Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

>A glimpse of which, in short, one’s inmost fears awoke. Zim was alone with her, this Goddess of the Night.

The massy walls of stone like vapor part and fade, Zim, shuddering, tried to call guard or satellite,

But as the figure grasped him firmly, “Come!” she said.

BP. ALEXANDER

 

A QUEEN FIVE SUMMERS OLD.

(“Elle est toute petite.”)

[Bk. XXVI.]

 

She is so little—in her hands a rose: A stern duenna watches where she goes, What sees Old Spain’s Infanta—the clear shine Of waters shadowed by the birch and pine. What lies before? A swan with silver wing, The wave that murmurs to the branch’s swing, Or the deep garden flowering below? Fair as an angel frozen into snow, The royal child looks on, and hardly seems to know.

As in a depth of glory far away, Down in the green park, a lofty palace lay, There, drank the deer from many a crystal pond, And the starred peacock gemmed the shade beyond. Around that child all nature shone more bright; Her innocence was as an added light. Rubies and diamonds strewed the grass she trode, And jets of sapphire from the dolphins flowed.

Still at the water’s side she holds her place, Her bodice bright is set with Genoa lace; O’er her rich robe, through every satin fold, Wanders an arabesque in threads of gold. From its green urn the rose unfolding grand, Weighs down the exquisite smallness of her hand. And when the child bends to the red leafs tip, Her laughing nostril, and her carmine lip, The royal flower purpureal, kissing there, Hides more than half that young face bright and fair, So that the eye deceived can scarcely speak Where shows the rose, or where the rose-red cheek. Her eyes look bluer from their dark brown frame: Sweet eyes, sweet form, and Mary’s sweeter name. All joy, enchantment, perfume, waits she there, Heaven in her glance, her very name a prayer.

Yet ‘neath the sky, and before life and fate, Poor child, she feels herself so vaguely great. With stately grace she gives her presence high To dawn, to spring, to shadows flitting by, To the dark sunset glories of the heaven, And all the wild magnificence of even; On nature waits, eternal and serene, With all the graveness of a little queen. She never sees a man but on his knee, She Duchess of Brabant one day will be, Or rule Sardinia, or the Flemish crowd She is the Infanta, five years old, and proud.

Thus is it with kings’ children, for they wear A shadowy circlet on their forehead fair; Their tottering steps are towards a kingly chair. Calmly she waits, and breathes her gathered flower Till one shall cull for her imperial power. Already her eye saith, “It is my right;” Even love flows from her, mingled with affright. If some one seeing her so fragile stand, Were it to save her, should put forth his hand, Ere he had made a step, or breathed a vow, The scaffold’s shadow were upon his brow. While the child laughs, beyond the bastion thick Of that vast palace, Roman Catholic, Whose every turret like a mitre shows, Behind the lattice something dreadful goes. Men shake to see a shadow from beneath Passing from pane to pane, like vapory wreath, Pale, black, and still it glides from room to room; In the same spot, like ghost upon a tomb; Or glues its dark brown to the casement wan, Dim shade that lengthens as the night draws on. Its step funereal lingers like the swing Of passing bell—‘tis death, or else the king. ‘Tis he, the man by whom men live and die; But could one look beyond that phantom eye, As by the wall he leans a little space, And see what shadows fill his soul’s dark place, Not the fair child, the waters clear, the flowers Golden with sunset—not the birds, the bowers— No; ‘neath that eye, those fatal brows that keep The fathomless brain, like ocean, dark and deep, There, as in moving mirage, should one find A fleet of ships that go before the wind: On the foamed wave, and ‘neath the starlight pale, The strain and rattle of a fleet in sail, And through the fog an isle on her white rock Hearkening from far the thunder’s coming shock.

Still by the water’s edge doth silent stand The Infanta with the rose-flower in her hand, Caresses it with eyes as blue as heaven; Sudden a breeze, such breeze as panting even From her full heart flings out to field and brake, Ruffles the waters, bids the rushes shake, And makes through all their green recesses swell The massive myrtle and the asphodel. To the fair child it comes, and tears away On its strong wing the rose-flower from the spray. On the wild waters casts it bruised and torn, And the Infanta only holds a thorn. Frightened, perplexed, she follows with her eyes Into the basin where her ruin lies, Looks up to heaven, and questions of the breeze That had not feared her highness to displease; But all the pond is changed; anon so clear, Now back it swells, as though with rage and fear; A mimic sea its small waves rise and fall, And the poor rose is broken by them all. Its hundred leaves tossed wildly round and round Beneath a thousand waves are whelmed and drowned; It was a foundering fleet you might have said; And the duenna with her face of shade,— “Madam,” for she had marked her ruffled mind, “All things belong to princes—but God’s wind.”

BP. ALEXANDER

 

SEA-ADVENTURERS’ SONG.

(“En partant du Golfe d’Otrante.”)

[Bk. XXVIII.]

 

We told thirty when we started

From port so taut and fine, But soon our crew were parted,

Till now we number nine.

Tom Robbins, English, tall and straight,

Left us at Aetna light; He left us to investigate

What made the mountain bright; “I mean to ask Old Nick himself,

(And here his eye he rolls) If I can’t bring Newcastle pelf

By selling him some coals!”

In Calabree, a lass and cup

Drove scowling Spada wild: She only held her finger up,

And there he drank and smiled; And over in Gaëta Bay,

Ascanio—ashore A fool!—must wed a widow gay

Who’d buried three or four.

At Naples, woe! poor Ned they hanged—

Hemp neckcloth he disdained— And prettily we all were banged—

And two more blades remained

To serve the Duke, and row in chains—

Thank saints! ‘twas not my cast! We drank deliverance from pains—

We who’d the ducats fast.

At Malta Dick became a monk—

(What vineyards have those priests!) And Gobbo to quack-salver sunk,

To leech vile murrained beasts; And lazy André, blown off shore,

Was picked up by the Turk, And in some harem, you be sure,

Is forced at last to work.

Next, three of us whom nothing daunts,

Marched off with Prince Eugene, To take Genoa! oh, it vaunts

Girls fit—each one—for queen! Had they but promised us the pick,

Perchance we had joined, all; But battering bastions built of brick—

Bah, give me wooden wall!

By Leghorn, twenty caravels

Came ‘cross our lonely sail— Spinoza’s Sea-Invincibles!

But, whew! our shots like hail Made shortish work of galley long

And chubby sailing craft— Our making ready first to close

Sent them a-spinning aft.

Off Marseilles, ne’er by sun forsook

We friends fell-to as foes! For Lucca Diavolo mistook

Angelo’s wife for Rose,

And hang me! soon the angel slid

The devil in the sea, And would of lass likewise be rid—

And so we fought it free!

At Palmas eight or so gave slip,

Pescara to pursue, And more, perchance, had left the ship,

But Algiers loomed in view; And here we cruised to intercept

Some lucky-laden rogues, Whose gold-galleons but slowly crept,

So that we trounced the dogs!

And after making war out there,

We made love at “the Gib.” We ten—no more! we took it fair,

And kissed the gov’nor’s “rib,” And made the King of Spain our take,

Believe or not, who cares? I tell ye that he begged till black

I’ the face to have his shares.

We’re rovers of the restless main,

But we’ve some conscience, mark! And we know what it is to reign,

And finally did heark— Aye, masters of the narrow Neck,

We hearkened to our heart, And gave him freedom on our deck,

His town, and gold—in part.

My lucky mates for that were made

Grandees of Old Castile, And maids of honor went to wed,

Somewhere in sweet Seville;

Not they for me were fair enough,

And so his Majesty Declared his daughter—‘tis no scoff!

My beauteous bride should be.

“A royal daughter!” think of that!

But I would never one. I have a lass (I said it pat)

Who’s not been bred like nun— But, merry maid with eagle eye,

It’s proud she smiles and bright, And sings upon the cliff, to spy

My ship a-heave in sight!

My Faenzetta has my heart!

In Fiesoné she The fairest! Nothing shall us part,

Saving, in sooth, the Sea! And that not long! its rolling wave

And such breeze holding now Will send me along to her I love—

And so I made my bow.

We told thirty when we started

From port so taut and fine, But thus our crew were parted,

And now we number nine.

 

THE SWISS MERCENARIES.

(“Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers.”)

[Bk. XXXI.]

 

When the regiment of Halberdiers

Is proudly marching by, The eagle of the mountain screams

From out his stormy sky; Who speaketh to the precipice,

And to the chasm sheer; Who hovers o’er the thrones of kings,

And bids the caitiffs fear. King of the peak and glacier,

King of the cold, white scalps— He lifts his head, at that close tread,

The eagle of the Alps.

O shame! those men that march below—

O ignominy dire! Are the sons of my free mountains

Sold for imperial hire. Ah! the vilest in the dungeon!

Ah! the slave upon the seas— Is great, is pure, is glorious,

Is grand compared with these, Who, born amid my holy rocks,

In solemn places high, Where the tall pines bend like rushes

When the storm goes sweeping by;

Yet give the strength of foot they learned

By perilous path and flood, And from their blue-eyed mothers won,

The old, mysterious blood; The daring that the good south wind

Into their nostrils blew, And the proud swelling of the heart

With each pure breath they drew; The graces of the mountain glens,

With flowers in summer gay; And all the glories of the hills

To earn a lackey’s pay.

Their country free and joyous—

She of the rugged sides— She of the rough peaks arrogant

Whereon the tempest rides: Mother of the unconquered thought

And of the savage form, Who brings out of her sturdy heart

The hero and the storm: Who giveth freedom unto man,

And life unto the beast; Who hears her silver torrents ring

Like joy-bells at a feast;

Who hath her caves for palaces,

And where her châlets stand— The proud, old archer of Altorf,

With his good bow in his hand. Is she to suckle jailers?

Shall shame and glory rest, Amid her lakes and glaciers,

Like twins upon her breast? Shall the two-headed eagle,

Marked with her double blow, Drink of her milk through all those hearts

Whose blood he bids to flow?

Say, was it pomp ye needed,

And all the proud array Of courtly joust and high parade

Upon a gala day? Look up; have not my valleys

Their torrents white with foam— Their lines of silver bullion

On the blue hillocks of home? Doth not sweet May embroider

My rocks with pearls and flowers? Her fingers trace a richer lace

Than yours in all my bowers.

Are not my old