I see, I will take off my own, for all must be In order perfect—e’en your punishment.”

Then Eviradnus, true to his intent, Stripped to his Utrecht jerkin; but the while He calmly had disarmed—with dexterous guile Had Ladisläus seized a knife that lay Upon the damask cloth, and slipped away His shoes; then barefoot, swiftly, silently He crept behind the knight, with arm held high. But Eviradnus was of all aware, And turned upon the murderous weapon there, And twisted it away; then in a trice His strong colossal hand grasped like a vice The neck of Ladisläus, who the blade Now dropped; over his eyes a misty shade Showed that the royal dwarf was near to death.

“Traitor!” said Eviradnus in his wrath, “I rather should have hewn your limbs away, And left you crawling on your stumps, I say,— But now die fast.”

 

Ghastly, with starting eyes, The King without a cry or struggle dies. One dead—but lo! the other stands bold-faced, Defiant; for the knight, when he unlaced His cuirass, had his trusty sword laid down, And Sigismond now grasps it as his own. The monster-youth laughed at the silv’ry beard, And, sword in hand, a murderer glad appeared. Crossing his arms, he cried, “‘Tis my turn now!” And the black mounted knights in solemn row Were judges of the strife. Before them lay The sleeping Mahaud—and not far away The fatal pit, near which the champion knight With evil Emperor must contend for right, Though weaponless he was. And yawned the pit Expectant which should be engulfed in it.

“Now we shall see for whom this ready grave,” Said Sigismond, “you dog, whom naught can save!” Aware was Eviradnus that if he Turned for a blade unto the armory, He would be instant pierced—what can he do? The moment is for him supreme. But, lo! He glances now at Ladisläus dead, And with a smile triumphant and yet dread, And air of lion caged to whom is shown Some loophole of escape, he bends him down.

“Ha! ha! no other club than this I need!” He cried, as seizing in his hands with speed The dead King’s heels, the body lifted high, Then to the frightened Emperor he came nigh, And made him shake with horror and with fear, The weapon all so ghastly did appear. The head became the stone to this strange sling, Of which the body was the potent string; And while ‘twas brandished in a deadly way, The dislocated arms made monstrous play With hideous gestures, as now upside down The bludgeon corpse a giant force had grown. “‘Tis well!” said Eviradnus, and he cried, “Arrange between yourselves, you two allied; If hell-fire were extinguished, surely it By such a contest might be all relit; From kindling spark struck out from dead King’s brow, Batt’ring to death a living Emperor now.”

And Sigismond, thus met and horrified, Recoiled to near the unseen opening wide; The human club was raised, and struck again * And Eviradnus did alone remain All empty-handed—but he heard the sound Of spectres two falling to depths profound; Then, stooping o’er the pit, he gazed below, And, as half-dreaming now, he murmured low, “Tiger and jackal meet their portion here, ‘Tis well together they should disappear!”

XVIII.

DAYBREAK.

Then lifts he Mahaud to the ducal chair, And shuts the trap with noiseless, gentle care; And puts in order everything around, So that, on waking, naught should her astound.

“No drop of blood the thing has cost,” mused he, “And that is best indeed.”

 

But suddenly Some distant bells clang out. The mountains gray Have scarlet tips, proclaiming dawning day; The hamlets are astir, and crowds come out— Bearing fresh branches of the broom—about To seek their Lady, who herself awakes Rosy as morn, just when the morning breaks; Half-dreaming still, she ponders, can it be Some mystic change has passed, for her to see One old man in the place of two quite young! Her wondering eyes search carefully and long. It may be she regrets the change: meanwhile, The valiant knight salutes her with a smile, And then approaching her with friendly mien, Says, “Madam, has your sleep all pleasant been?”

MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.

 

THE SOUDAN, THE SPHINXES, THE CUP, THE LAMP.

(“Zim-Zizimi, Soudan d’Égypte.”)

[Bk. XVI. i.]

 

Zim Zizimi—(of the Soudan of burnt Egypt,

The Commander of Believers, a Bashaw Whose very robes were from Asia’s greatest stript,

More powerful than any lion with resistless paw) A master weighed on by his immense splendor—

Once had a dream when he was at his evening feast, When the broad table smoked like a perfumed censer,

And its grateful odors the appetite increased. The banquet was outspread in a hall, high as vast,

With pillars painted, and with ceiling bright with gold, Upreared by Zim’s ancestors in the days long past,

And added to till now worth a sum untold. Howe’er rich no rarity was absent, it seemed,

Fruit blushed upon the side-boards, groaning ‘neath rich meats, With all the dainties palate ever dreamed

In lavishness to waste—for dwellers in the streets Of cities, whether Troy, or Tyre, or Ispahan,

Consume, in point of cost, food at a single meal Much less than what is spread before this crowned man–

Who rules his couchant nation with a rod of steel, And whose servitors’ chiefest arts it was to squeeze

The world’s full teats into his royal helpless mouth. Each hard-sought dainty that never failed to please,

All delicacies, wines, from east, west, north or south, Are plenty here—for Sultan Zizimi drinks wine

In its variety, trying to find what never sates. Laughs at the holy writings and the text divine,

O’er which the humble dervish prays and venerates. There is a common saying which holds often good:

That cruel is he who is sparing in his cups. That they are such as are most thirsty of man’s blood—

Yet he will see a slave beheaded whilst he sups. But be this as it all may, glory gilds his reign,

He has overrun Africa, the old and black; Asia as well—holding them both beneath a rain

Of bloody drops from scaffold, pyre, the stake, or rack, To leave his empire’s confines, one must run a race

Far past the river Baxtile southward; in the north, To the rude, rocky, barren land of Thrace,

Yet near enough to shudder when great Zim is wroth. Conquering in every field, he finds delight

In battle-storms; his music is the shout of camps. On seeing him the eagle speeds away in fright,

Whilst hid ‘mong rocks, the grisly wolf its victim champs. Mysore’s as well as Agra’s rajah is his kin;

The great sheiks of the arid sands confess him lord; Omar, who vaunting cried: “Through me doth Allah win!”

Was of his blood—a dreaded line of fire and sword. The waters of Nagain, sands of Sahara warm,

The Atlas and the Caucasus, snow-capped and lone, Mecca, Marcatta, these were massed in part to form

A portion of the giant shadow of Zim’s throne. Before his might, to theirs, as hardest rock to dust,

There have recoiled a horde of savage, warlike chiefs, Who have been into Afric’s fiery furnace thrust—

Its scorching heat to his rage greatest of reliefs. There is no being but fears Zim; to him bows down

Even the sainted Llama in the holy place; And the wild Kasburder chieftain at his dark power

Turns pale, and seeks a foeman of some lesser race. Cities and states are bought and sold by Soudan Zim,

Whose simple word their thousand people hold as law. He ruins them at will, for what are men to him,

More than to stabled cattle is the sheaf of straw?

The Soudan is not pleased, for he is e’er alone,

For who may in his royal sports or joys be leagued. He must never speak to any one in equal tones,

But be by his own dazzling weightiness fatigued. He has exhausted all the pastimes of the earth;

In vain skilled men have fought with sword, the spear, or lance, The quips and cranks most laughed at have to him no mirth;

He gives a regal yawn as fairest women dance; Music has outpoured all its notes, the soft and loud,

But dully on his wearied ear its accents roll, As dully as the praises of the servile crowd

Who falsely sing the purity of his black soul. He has had before his daïs from the prison brought

Two thieves, whose terror makes their chains to loudly ring, Then gaping most unkingly, he dismissed his slaves,

And tranquilly, half rising, looked around to seek In the weighty stillness—such as broods