Poems by Victor Hugo Part 2

The angels said: "Thy Saviour bids thee come, Out of an impure world He calls thee home, From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves Over the broken cross her impure wings, And regicides go down among the graves, Scenting the blood of kings."

He cries: "Then have I finished my long life?

Are all its evils over, all its strife, And will no cruel jailer evermore Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er?

Is it no dream that nothing else remains Of all my torments but this answered cry, And have I had, O G.o.d, amid my chains, The happiness to die?

"For none can tell what cause I had to pine, What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; And when I wept there was no mother near To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear.

Poor victim of a punishment unending, Torn like a sapling from its mother earth, So young, I could not tell what crime impending Had stained me from my birth.

"Yet far off in dim memory it seems, With all its horror mingled happy dreams, Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head, And a glad people watched beside my bed.

One day into mysterious darkness thrown, I saw the promise of my future close; I was a little child, left all alone, Alas! and I had foes.

"They cast me living in a dreary tomb, Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep.

'Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there.

Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all, Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer, It is for them I call."

The angels sang: "See heaven's high arch unfold, Come, we will crown thee with the stars above, Will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold, And thou shalt learn our ministry of love, Shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears Are dropping o'er her restless little one, Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres, Shalt kindle some cold sun."

Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear, In depths of s.p.a.ce, the rolling worlds were stayed, Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said:

"O king, I kept thee far from human state, Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate, The slavery of kings thou hast not known, What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet, And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace, No earthly diadem has ever set A stain upon thy face.

"Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth, But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth, And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need.

Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine; Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine, His sceptre was a reed."

_Dublin University Magazine._

THE FEAST OF FREEDOM.

_("Lorsqu'a l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")_

[Bk. II. v., 1823.]

[There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet--at the prison gate--known as the "Free Festival."--CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."]

TO YE KINGS.

When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold An idolatrous cause, Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout Of "the People's" applause.

On the eve of that day of their evenings the last!

At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast, Rich, unstinted, unpriced, That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled, With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread For the martyrs of Christ.

Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine Fill'd his cup to the brim!

Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose, Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose, All united for him!

Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse, In profusion procured was put forth to enhance The repast that they gave; And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night The elect of the grave.

And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain The bloodthirsty arena; Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds And who hailed the 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.s, Trembling I came. Alas!

Can I forget?