Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

where sweetly lies

An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest

Looks as if pillowed on his mother’s breast.

“He sleeps—oh, see! his little floating bed

Swims on the mighty river’s fickle flow, A white dove’s nest; and there at hazard led By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro, The cot comes down; beneath his quiet head

The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave

Appears to rock the child upon a grave.

“He wakes—ah, maids of Memphis! haste, oh, haste!

He cries! alas!—What mother could confide Her offspring to the wild and watery waste?

He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed,

He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath,

Between such helpless innocence and death.

“Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those

Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes; Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose

Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes! Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes,

I would I were his mother; but I’ll give

If not his birth, at least the claim to live.”

Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride

Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh, Wandered along the Nile’s meandering side;

And these diminished beauties, standing by The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide

Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood,

More lovely than the genius of the flood!

The waters broken by her delicate feet

Receive the eager wader, as alone By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet

The wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won! She holds the weeping burden with a sweet

And virgin glow of pride upon her brow,

That knew no flush save modesty’s till now.

Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch,

She brought the rescued infant slowly out Beyond the humid sands; at her approach

Her curious maidens hurried round about To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch;

Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh

Their faces o’er his large, astonished eye!

Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear,

Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy— The loved of heaven! come like a stranger near,

And clasp young Moses with maternal joy; Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear

Will e’er betray thy fond and hidden claim,

For Iphis knows not yet a mother’s name!

With a glad heart, and a triumphal face,

The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led The humble infant of a hated race,

Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed; While loudly pealing round the holy place

Of Heaven’s white Throne, the voice of angel choirs

Intoned the theme of their undying lyres!

“No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below—

O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo!

Soon on the Jordan’s banks thy tents shall dwell; And Goshen shall behold thy people go

Despite the power of Egypt’s law and brand,

From their sad thrall to Canaan’s promised land.

“The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai,

Is he that, o’er the rushing waters driven, A vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky;

Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven! Attend, be humble! for its power is nigh

Israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth—

A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!”

Dublin University Magazine, 1839

 

ENVY AND AVARICE.

(“L’Avarice et l’Envie.”)

[LE CONSERVATEUR LIITÉRAIRE, 1820.]

 

Envy and Avarice, one summer day,

Sauntering abroad

In quest of the abode Of some poor wretch or fool who lived that way— You—or myself, perhaps—I cannot say— Along the road, scarce heeding where it tended, Their way in sullen, sulky silence wended;

For, though twin sisters, these two charming creatures, Rivals in hideousness of form and features, Wasted no love between them as they went.

Pale Avarice,

With gloating eyes, And back and shoulders almost double bent, Was hugging close that fatal box

For which she’s ever on the watch

Some glance to catch Suspiciously directed to its locks; And Envy, too, no doubt with silent winking

At her green, greedy orbs, no single minute Withdrawn from it, was hard a-thinking

Of all the shining dollars in it.

The only words that Avarice could utter, Her constant doom, in a low, frightened mutter,

“There’s not enough, enough, yet in my store!” While Envy, as she scanned the glittering sight, Groaned as she gnashed her yellow teeth with spite,

“She’s more than me, more, still forever more!”

Thus, each in her own fashion, as they wandered, Upon the coffer’s precious contents pondered,

When suddenly, to their surprise,

The God Desire stood before their eyes. Desire, that courteous deity who grants All wishes, prayers, and wants; Said he to the two sisters: “Beauteous ladies, As I’m a gentleman, my task and trade is

To be the slave of your behest— Choose therefore at your own sweet will and pleasure, Honors or treasure!

Or in one word, whatever you’d like best. But, let us understand each other—she Who speaks the first, her prayer shall certainly

Receive—the other, the same boon redoubled!”

Imagine how our amiable pair, At this proposal, all so frank and fair,

Were mutually troubled! Misers and enviers, of our human race, Say, what would you have done in such a case? Each of the sisters murmured, sad and low

“What boots it, oh, Desire, to me to have

Crowns, treasures, all the goods that heart can crave, Or power divine bestow, Since still another must have always more?”

So each, lest she should speak before The other, hesitating slow and long Till the god lost all patience, held her tongue.

He was enraged, in such a way,

To be kept waiting there all day, With two such beauties in the public road;

Scarce able to be civil even,

He wished them both—well, not in heaven.

Envy at last the silence broke,

And smiling, with malignant sneer,

Upon her sister dear,

Who stood in expectation by, Ever implacable and cruel, spoke

“I would be blinded of one eye!”

American Keepsake

 

ODES.—1818-28.

 

KING LOUIS XVII.

(“En ce temps-là du ciel les portes.”)

[Bk. I. v., December, 1822.]

 

The golden gates were opened wide that day, All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play

Out of the Holiest of Holy, light; And the elect beheld, crowd immortal,

A young soul, led up by young angels bright, Stand in the starry portal.

A fair child fleeing from the world’s fierce hate, In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate,

His golden hair hung all dishevelled down, On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story,

And angels twined him with the innocent’s crown, The martyr’s palm of glory.

The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near, Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear,

God hath prepared a glory for thy brow, Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing His praises ever on untired string,

Chant, for a mortal comes among ye now; Do homage—“‘Tis a king.”

And the pale shadow saith to God in heaven:

“I am an orphan and no king at all; I was a weary prisoner yestereven,

My father’s murderers fed my soul with gall. Not me, O Lord, the regal name beseems.

Last night I fell asleep in dungeon drear, But then I saw my mother in my dreams,

Say, shall I find her here?”

The angels said: “Thy Saviour bids thee come, Out of an impure world He calls thee home,

From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves

Over the broken cross her impure wings,

And regicides go down among the graves,

Scenting the blood of kings.”

He cries: “Then have I finished my long life? Are all its evils over, all its strife, And will no cruel jailer evermore Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o’er? Is it no dream that nothing else remains

Of all my torments but this answered cry, And have I had, O God, amid my chains,

The happiness to die?

“For none can tell what cause I had to pine, What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; And when I wept there was no mother near To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear. Poor victim of a punishment unending,

Torn like a sapling from its mother earth, So young, I could not tell what crime impending

Had stained me from my birth.

“Yet far off in dim memory it seems, With all its horror mingled happy dreams, Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head, And a glad people watched beside my bed. One day into mysterious darkness thrown,

I saw the promise of my future close; I was a little child, left all alone,

Alas! and I had foes.

“They cast me living in a dreary tomb, Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep. ‘Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there.

Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all, Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer,

It is for them I call.”

The angels sang: “See heaven’s high arch unfold,

Come, we will crown thee with the stars above, Will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold,

And thou shalt learn our ministry of love, Shalt rock the cradle where some mother’s tears

Are dropping o’er her restless little one, Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres,

Shalt kindle some cold sun.”

Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear, In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed, Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said:

“O king, I kept thee far from human state,

Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate,

The slavery of kings thou hast not known, What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet,

And wounded with the fetter’s cruel trace, No earthly diadem has ever set

A stain upon thy face.

“Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth, But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth,

And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need. Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine; Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine,

His sceptre was a reed.”

Dublin University Magazine.

 

THE FEAST OF FREEDOM.

(“Lorsqu’à l’antique Olympe immolant l’evangile.”)

[Bk. II. v., 1823.]

[There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet—at the prison gate—known as the “Free Festival.”—CHATEAUBRIAND’S “Martyrs.”]

 

TO YE KINGS.

When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold

An idolatrous cause, Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell ‘mid the shout

Of “the People’s” applause.

On the eve of that day of their evenings the last! At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast,

Rich, unstinted, unpriced, That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled, With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread

For the martyrs of Christ.

Oh, ‘twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine

Fill’d his cup to the brim! Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose, Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose,

All united for him!

Every luxury known through the earth’s wide expanse, In profusion procured was put forth to enhance

The repast that they gave; And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night

The elect of the grave.

And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain

The bloodthirsty arena; Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds And who hailed the