Poems by Victor Hugo (mobi ebook reader txt) 📖

air and slush with granite maw, The sleet upon the griffins spits, and all The Saurian monsters, answering to the squall, Flap wings; while through the broken ceiling fall Torrents of rain upon the forms beneath, Dragons and snak’d Medusas gnashing teeth In the dismantled rooms. Like armored knight The granite Castle fights with all its might, Resisting through the winter. All in vain, The heaven’s bluster, January’s rain, And those dread elemental powers we call The Infinite—the whirlwinds that appall— Thunder and waterspouts; and winds that shake As ‘twere a tree its ripened fruit to take. The winds grow wearied, warring with the tower, The noisy North is out of breath, nor power Has any blast old Corbus to defeat, It still has strength their onslaughts worst to meet. Thus, spite of briers and thistles, the old tower Remains triumphant through the darkest hour; Superb as pontiff, in the forest shown, Its rows of battlements make triple crown; At eve, its silhouette is finely traced Immense and black—showing the Keep is placed On rocky throne, sublime and high; east, west, And north and south, at corners four, there rest Four mounts; Aptar, where flourishes the pine, And Toxis, where the elms grow green and fine; Crobius and Bleyda, giants in their might, Against the stormy winds to stand and fight, And these above its diadem uphold Night’s living canopy of clouds unrolled.

The herdsman fears, and thinks its shadow creeps To follow him; and superstition keeps Such hold that Corbus as a terror reigns; Folks say the Fort a target still remains For the Black Archer—and that it contains The cave where the Great Sleeper still sleeps sound. The country people all the castle round Are frightened easily, for legends grow And mix with phantoms of the mind; we know The hearth is cradle of such fantasies, And in the smoke the cotter sees arise From low-thatched but he traces cause of dread. Thus rendering thanks that he is lowly bred, Because from such none look for valorous deeds. The peasant flies the Tower, although it leads A noble knight to seek adventure there, And, from his point of honor, dangers dare.

Thus very rarely passer-by is seen; But—it might be with twenty years between, Or haply less—at unfixed interval There would a semblance be of festival. A Seneschal and usher would appear, And troops of servants many baskets bear. Then were, in mystery, preparations made, And they departed—for till night none stayed. But ‘twixt the branches gazers could descry The blackened hall lit up most brilliantly. None dared approach—and this the reason why.

IV.

THE CUSTOM OF LUSACE.

When died a noble Marquis of Lusace ‘Twas custom for the heir who filled his place Before assuming princely pomp and power To sup one night in Corbus’ olden tower. From this weird meal he passed to the degree Of Prince and Margrave; nor could ever he Be thought brave knight, or she—if woman claim The rank—be reckoned of unblemished fame Till they had breathed the air of ages gone, The funeral odors, in the nest alone Of its dead masters. Ancient was the race; To trace the upward stem of proud Lusace Gives one a vertigo; descended they From ancestor of Attila, men say; Their race to him—through Pagans—they hark back; Becoming Christians, race they thought to track Through Lechus, Plato, Otho to combine With Ursus, Stephen, in a lordly line. Of all those masters of the country round That were on Northern Europe’s boundary found— At first were waves and then the dykes were reared— Corbus in double majesty appeared, Castle on hill and town upon the plain; And one who mounted on the tower could gain A view beyond the pines and rocks, of spires That pierce the shade the distant scene acquires; A walled town is it, but ‘tis not ally Of the old citadel’s proud majesty; Unto itself belonging this remained. Often a castle was thus self-sustained And equalled towns; witness in Lombardy Crama, and Plato too in Tuscany, And in Apulia Barletta;—each one Was powerful as a town, and dreaded none. Corbus ranked thus; its precincts seemed to hold The reflex of its mighty kings of old; Their great events had witness in these walls, Their marriages were here and funerals, And mostly here it was that they were born; And here crowned Barons ruled with pride and scorn; Cradle of Scythian majesty this place. Now each new master of this ancient race A duty owed to ancestors which he Was bound to carry on. The law’s decree It was that he should pass alone the night Which made him king, as in their solemn sight. Just at the forest’s edge a clerk was met With wine in sacred cup and purpose set, A wine mysterious, which the heir must drink To cause deep slumber till next day’s soft brink. Then to the castle tower he wends his way, And finds a supper laid with rich display. He sups and sleeps: then to his slumbering eyes The shades of kings from Bela all arise. None dare the tower to enter on this night, But when the morning dawns, crowds are in sight The dreamer to deliver,—whom half dazed, And with the visions of the night amazed, They to the old church take, where rests the dust Of Borivorus; then the bishop must, With fervent blessings on his eyes and mouth, Put in his hands the stony hatchets both, With which—even like death impartially— Struck Attila, with one arm dexterously The south, and with the other arm the north.

This day the town the threatening flag set forth Of Marquis Swantibore, the monster he Who in the wood tied up his wife, to be Devoured by wolves, together with the bull Of which with jealousy his heart was full.

Even when woman took the place of heir The tower of Corbus claimed the supper there; ‘Twas law—the woman trembled, but must dare.

V.

THE MARCHIONESS MAHAUD.

Niece of the Marquis—John the Striker named— Mahaud to-day the marquisate has claimed. A noble dame—the crown is hers by right: As woman she has graces that delight. A queen devoid of beauty is not queen, She needs the royalty of beauty’s mien; God in His harmony has equal ends For cedar that resists, and reed that bends, And good it is a woman sometimes rules, Holds in her hand the power, and manners schools, And laws and mind;—succeeding master proud, With gentle voice and smile she leads the crowd, The sombre human troop. But sweet Mahaud On evil days had fallen; gentle, good, Alas! she held the sceptre like a flower; Timid yet gay, imprudent for the hour, And careless too. With Europe all in throes, Though twenty years she now already knows, She has refused to marry, although oft Entreated. It is time an arm less soft Than hers—a manly arm—supported her; Like to the rainbow she, one might aver, Shining on high between the cloud and rain, Or like the ewe that gambols on the plain Between the bear and tiger; innocent, She has two neighbors of most foul intent: For foes the Beauty has, in life’s pure spring, The German Emp’ror and the Polish King.

VI.

THE TWO NEIGHBORS.

The difference this betwixt the evil pair, Faithless to God—for laws without a care— One was the claw, the other one the will Controlling. Yet to mass they both went still, And on the rosary told their beads each day. But none the less the world believed that they Unto the powers of hell their souls had sold. Even in whispers men each other told The details of the pact which they had signed With that dark power, the foe of human kind; In whispers, for the crowd had mortal dread Of them so high, and woes that they had spread. One might be vengeance and the other hate, Yet lived they side by side, in powerful state And close alliance. All the people near From red horizon dwelt in abject fear, Mastered by them; their figures darkly grand Had ruddy reflex from the wasted land, And fires, and towns they sacked. Besides the one, Like David, poet was, the other shone As fine musician—rumor spread their fame, Declaring them divine, until each name In Italy’s fine sonnets met with praise. The ancient hierarch in those old days Had custom strange, a now forgotten thing, It was a European plan that King Of France was marquis, and th’ imperial head Of Germany was duke; there was no need To class the other kings, but barons they, Obedient vassals unto Rome, their stay. The King of Poland was but simple knight, Yet now, for once, had strange unwonted right, And, as exception to the common state, This one Sarmatian King was held as great As German Emperor; and each knew how His evil part to play, nor mercy show. The German had one aim, it was to take All land he could, and it his own to make. The Pole already having Baltic shore, Seized Celtic ports, still needing more and more. On all the Northern Sea his crafts roused fear: Iceland beheld his demon navy near. Antwerp the German burnt; and Prussias twain Bowed to the yoke. The Polish King was fain To help the Russian Spotocus—his aid Was like the help that in their common trade A sturdy butcher gives a weaker one. The King it is who seizes, and this done, The Emp’ror pillages, usurping right In war Teutonic, settled but by might. The King in Jutland cynic footing gains, The weak coerced, the while with cunning pains The strong are duped. But ‘tis a law they make That their accord themselves should never break. From Arctic seas to cities Transalpine, Their hideous talons, curved for sure rapine, Scrape o’er and o’er the mournful continent, Their plans succeed, and each is well content. Thus under Satan’s all paternal care They brothers are, this royal bandit pair. Oh, noxious conquerors! with transient rule Chimera heads—ambition can but fool. Their misty minds but harbor rottenness Loathsome and fetid, and all barrenness— Their deeds to ashes turn, and, hydra-bred, The mystic skeleton is theirs to dread. The daring German and the cunning Pole Noted to-day a woman had control Of lands, and watched Mahaud like evil spies; And from the Emp’ror’s cruel mouth—with dyes Of wrath empurpled—came these words of late: “The empire wearies of the wallet weight Hung at its back—this High and Low Lusace, Whose hateful load grows heavier apace, That now a woman holds its ruler’s place.” Threatening, and blood suggesting, every word; The watchful Pole was silent—but he heard.

Two monstrous dangers; but the heedless one Babbles and smiles, and bids all care begone— Likes lively speech—while all the poor she makes To love her, and the taxes off she takes. A life of dance and pleasure she has known— A woman always; in her jewelled crown It is the pearl she loves—not cutting gems, For these can wound, and mark men’s diadems. She pays the hire of Homer’s copyists, And in the Courts of Love presiding, lists.

Quite recently unto her Court have come Two men—unknown their names or native home, Their rank or race; but one plays well the lute, The other is a troubadour; both suit The taste of Mahaud, when on summer eve, ‘Neath opened windows, they obtain her leave To sing upon the terrace, and relate The charming tales that do with music mate. In August the Moravians have their fête, But it is radiant June in which Lusace Must consecrate her noble Margrave race. Thus in the weird and old ancestral tower For Mahaud now has come the fateful hour, The lonely supper which her state decrees. What matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees, And clouds and fountains? That the people may Still bear their yoke—have kings to rule alway? The water flows, the wind