Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 11

O to drink madly on one mouth the kisses Of Aphrodite and Adonis both, And, trembling, to discover all blent blisses In the same frame to no perversions loth!

Faust had left Margaret for thee, and lewd Anacreon had never lost a day on Bathyllus, Sappho would not have pursued In her escape Erinna, no nor Phaon.

Under thy foot earth lapped with pallid flames Trembles, and all the flowers die where it hovers Man clips no more the woman, and hot dames Enlace their arms no more around young lover

O last ideal of decaying races, Mortal revealer of best beauties, thy Poisons poured lavishly in thine embraces Have made the ancient cities rot and die.

And now to us thou comest, while uncloses Under thy feet a dawn that pales the day's; And poets, mad with incense and with roses, Laud thee with chants of glory, love, and praise.

Sweet being, grant to us thy sweetest blisses!

We drag ourselves under thy conquering feet, While, in a downy drunkenness, thy kisses Gather our last and loveliest heart's beat.

THE DAYS OF YORE.

I have inhaled love like a garland sprent With morning dew, and fragrant with a scent That set my kisses fluttering over it, As b.u.t.terflies of silk and velvet flit.

And savoured it like some fruit from the South, Whose luscious pulp melts slowly in the mouth.

And, cups of sapphire effervescing bright, Blue eyes have made me drunk with spring's delight!

And, ruby cups brimmed with a blood that seethed, Lips have a dizziness upon me breathed!...

--Fall o'er the past, ye mists of memory!

And now, thou deep, swart night envelop me!

In thy wan winding-sheet my heart enfold, To sleep alone, and motionless, and cold.

VALeRE GILLE.

1867--.

ART.

What use is action? We have thought until The world is but the shadow of our dreams.

What if the sap in all the gardens teems, Sunk back upon itself is our limp will.

The mind has ravaged s.p.a.ce, and we are ill With what we know; yet knowledge only seems, Upon life's verge a net of cheating gleams; And my possessions leave me tired and chill.

But thou alone, O torch of sacred Art, With first, primeval beauty warm the heart, And flash thy multiple glimpses of the Ideal;

And thou, O Poet, make lost Eden shine Within us, and behind the seeming real Show us the essences of things divine.

THERMOPYLae.

The sombre gorge is only lighted by The bucklers on the beeches. Near their chief The warriors, with no fear and with no grief, Await their fate. And now the dawn is nigh.

To-morrow Greece shall mourn them: they must die.

The priests have read the auguries like a leaf.

Hydarnes, with the footstep of a thief, Slinks with his traitor where the shadows lie.

So be it. Under arrows showering thick By shadows shielded they will fight, beneath The overhanging rocks, with pike and teeth.

And when the sword breaks they will grip the stick.

They share a few figs for their breakfast, right Calmly. They with Pluto sup to-night.

A NAVAL BATTLE.

The fleets rush headlong o'er the sea, and lock In a loud, long impact deafening the ear; The hissing arrows make the heavens blear, The heavy waves are clashing shock on shock.

Ares is with us, driving like a flock The Persian ships which, when they staggering rear, The rostrum pierces till, in mad career, They crowd the sh.o.r.e and shatter on the rock.

The dusk climbs, but the most ill.u.s.trious chase The coward, and thrust from every vantage-place.

But now the moon breaks through the clouds, to show

Our native land kissed by its tender ray, The glittering summits and the silvered bay, And the free sea flowered with corpses of the foe.

ALBERT GIRAUD.

1860--.

THE TRIBUNES.

The people have had masters whose strong faces, Charged with imperious will, their ma.s.ses cowed, Who spoke with regal voices ringing loud To draw out of their sleep lethargic races.

The word they cast down from the market-places In the four winds of Heaven vibrated proud With bitter love and majesty unbowed, Threatening to make of cities desert s.p.a.ces.

The crowd remember yet their magic names, And echo them with thunderous acclaims Of welcome to the coming victory.

The legendary marble where they stand Rises on history's threshold, and their hand Wrathfully sways the billowing days to be.

CORDOVANS.