Poems by Victor Hugo (mobi ebook reader txt) 📖

lips would still murmur a blessing whene’er

Thy children stood beside thee.

Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent

O’er the hearth, where ashes smoulder; And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent. Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent!

But—parent, thy hands grow colder! Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine

The glow that has departed? Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne? Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine,

Of the brave and noble-hearted?

Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen,

Lies in wait for the unwary— Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then

Turned aside by the wand of a fairy? Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm,

And thoughts of evil banish? What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm? What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm

Can make the demon vanish?

Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book,

So feared by hell and Satan; At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look, At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook,

And the hymns and the prayers in Latin. Oft with legends of angels, who watch o’er the young,

Thy voice was wont to gladden; Have thy lips yet no language—no wisdom thy tongue? Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung

On the wall forms that sadden.

Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume

To haunt thy holy dwelling; Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room— Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom

These fearful thoughts dispelling. Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath

The grass, in a churchyard lonely: Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath, And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say, Is this death,

Or thy prayer or thy slumber only?

ENVOY.

Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother’s chair,

Kind angels hovered o’er them— And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet—and there, On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair,

With the missal-book before them.

“FATHER PROUT” (FRANK S. MAHONY).

 

THE GIANT IN GLEE.

(“Ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des Gaules.”)

[V., March 11, 1825.]

 

Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls; O’er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.

Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,— A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow. He is weak, very old—he can scarcely uptear A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;

But here’s to replace him!—I can toy with his axe; As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax, And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees. How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!

I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps, I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps, And my head, o’er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds, Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.

There were tempests! I blew them back into their source! And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course, Through the ocean I went wading after the whale, And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale.

Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark ‘long the beach, And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach; And the bear that I pinched ‘twixt my finger and thumb, Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb.

But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest; It is warfare and carnage that now I love best: The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear;

When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood, Announces an army rolls along as a flood, Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks, Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks, Till, a thresher ‘mid ripest of corn, up I stand With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand.

Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears. I am naked. At armor of steel I should joke— True, I’m helmed—a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke.

I look for no ladder to invade the king’s hall— I stride o’er the ramparts, and down the walls fall, Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick, Whilst the flagstaff I use ‘midst my teeth as a pick.

Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey, May brave men my body snatch away from th’ array Of the crows—may they heap on the rocks till they loom Like a mountain, befitting a colossus’ tomb!

Foreign Quarterly Review (adapted)

 

THE CYMBALEER’S BRIDE.

(“Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne.”)

[VI., October, 1825.]

 

My lord the Duke of Brittany

Has summoned his barons bold— Their names make a fearful litany! Among them you will not meet any

But men of giant mould.

Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep,

And steel-clad knight and peer, Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep— But none excel in soldiership

My own loved cymbaleer.

Clashing his cymbals, forth he went,

With a bold and gallant bearing; Sure for a captain he was meant, To judge his pride with courage blent,

And the cloth of gold he’s wearing.

But in my soul since then I feel

A fear in secret creeping; And to my patron saint I kneel, That she may recommend his weal

To his guardian-angel’s keeping.

I’ve begged our abbot Bernardine

His prayers not to relax; And to procure him aid divine I’ve burnt upon Saint Gilda’s shrine

Three pounds of virgin wax.

Our Lady of Loretto knows

The pilgrimage I’ve vowed: “To wear the scallop I propose, If health and safety from the foes

My lover be allowed.”

No letter (fond affection’s gage!)

From him could I require, The pain of absence to assuage— A vassal-maid can have no page,

A liegeman has no squire.

This day will witness, with the duke’s,

My cymbaleer’s return: Gladness and pride beam in my looks, Delay my heart impatient brooks,

All meaner thoughts I spurn.

Back from the battlefield elate

His banner brings each peer; Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, The martial triumph pass in state—

With the princes my cymbaleer.

We’ll have from the rampart walls a glance

Of the air his steed assumes; His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, And on his head unceasing dance,

In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!

Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste!

Come, see him bear the bell, With laurels decked, with true love graced, While in his bold hands, fitly placed,

The bounding cymbals swell!

Mark well the mantle that he’ll wear,

Embroidered by his bride! Admire his burnished helmet’s glare, O’ershadowed by the dark horsehair

That waves in jet folds wide!

The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold,

With a voice like a viper hissing. (Though I had crossed her palm with gold), That from the ranks a spirit bold

Would be to-day found missing.

But I have prayed so much, I trust

Her words may prove untrue; Though in a tomb the hag accurst Muttered: “Prepare thee for the worst!”

Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue.

My joy her spells shall not prevent.

Hark! I can hear the drums! And ladies fair from silken tent Peep forth, and every eye is bent

On the cavalcade that comes!

Pikemen, dividing on both flanks,

Open the pageantry; Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, And silk-robed barons lead the ranks—

The pink of gallantry!

In scarfs of gold the priests admire;

The heralds on white steeds; Armorial pride decks their attire, Worn in remembrance of some sire

Famed for heroic deeds.

Feared by the Paynim’s dark divan,

The Templars next advance; Then the tall halberds of Lausanne, Foremost to stand in battle van

Against the foes of France.

Now hail the duke, with radiant brow,

Girt with his cavaliers; Round his triumphant banner bow Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now!

Here come the cymbaleers!

She spoke—with searching eye surveyed

Their ranks—then, pale, aghast, Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid— ‘Twas mercy to that loving maid—

The cymbaleers had passed!

“FATHER PROUT” (FRANK S. MAHONY)

 

BATTLE OF THE NORSEMEN AND THE GAELS.

(“Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!”)

[VII., September, 1825.]

 

Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey! Ye wolves of war, make no delay! For foemen ‘neath our blades shall fall Ere night may veil with purple pall. The evening psalms are nearly o’er,

And priests who follow in our train

Have promised us the final gain, And filled with faith our valiant corps.

Let orphans weep, and widows brood! To-morrow we shall wash the blood Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent, So, close the ranks and fire the tent! And chill yon coward cavalcade

With brazen bugles blaring loud,

E’en though our chargers’ neighing proud Already has the host dismayed.

Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds! On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds! Through helmet plumes the arrows flit, And plated breasts the pikeheads split. The double-axe fells human oaks,

And like the thistles in the field

See bristling up (where none must yield!) The points hewn off by sweeping strokes!

We, heroes all, our wounds disdain; Dismounted now, our horses slain, Yet we advance—more courage show, Though stricken, seek to overthrow The victor-knights who tread in mud

The writhing slaves who bite the heel,

While on caparisons of steel The maces thunder—cudgels thud!

Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred, Seize each your man and hug him dead! Who falls unslain will only make A mouthful to the wolves who slake Their month-whet thirst. No captives, none!

We die or win! but should we die,

The lopped-off hand will wave on high The broken brand to hail the sun!

 

MADELAINE.

(“Ecoute-moi, Madeline.”)

[IX., September, 1825.]

 

List to me, O Madelaine! Now the snows have left the plain,

Which they warmly cloaked. Come into the forest groves, Where the notes that Echo loves

Are from horns evoked.

Come! where Springtide, Madelaine, Brings a sultry breath from Spain,

Giving buds their hue; And, last night, to glad your eye, Laid the floral marquetry,

Red and gold and blue.

Would I were, O Madelaine, As the lamb whose wool you train

Through your tender hands. Would I were the bird that whirls Round, and comes to peck your curls,

Happy in such bands.

Were I e’en, O Madelaine, Hermit whom the herd disdain

In his pious cell, When your purest lips unfold Sins which might to all be told,

As to him you tell.

Would I were, O Madelaine, Moth that murmurs ‘gainst your pane,

Peering at your rest, As, so like its woolly wing, Ceasing scarce its fluttering,

Heaves and sinks your breast.

If you seek it, Madelaine, You may wish, and not in vain,

For a serving host, And your splendid hall of state Shall be envied by the great,

O’er the Jew-King’s boast.

If you name it, Madelaine, Round your head no more you’ll train

Simple marguerites, No! the coronet of peers, Whom the queen herself oft fears,

And the monarch greets.

 

If you wish, O Madelaine! Where you gaze you long shall reign—

For I’m ruler here! I’m the lord who asks your hand If you do not bid me stand

Loving shepherd here!

 

THE FAY AND THE PERI.

(“Où vas-tu donc, jeune âme.”)

[XV.]

 

THE PERI.

Beautiful