Poems by Victor Hugo (mobi ebook reader txt) 📖

forthcoming enjoyment, must needs

Shame the restless hyena.

They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve, In their turn on the morrow were destined to give

To the lions their food; For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board, Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford,

Death administering stood.

Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power, But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour—

‘Tis your knell that it rings! To the popular tiger a prey is decreed, And the maw of Republican hunger will feed

On a banquet of Kings!

“FATHER PROUT” (FRANK MAHONY)

 

GENIUS.

(DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.)

[Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.]

 

Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,

Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,

Bears Genius—treasure of celestial birth,

Within his solitary soul enshrined.

Woe unto him! for Envy’s pangs impure,

Like the undying vultures’, will be driven

Into his noble heart, that must endure Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven, Suffer Prometheus’ doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.

 

Still though his destiny on earth may be

Grief and injustice; who would not endure

With joyful calm, each proffered agony;

Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?

What mortal feeling kindled in his soul

That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,

O’er which nor time nor death can have control,

Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly

From sufferings whose reward is Immortality?

No! though the clamors of the envious crowd

Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise

 

From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud

Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities.

‘Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread,

Reposing o’er the tempest, from that height

Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head, While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, More upward soars sublime in heaven’s eternal light.

MRS. TORRE HULME

 

THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE.

(“O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?”)

[Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.]

 

Forget? Can I forget the scented breath

Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear; The strange awaking from a dream of death,

The sudden thrill to find thee coming near?

Our huts were desolate, and far away

I heard thee calling me throughout the day,

No one had seen thee pass,

Trembling I came. Alas!

Can I forget?

Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms

Died with the grief that from my bosom fell. Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms!

Let there be no regrets and no farewell!

Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow,

Here of thy fatherland we whispered low;

Here, music, praise, and prayer

Filled the glad summer air.

Can I forget?

Forget? My dear old home must I forget?

And wander forth and hear my people weep, Far from the woods where, when the sun has set,

Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep;

Far from lush flow’rets and the palm-tree’s moan

I could not live. Here let me rest alone!

Go! I must follow nigh,

With thee I’m doomed to die,

Never forget!

CLEMENT SCOTT

NERO’S INCENDIARY SONG.

(“Amis! ennui nous tue.”)

[Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.]

 

Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred, Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord, The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy.

My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most,— For ne’er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host; Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, Austere but lenient Seneca no “Ercles” bumper daunts;

Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay, ‘Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array; Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy things.

I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass; Upon this tower we’ll take our stand to watch the ‘wildered pass; How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,— The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance.

This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress— He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness— But, haste! for night is darkling—soon, the festival it brings; Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings,

And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths; They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths; And ‘neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay— Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay!

Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts? The stillness spreads of Death abroad—down come the temple posts, Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves.

All’s lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter—crash! Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn.

Proud capital! farewell for e’er! these flames nought can subdue— The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o’er hellish brew. ‘Tis Nero’s whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down; Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown!

When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this “immortal star” Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished—oh, how far!

How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! The youth who fired Ephesus’ fane falls low beneath my mark. The pangs of people—when I sport, what matters?—See them whirl About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl.

Take from my brow this poor rose-crown—the flames have made it pine; If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! I like not overmuch that red—good taste says “gild a crime?” “To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs” is—thanks! a hint sublime!

I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?—to e’en a Jew, she dares! Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; Alone I rest—except this pile, I leave no single hall.

Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine— But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete— And, slaves, bring in fresh roses—what odor is more sweet?

H.L. WILLIAMS

 

REGRET.

(“Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.”)

[Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.]

 

Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!

Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when We’ve sunk to rest within its arms entwined, Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find

Ourselves alone again.

Then, through the distant future’s boundless space,

We seek the lost companion of our days: “Return, return!” we cry, and lo, apace Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place

Of that we mourn always.

I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,

Will to the wanton sorc’ress say, “Begone! Respect the cypress on my mournful brow, Lost Happiness hath left regret—but thou

Leavest remorse, alone.”

Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,

O friends, that in your revelry appears! With you I’ll breathe the air which ye respire, And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre

When it is wet with tears.

Each in his secret heart perchance doth own

Some fond regret ‘neath passing smiles concealed;— Sufferers alike together and alone Are we; with many a grief to others known,

How many unrevealed!

Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,

For tender recollections, cherished long, For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains, We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains

Only for sport and song!

Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:

In vain I strove their parting to delay; Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space, Like an o’erclouded smile, that in the face

Lightens, and fades away.

Fraser’s Magazine

 

THE MORNING OF LIFE.

(“Le voile du matin.”)

[Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.]

 

The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,

Old towers gleam white in the ray, And already the glory so joyously seeks

The lark that’s saluting the day.

Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair,

Though, were you swept hence in the night, From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare

At the sun rising newly as bright.

But out of earth’s trammels your soul would have flown

Where glitters Eternity’s stream, And you shall have waked ‘midst pure glories unknown,

As sunshine disperses a dream.

 

BELOVED NAME.

(“Le parfum d’un lis.”)

[Bk. V. xiii.]

 

The lily’s perfume pure, fame’s crown of light,

The latest murmur of departing day, Fond friendship’s plaint, that melts at piteous sight, The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,

The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,—

The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow

As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun; The thrilling accent of a voice we know, The love-enthralled maiden’s secret vow,

An infant’s dream, ere life’s first sands be run,—

The chant of distant choirs, the morning’s sigh,

Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon’s frame,— The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,— The sweetest gems that ‘mid thought’s treasures lie,

Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!

Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine,

Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, The sacred word which at some hidden shrine,

The selfsame voice forever makes resound!

O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame,

My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide, With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name, Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,—

Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,

Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear; To solemn harmonies attuned the string, As, music show’ring from his viewless wing,

On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.

CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)

 

THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD.

(“Oui, ce front, ce sourire.”)

[Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.]

 

That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,

Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:

A heavenly spirit guards her ways, From whom she stole that mixture rare.

Through all her features shining mild, The poet sees an angel there,

The father sees a child.

And by their flame so pure and bright,

We see how lately those sweet eyes

Have wandered down from Paradise, And still are lingering in its light.

All earthly things are but a shade

Through which she looks at things above, And sees the holy Mother-maid,

Athwart her mother’s glance of love.

She seems celestial songs to hear, And virgin souls are whispering near.

Till by her radiant smile deceived,

I say, “Young angel, lately given,

When was thy martyrdom achieved?

And what name lost thou bear in heaven?”

Dublin University Magazine.

 

BALLADES.—1823-28.

THE GRANDMOTHER

(“Dors-tu? mère de notre mère.”)

[III., 1823.]

“To die—to sleep.”—SHAKESPEARE.

 

Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone.

Oh, the hours we have ceased to number! Wake, grandmother!—speechless say why thou art grown. Then, thy lips are so cold!—the Madonna of stone

Is like thee in thy holy slumber. We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer,

But what can now betide thee? Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were, And thy