Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

love.

“Then should I, no danger near,

Free from fear, Revel in my garden’s stream;

Nor amid the shadows deep

Dread the peep, Of two dark eyes’ kindling gleam.

“He who thus would play the spy,

On the die For such sight his head must throw;

In his blood the sabre naked

Would be slakèd, Of my slaves of ebon brow.

“Then my rich robes trailing show

As I go, None to chide should be so bold;

And upon my sandals fine

How should shine Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!”

Fancying herself a queen,

All unseen, Thus vibrating in delight;

In her indolent coquetting

Quite forgetting How the hours wing their flight.

As she lists the showery tinkling

Of the sprinkling By her wanton curvets made;

Never pauses she to think

Of the brink Where her wrapper white is laid.

To the harvest-fields the while,

In long file, Speed her sisters’ lively band,

Like a flock of birds in flight

Streaming light, Dancing onward hand in hand.

And they’re singing, every one,

As they run This the burden of their lay:

“Fie upon such idleness!

Not to dress Earlier on harvest-day!”

JOHN L. O’SULLIVAN.

 

EXPECTATION.

(“Moune, écureuil.”)

[xx.]

 

Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, To its twig that next the sky

Bends and trembles as a flower! Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,— From thy nest ‘neath old church-bell, Mount to yon tall citadel,

And its tallest donjon tower! To your mountain, eagle old, Mount, whose brow so white and cold,

Kisses the last ray of even! And, O thou that lov’st to mark Morn’s first sunbeam pierce the dark, Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark—

Joyous lark, O mount to heaven! And now say, from topmost bough, Towering shaft, and peak of snow,

And heaven’s arch—O, can you see One white plume that like a star, Streams along the plain afar, And a steed that from the war

Bears my lover back to me?

JOHN L. O’SULLIVAN.

 

THE LOVER’S WISH.

(“Si j’étais la feuille.”)

[XXII., September, 1828.]

 

Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,

His course through the forest uncaring; To sleep on the gale or the wave’s placid breast

In a pendulous cradle is bearing.

All fresh with the morn’s balmy kiss would I haste,

As the dewdrops upon me were glancing; When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,

And round her the breezes are dancing.

On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush

Thro’ the glens and the valleys to quiver; Past the mountain ravine, past the grove’s dreamy hush,

And the murmuring fall of the river.

By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,

To catch the sweet breath of the roses; Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain

‘Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.

Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,

Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring; Past lakes that lie dead, tho’ the tempest roll nigh,

And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.

On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,

A charm that would lead to the bower; Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,

At the dawn and the vesper hour.

Then hovering down on her brow would I light,

‘Midst her golden tresses entwining; That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,

And the sunbeams upon it shining.

A single frail gem on her beautiful head,

I should sit in the golden glory; And prouder I’d be than the diadem spread

Round the brow of kings famous in story.

V., Eton Observer.

 

THE SACKING OF THE CITY.

(“La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!”)

[XXIII., November, 1825.]

 

Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,

The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks; Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,

Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.

Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,

Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel; Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie,

While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!

Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms,

O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years’ blight; With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms,

At our fleet coursers’ heels were dragged in mocking flight.

Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death;

Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend! Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath,

Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.

Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel

Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind, To kiss thy sandall’d foot, O King, thy people kneel,

And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.

JOHN L. O’SULLIVAN.

 

NOORMAHAL THE FAIR.[1]

(“Entre deux rocs d’un noir d’ébène.”)

[XXVII., November, 1828.]

 

Between two ebon rocks

Behold yon sombre den, Where brambles bristle like the locks

Of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men!

Remote in ruddy fog

Still hear the tiger growl At the lion and stripèd dog

That prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl;

Whilst other monsters fast

The hissing basilisk; The hippopotamus so vast,

And the boa with waking appetite made brisk!

The orfrey showing tongue,

The fly in stinging mood, The elephant that crushes strong

And elastic bamboos an the scorpion’s brood;

And the men of the trees

With their families fierce, Till there is not one scorching breeze

But brings here its venom—its horror to pierce—

Yet, rather there be lone,

‘Mid all those horrors there, Than hear the sickly honeyed tone

And see the swimming eyes of Noormahal the Fair!

[Footnote 1: Noormahal (Arabic) the light of the house; some of the Orientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.]

 

THE DJINNS.

(“Murs, ville et port.”)

[XXVIII., Aug. 28, 1828.]

 

Town, tower,

Shore, deep,

Where lower

Cliff’s steep;

Waves gray,

Where play

Winds gay,

All sleep.

 

Hark! a sound,

Far and slight,

Breathes around

On the night

High and higher,

Nigh and nigher,

Like a fire,

Roaring, bright.

 

Now, on ‘tis sweeping

With rattling beat,

Like dwarf imp leaping

In gallop fleet

He flies, he prances,

In frolic fancies,

On wave-crest dances

With pattering feet.

 

Hark, the rising swell,

With each new burst!

Like the tolling bell

Of a convent curst;

Like the billowy roar

On a storm-lashed shore,—

Now hushed, but once more

Maddening to its worst.

 

O God! the deadly sound

Of the Djinn’s fearful cry!

Quick, ‘neath the spiral round

Of the deep staircase fly!

See, see our lamplight fade!

And of the balustrade

Mounts, mounts the circling shade

Up to the ceiling high!

 

‘Tis the Djinns’ wild streaming swarm

Whistling in their tempest flight;

Snap the tall yews ‘neath the storm,

Like a pine flame crackling bright.

Swift though heavy, lo! their crowd

Through the heavens rushing loud

Like a livid thunder-cloud

With its bolt of fiery might!

Ho! they are on us, close without!

Shut tight the shelter where we lie! With hideous din the monster rout,

Dragon and vampire, fill the sky! The loosened rafter overhead Trembles and bends like quivering reed; Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,

As from its rusty hinge ‘twould fly! Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek!

The horrid troop before the tempest tossed— O Heaven!—descends my lowly roof to seek:

 

Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, Up from its deep foundations it were torn

To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!

 

O Prophet! if thy hand but now

Save from these hellish things,

A pilgrim at thy shrine I’ll bow,

Laden with pious offerings.

Bid their hot breath its fiery rain

Stream on the faithful’s door in vain;

Vainly upon my blackened pane

Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!

 

They have passed!—and their wild legion

Cease to thunder at my door;

Fleeting through night’s rayless region,

Hither they return no more.

Clanking chains and sounds of woe

Fill the forests as they go;

And the tall oaks cower low,

Bent their flaming light before.

 

On! on! the storm of wings

Bears far the fiery fear,

Till scarce the breeze now brings

Dim murmurings to the ear;

Like locusts’ humming hail,

Or thrash of tiny flail

Plied by the fitful gale

On some old roof-tree sere.

 

Fainter now are borne

Feeble mutterings still;

As when Arab horn

Swells its magic peal,

Shoreward o’er the deep

Fairy voices sweep,

And the infant’s sleep

Golden visions fill.

 

Each deadly Djinn,

Dark child of fright,

Of death and sin,

Speeds in wild flight.

Hark, the dull moan,

Like the deep tone

Of Ocean’s groan,

Afar, by night!

 

More and more

Fades it slow,

As on shore

Ripples flow,—

As the plaint

Far and faint

Of a saint

Murmured low.

 

Hark! hist!

Around,

I list!

The bounds

Of space

All trace

Efface

Of sound.

JOHN L. O’SULLIVAN.

 

THE OBDURATE BEAUTY.

(“A Juana la Grenadine!”)

[XXIX., October, 1843.]

 

To Juana ever gay, Sultan Achmet spoke one day

“Lo, the realms that kneel to own

Homage to my sword and crown All I’d freely cast away,

Maiden dear, for thee alone.”

“Be a Christian, noble king! For it were a grievous thing:

Love to seek and find too well

In the arms of infidel. Spain with cry of shame would ring,

If from honor faithful fell.”

“By these pearls whose spotless chain, Oh, my gentle sovereign,

Clasps thy neck of ivory,

Aught thou askest I will be, If that necklace pure of stain

Thou wilt give for rosary.”

JOHN L. O’SULLIVAN.

 

DON RODRIGO.

A MOORISH BALLAD.

(“Don Roderique est à la chasse.”)

[XXX., May, 1828.]

 

Unto the chase Rodrigo’s gone,

With neither lance nor buckler; A baleful light his eyes outshone—

To pity he’s no truckler.

He follows not the royal stag,

But, full of fiery hating, Beside the way one sees him lag,

Impatient at the waiting.

He longs his nephew’s blood to spill,

Who ‘scaped (the young Mudarra) That trap he made and laid to kill

The seven sons of Lara.

Along the road—at last, no balk—

A youth looms on a jennet; He rises like a sparrow-hawk

About to seize a linnet.

“What ho!” “Who calls?” “Art Christian knight,

Or basely born and boorish, Or yet that thing I still more slight—

The spawn of some dog Moorish?

“I seek the by-born spawn of one

I e’er renounce as brother— Who chose to make his latest son

Caress a Moor as mother.

“I’ve sought that cub in every hole,

‘Midland, and coast, and islet, For he’s the thief who came and stole

Our sheathless jewelled stilet.”

“If you well know the poniard worn

Without edge-dulling cover— Look on it now—here, plain, upborne!

And further be no rover.

“Tis I—as sure as you’re abhorred

Rodrigo—cruel slayer, ‘Tis I am Vengeance, and your lord,

Who bids you crouch in prayer!

“I shall not grant the least delay—

Use what you have, defending, I’ll send you on that darksome way

Your victims late were wending.

“And if I wore this, with its crest—

Our seal with gems enwreathing— In open air—‘twas in your breast

To seek its fated sheathing!”

 

CORNFLOWERS.

(“Tandis que l’étoile inodore.”)

[XXXII.]

 

While bright but scentless azure stars

Be-gem the golden corn, And spangle with their skyey tint

The furrows not yet shorn; While still the pure white tufts of May

Ape each a snowy ball,— Away, ye merry maids, and haste

To gather ere they fall!

Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines

Upon a fairer town Than Peñafiel, or endows