Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

word, As in a forest fallen asleep, is found

Just one belated bird.

 

A STORM SIMILE.

(“Oh, regardez le ciel!”)

[June, 1828.]

 

See, where on high the moving masses, piled By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild,

Present strange shapes to view; Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds, As though some air-born giant ‘mid the clouds

Sudden his falchion drew.

 

DRAMATIC PIECES.

 

THE FATHER’S CURSE.

(“Vous, sire, écoutez-moi.”)

[LE ROI S’AMUSE, Act I.]

 

M. ST. VALLIER (_an aged nobleman, from whom King Francis I. decoyed his daughter, the famous beauty, Diana of Poitiers_).

A king should listen when his subjects speak: ‘Tis true your mandate led me to the block, Where pardon came upon me, like a dream; I blessed you then, unconscious as I was That a king’s mercy, sharper far than death, To save a father doomed his child to shame; Yes, without pity for the noble race Of Poitiers, spotless for a thousand years, You, Francis of Valois, without one spark Of love or pity, honor or remorse, Did on that night (thy couch her virtue’s tomb), With cold embraces, foully bring to scorn My helpless daughter, Dian of Poitiers. To save her father’s life a knight she sought, Like Bayard, fearless and without reproach. She found a heartless king, who sold the boon, Making cold bargain for his child’s dishonor. Oh! monstrous traffic! foully hast thou done! My blood was thine, and justly, tho’ it springs Amongst the best and noblest names of France; But to pretend to spare these poor gray locks, And yet to trample on a weeping woman, Was basely done; the father was thine own, But not the daughter!—thou hast overpassed The right of monarchs!—yet ‘tis mercy deemed. And I perchance am called ungrateful still. Oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls, I would have sued upon my knees for death, But mercy for my child, my name, my race, Which, once polluted, is my race no more. Rather than insult, death to them and me. I come not now to ask her back from thee; Nay, let her love thee with insensate love; I take back naught that bears the brand of shame. Keep her! Yet, still, amidst thy festivals, Until some father’s, brother’s, husband’s hand (‘Twill come to pass!) shall rid us of thy yoke, My pallid face shall ever haunt thee there, To tell thee, Francis, it was foully done!…

 

TRIBOULET (the Court Jester), sneering. The poor man raves.

 

ST. VILLIER. Accursed be ye both! Oh Sire! ‘tis wrong upon the dying lion To loose thy dog! (Turns to Triboulet)

And thou, whoe’er thou art, That with a fiendish sneer and viper’s tongue Makest my tears a pastime and a sport, My curse upon thee!—Sire, thy brow doth bear The gems of France!—on mine, old age doth sit; Thine decked with jewels, mine with these gray hairs; We both are Kings, yet bear a different crown; And should some impious hand upon thy head Heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm Thou canst avenge them! God avenges mine!

FREDK. L. SLOUS.

 

PATERNAL LOVE.

(“Ma fille! ô seul bonheur.”)

[LE ROI S’AMUSE, Act II]

 

My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me! Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends, A wife, a husband, vassals, followers, Ancestors, and allies, or many children. I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich; Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches. And some believe in angels; I believe In nothing but thy soul. Others have youth, And woman’s love, and pride, and grace, and health; Others are beautiful; thou art my beauty, Thou art my home, my country and my kin, My wife, my mother, sister, friend—my child! My bliss, my wealth, my worship, and my law, My Universe! Oh, by all other things My soul is tortured. If I should ever lose thee— Horrible thought! I cannot utter it. Smile, for thy smile is like thy mother’s smiling. She, too, was fair; you have a trick like her, Of passing oft your hand athwart your brow As though to clear it. Innocence still loves A brow unclouded and an azure eye. To me thou seem’st clothed in a holy halo, My soul beholds thy soul through thy fair body; E’en when my eyes are shut, I see thee still; Thou art my daylight, and sometimes I wish That Heaven had made me blind that thou might’st be The sun that lighted up the world for me.

FANNY KEMBLE-BUTLER.

 

THE DEGENERATE GALLANTS.

(“Mes jeunes cavaliers.”)

[HERNANI, Act I., March, 1830.]

 

What business brings you here, young cavaliers? Men like the Cid, the knights of bygone years, Rode out the battle of the weak to wage, Protecting beauty and revering age. Their armor sat on them, strong men as true, Much lighter than your velvet rests on you. Not in a lady’s room by stealth they knelt; In church, by day, they spoke the love they felt. They kept their houses’ honor bright from rust, They told no secret, and betrayed no trust; And if a wife they wanted, bold and gay, With lance, or axe, or falchion, and by day, Bravely they won and wore her. As for those Who slip through streets when honest men repose, With eyes turned to the ground, and in night’s shade The rights of trusting husbands to invade; I say the Cid would force such knaves as these To beg the city’s pardon on their knees; And with the flat of his all-conquering blade Their rank usurped and ‘scutcheon would degrade. Thus would the men of former times, I say, Treat the degenerate minions of to-day.

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE.)

 

THE OLD AND THE YOUNG BRIDEGROOM.

(“L’homme auquel on vous destina.”)

[HERNANI, Act I.]

 

Listen. The man for whom your youth is destined, Your uncle, Ruy de Silva, is the Duke Of Pastrana, Count of Castile and Aragon. For lack of youth, he brings you, dearest girl, Treasures of gold, jewels, and precious gems, With which your brow might outshine royalty; And for rank, pride, splendor, and opulence, Might many a queen be envious of his duchess! Here is one picture. I am poor; my youth I passed i’ the woods, a barefoot fugitive. My shield, perchance, may bear some noble blazons Spotted with blood, defaced though not dishonored. Perchance I, too, have rights, now veiled in darkness,— Rights, which the heavy drapery of the scaffold Now hides beneath its black and ample folds; Rights which, if my intent deceive me not, My sword shall one day rescue. To be brief:— I have received from churlish Fortune nothing But air, light, water,—Nature’s general boon. Choose, then, between us two, for you must choose;— Say, will you wed the duke, or follow me?

 

DONNA SOL. I’ll follow you.

 

HERN. What, ‘mongst my rude companions, Whose names are registered in the hangman’s book? Whose hearts are ever eager as their swords, Edged by a personal impulse of revenge? Will you become the queen, dear, of my band? Will you become a hunted outlaw’s bride? When all Spain else pursued and banished me,— In her proud forests and air-piercing mountains, And rocks the lordly eagle only knew, Old Catalonia took me to her bosom. Among her mountaineers, free, poor, and brave, I ripened into manhood, and, to-morrow, One blast upon my horn, among her hills, Would draw three thousand of her sons around me. You shudder,—think upon it. Will you tread The shores, woods, mountains, with me, among men Like the dark spirits of your haunted dreams,— Suspect all eyes, all voices, every footstep,— Sleep on the grass, drink of the torrent, hear By night the sharp hiss of the musket-ball Whistling too near your ear,—a fugitive Proscribed, and doomed mayhap to follow me In the path leading to my father’s scaffold?

 

DONNA SOL. I’ll follow you.

 

HERN. This duke is rich, great, prosperous, No blot attaches to his ancient name. He is all-powerful. He offers you His treasures, titles, honors, with his hand.

 

DONNA SOL. We will depart to-morrow. Do not blame What may appear a most unwomanly boldness.

CHARLES SHERRY.

 

THE SPANISH LADY’S LOVE.

DONNA SOL to HERNANI.

(“Nous partirons demain.”)

[HERNANI, ACT I.]

 

To mount the hills or scaffold, we go to-morrow: Hernani, blame me not for this my boldness. Art thou mine evil genius or mine angel? I know not, but I am thy slave. Now hear me: Go where thou wilt, I follow thee. Remain, And I remain. Why do I thus? I know not. I feel that I must see thee—see thee still— See thee for ever. When thy footstep dies, It is as if my heart no more would beat; When thou art gone, I am absent from myself; But when the footstep which I love and long for Strikes on mine ear again—then I remember I live, and feel my soul return to me.

G. MOIR.

 

THE LOVER’S SACRIFICE.

(“Fuyons ensemble.”)

[HERNANI, Act II.]

 

DONNA SOL. Together let us fly!

 

HERNANI. Together? No! the hour is past for flight. Dearest, when first thy beauty smote my sight, I offered, for the love that bade me live, Wretch that I was, what misery had to give: My wood, my stream, my mountain. Bolder grown, By thy compassion to an outlaw shown, The outlaw’s meal beneath the forest shade, The outlaw’s couch far in the greenwood glade, I offered. Though to both that couch be free, I keep the scaffold block reserved for me.

 

DONNA SOL. And yet you promised?

 

HERNANI (falls on his knee.) Angel! in this hour, Pursued by vengeance and oppressed by power— Even in this hour when death prepares to close In shame and pain a destiny of woes— Yes, I, who from the world proscribed and cast, Have nursed one dark remembrance of the past, E’en from my birth in sorrow’s garment clad, Have cause to smile and reason to be glad; For you have loved the outlaw and have shed Your whispered blessings on his forfeit head.

 

DONNA SOL. Let me go with you.

 

HERNANI. No! I will not rend From its fair stem the flower as I descend. Go—I have smelt its perfume. Go—resume All that this grasp has brushed away of bloom. Wed the old man,—believe that ne’er we met; I seek my shade—be happy, and forget!

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE).

 

THE OLD MAN’S LOVE.

(“Dérision! que cet amour boiteux.”)

[HERNANI, Act III.]

 

O mockery! that this halting love That fills the heart so full of flame and transport, Forgets the body while it fires the soul! If but a youthful shepherd cross my path, He singing on the way—I sadly musing, He in his fields, I in my darksome alleys— Then my heart murmurs: “O, ye mouldering towers! Thou olden ducal dungeon! O how gladly Would I exchange ye, and my fields and forests, Mine ancient name, mine ancient rank, my ruins— My ancestors, with whom I soon shall lie, For his thatched cottage and his youthful brow!” His hair is black—his eyes shine forth like thine. Him thou might’st look upon, and say, fair youth, Then turn to me, and think that I am old. And yet the light and giddy souls of cavaliers Harbor no love so fervent as their words bespeak. Let some poor maiden love them and believe them, Then die for them—they smile. Aye! these young birds, With gay and glittering wing and amorous song, Can shed their love as lightly as their plumage. The old, whose voice and colors age has dimmed, Flatter no more, and, though less fair, are faithful. When we love, we love true. Are