Poems by Victor Hugo Part 13

[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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sed, 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'ebene.")_

[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 striped 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 appet.i.te 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, Sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e,-- Now hushed, but once more Maddening to its worst.

O G.o.d! 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 bal.u.s.trade 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 h.e.l.l! 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 h.e.l.lish 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 pa.s.sed!--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, Sh.o.r.eward 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 sh.o.r.e Ripples flow,-- As the plaint Far and faint Of a saint Murmured low.

Hark! hist!

Around, I list!

The bounds Of s.p.a.ce All trace Efface Of sound.

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.