Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

peaks gilded

When the sun arises proud, And each one shakes a white mist plume

Out of the thunder-cloud? O, neighbor of the golden sky—

Sons of the mountain sod— Why wear a base king’s colors

For the livery of God? O shame! despair! to see my Alps

Their giant shadows fling Into the very waiting-room

Of tyrant and of king!

O thou deep heaven, unsullied yet,

Into thy gulfs sublime— Up azure tracts of flaming light—

Let my free pinion climb; Till from my sight, in that clear light,

Earth and her crimes be gone— The men who act the evil deeds—

The caitiffs who look on. Far, far into that space immense,

Beyond the vast white veil, Where distant stars come out and shine,

And the great sun grows pale.

BP. ALEXANDER

 

THE CUP ON THE BATTLEFIELD.

(“Mon pére, ce héros au sourire.”)

[Bk. XLIX. iv.]

 

My sire, the hero with the smile so soft, And a tall trooper, his companion oft, Whom he loved greatly for his courage high And strength and stature, as the night drew nigh Rode out together. The battle was done; The dead strewed the field; long sunk was the sun. It seemed in the darkness a sound they heard,— Was it feeble moaning or uttered word? ‘Twas a Spaniard left from the force in flight, Who had crawled to the roadside after fight; Shattered and livid, less live than dead, Rattled his throat as hoarsely he said: “Water, water to drink, for pity’s sake! Oh, a drop of water this thirst to slake!” My father, moved at his speech heart-wrung, Handed the orderly, downward leapt, The flask of rum at the holster kept. “Let him have some!” cried my father, as ran The trooper o’er to the wounded man,— A sort of Moor, swart, bloody and grim; But just as the trooper was nearing him, He lifted a pistol, with eye of flame, And covered my father with murd’rous aim. The hurtling slug grazed the very head, And the helmet fell, pierced, streaked with red, And the steed reared up; but in steady tone: “Give him the whole!” said my father, “and on!”

TORU DUTT

HOW GOOD ARE THE POOR.

(“Il est nuit. La cabane est pauvre.”)

[Bk. LII. iii.]

‘Tis night—within the close stout cabin door,

The room is wrapped in shade save where there fall Some twilight rays that creep along the floor,

And show the fisher’s nets upon the wall.

In the dim corner, from the oaken chest,

A few white dishes glimmer; through the shade Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed,

And a rough mattress at its side is laid.

Five children on the long low mattress lie—

A nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams; In the high chimney the last embers die,

And redden the dark room with crimson gleams.

The mother kneels and thinks, and pale with fear,

She prays alone, hearing the billows shout: While to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear,

The ominous old ocean sobs without.

Poor wives of fishers! Ah! ‘tis sad to say,

Our sons, our husbands, all that we love best, Our hearts, our souls, are on those waves away,

Those ravening wolves that know not ruth, nor rest.

Think how they sport with these beloved forms;

And how the clarion-blowing wind unties Above their heads the tresses of the storms:

Perchance even now the child, the husband, dies.

For we can never tell where they may be

Who, to make head against the tide and gale, Between them and the starless, soulless sea

Have but one bit of plank, with one poor sail.

Terrible fear! We seek the pebbly shore,

Cry to the rising billows, “Bring them home.” Alas! what answer gives their troubled roar,

To the dark thought that haunts us as we roam.

Janet is sad: her husband is alone,

Wrapped in the black shroud of this bitter night:

His children are so little, there is none

To give him aid. “Were they but old, they might.” Ah, mother! when they too are on the main, How wilt thou weep: “Would they were young again!”

She takes his lantern—‘tis his hour at last

She will go forth, and see if the day breaks, And if his signal-fire be at the mast;

Ah, no—not yet—no breath of morning wakes.

No line of light o’er the dark water lies;

It rains, it rains, how black is rain at morn: The day comes trembling, and the young dawn cries—

Cries like a baby fearing to be born.

Sudden her humane eyes that peer and watch

Through the deep shade, a mouldering dwelling find, No light within—the thin door shakes—the thatch

O’er the green walls is twisted of the wind,

Yellow, and dirty, as a swollen rill,

“Ah, me,” she saith, “here does that widow dwell; Few days ago my good man left her ill:

I will go in and see if all be well.”

She strikes the door, she listens, none replies,

And Janet shudders. “Husbandless, alone, And with two children—they have scant supplies.

Good neighbor! She sleeps heavy as a stone.”

She calls again, she knocks, ‘tis silence still;

No sound—no answer—suddenly the door, As if the senseless creature felt some thrill

Of pity, turned—and open lay before.

She entered, and her lantern lighted all

The house so still, but for the rude waves’ din. Through the thin roof the plashing raindrops fall,

But something terrible is couched within.

 

*

 

“So, for the kisses that delight the flesh,

For mother’s worship, and for children’s bloom, For song, for smile, for love so fair and fresh,

For laugh, for dance, there is one goal—the tomb.”

And why does Janet pass so fast away?

What hath she done within that house of dread? What foldeth she beneath her mantle gray?

And hurries home, and hides it in her bed:

With half-averted face, and nervous tread,

What hath she stolen from the awful dead?

The dawn was whitening over the sea’s verge

As she sat pensive, touching broken chords Of half-remorseful thought, while the hoarse surge

Howled a sad concert to her broken words.

“Ah, my poor husband! we had five before,

Already so much care, so much to find, For he must work for all. I give him more.

What was that noise? His step! Ah, no! the wind.

“That I should be afraid of him I love!

I have done ill. If he should beat me now, I would not blame him. Did not the door move?

Not yet, poor man.” She sits with careful brow Wrapped in her inward grief; nor hears the roar

Of winds and waves that dash against his prow, Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore.

Sudden the door flies open wide, and lets

Noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear, And the good fisher, dragging his damp nets,

Stands on the threshold, with a joyous cheer.

“‘Tis thou!” she cries, and, eager as a lover,

Leaps up and holds her husband to her breast; Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover;

“‘Tis I, good wife!” and his broad face expressed

How gay his heart that Janet’s love made light.

“What weather was it?” “Hard.” “Your fishing?” “Bad. The sea was like a nest of thieves tonight;

But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad.

“There was a devil in the wind that blew;

I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line, And once I thought the bark was broken too;

What did you all the night long, Janet mine?”

She, trembling in the darkness, answered, “I!

Oh, naught—I sew’d, I watch’d, I was afraid, The waves were loud as thunders from the sky;

But it is over.” Shyly then she said—

“Our neighbor died last night; it must have been

When you were gone. She left two little ones, So small, so frail—William and Madeline;

The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs.”

The man looked grave, and in the corner cast

His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea, Muttered awhile, and scratched his head,—at last

“We have five children, this makes seven,” said he.

“Already in bad weather we must sleep

Sometimes without our supper. Now! Ah, well— ‘Tis not my fault. These accidents are deep;

It was the good God’s will. I cannot tell.

“Why did He take the mother from those scraps,

No bigger than my fist. ‘Tis hard to read; A learned man might understand, perhaps—

So little, they can neither work nor need.

“Go fetch them, wife; they will be frightened sore,

If with the dead alone they waken thus. That was the mother knocking at our door,

And we must take the children home to us.

“Brother and sister shall they be to ours,

And they will learn to climb my knee at even; When He shall see these strangers in our bowers,

More fish, more food, will give the God of Heaven.

“I will work harder; I will drink no wine—

Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear? Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine.”

She drew the curtain, saying, “They are here!”

BP. ALEXANDER

 

LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY.

 

MENTANA. [1]

(VICTOR HUGO TO GARIBALDI.)

(“Ces jeunes gens, combien étaient-ils.”)

[LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY, December, 1868.]

 

I.

Young soldiers of the noble Latin blood, How many are ye—Boys? Four thousand odd. How many are there dead? Six hundred: count! Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount, Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled Out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold A red feast; nothing of them left but these Pierced relics, underneath the olive trees, Show where the gin was sprung—the scoundrel-trap Which brought those hero-lads their foul mishap. See how they fell in swathes—like barley-ears! Their crime? to claim Rome and her glories theirs; To fight for Right and Honor;—foolish names! Come—Mothers of the soil! Italian dames! Turn the dead over!—try your battle luck! (Bearded or smooth, to her that gave him suck The man is always child)—Stay, here’s a brow Split by the Zouaves’ bullets! This one, now, With the bright curly hair soaked so in blood, Was yours, ma donna!—sweet and fair and good.

The spirit sat upon his fearless face Before they murdered it, in all the grace Of manhood’s dawn. Sisters, here’s yours! his lips, Over whose bloom the bloody death-foam slips, Lisped house-songs after you, and said your name In loving prattle once. That hand, the same Which lies so cold over the eyelids shut, Was once a small pink baby-fist, and wet With milk beads from thy yearning breasts.

 

Take thou Thine eldest,—thou, thy youngest born. Oh, flow Of tears never to cease! Oh, Hope quite gone, Dead like the dead!—Yet could they live alone— Without their Tiber and their Rome? and be Young and Italian—and not also free? They longed to see the ancient eagle try His lordly pinions in a modern sky. They bore—each on himself—the insults laid On the dear foster-land: of naught afraid, Save of not finding foes enough to dare For Italy. Ah; gallant, free, and rare Young martyrs of a sacred cause,—Adieu! No more of life—no more of love—for you! No sweet long-straying in the star-lit glades At Ave-Mary, with the Italian maids; No welcome home!

II.

This Garibaldi now, the Italian boys Go mad to hear him—take to dying—take To passion for “the pure and high”;—God’s sake! It’s monstrous, horrible! One sees quite clear Society—our charge—must shake with fear, And shriek for help, and call on us to act When there’s a hero, taken in the fact. If Light shines in the dark, there’s guilt in that! What’s viler than a lantern to a bat?

III.

Your Garibaldi missed the mark! You see The end of life’s to cheat, and not to be Cheated: The