Poems by Victor Hugo Part 20

But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour Forgetfulness of those without the door-- At very hour when all are most in joy, And the hid orchestra annuls annoy, Woe--woe! with jollity a-top the heights, With further tapers adding to the lights, And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street, Where poor folks stare--hark to the heavy feet!

Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate, Some one below will be admitted straight, Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait!

Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath-- That stranger enters to be known as Death-- Or merely Exile--clothed in alien guise-- Death drags away--with _his_ prey Exile flies!

Death is that sight. He promenades the hall, And casts a gloomy shadow on them all, 'Neath which they bend like willows soft, Ere seizing one--the dumbest monarch oft, And bears him to eternal heat and drouth, While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth.

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR.

_("Non, l'avenir n'est a personne!")_

[V. ii., August, 1832.]

Sire, beware, the future's range Is of G.o.d alone the power, Naught below but augurs change, E'en with ev'ry pa.s.sing hour.

Future! mighty mystery!

All the earthly goods that be, Fortune, glory, war's renown, King or kaiser's sparkling crown, Victory! with her burning wings, Proud ambition's covetings,-- These may our grasp no more detain Than the free bird who doth alight Upon our roof, and takes its flight High into air again.

Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command, Avails t' unclasp the cold and closed hand.

Thy voice to disenthrall, Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side!

Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride, Whom men "To-morrow" call.

Oh, to-morrow! who may dare Its realities to scan?

G.o.d to-morrow brings to bear What to-day is sown by man.

'Tis the lightning in its shroud, 'Tis the star-concealing cloud, Traitor, 'tis his purpose showing, Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing, Wand'ring star, its region changing, "Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging.

To-morrow! 'Tis the rude display Of the throne's framework, blank and cold, That, rich with velvet, bright with gold, Dazzles the eye to-day.

To-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling; To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling, 'Tis the red fires from Moscow's tow'rs that wave; 'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain; 'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main: To-morrow! 'tis the grave!

Into capitals subdued Thou mayst ride with gallant rein, Cut the knots of civil feud With the trenchant steel in twain; With thine edicts barricade Haughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade; Fickle Victory's self enthrall, Captive to thy trumpet call; Burst the stoutest gates asunder; Leave the names of brightest wonder, Pale and dim, behind thee far; And to exhaustless armies yield Thy glancing spur,--o'er Europe's field A glory-guiding star.

G.o.d guards duration, if lends s.p.a.ce to thee, Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity, Rise high as human head can rise sublime, s.n.a.t.c.h Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne, Asia from Mahomet; but never gain Power o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time!

_Fraser's Magazine._

THE EAGLET MOURNED.

_("Encore si ce banni n'eut rien aime sur terre.")_

[V, iv., August, 1832.]

Too hard Napoleon's fate! if, lone, No being he had loved, no single one, Less dark that doom had been.

But with the heart of might doth ever dwell The heart of love! and in his island cell Two things there were--I ween.

Two things--a portrait and a map there were-- Here hung the pictured world, an infant there: That framed his genius, this enshrined his love.

And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove, Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy, What mused he _then_--what dream of years gone by Stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye?

'Twas not the steps of that heroic tale That from Arcola marched to Montmirail On Glory's red degrees; Nor Cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds, Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids-- Ah! Twas not always these;

'Twas not the bursting sh.e.l.l, the iron sleet, The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet, Through twice ten years ago, When at his beck, upon that sea of steel Were launched the rustling banners--there to reel Like masts when tempests blow.

'Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar, Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar, Nor shrill _reveille's_ camp-awakening sound, Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around, Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers, Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears Blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears.

No--'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair, With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there.

It lay beneath the smile, Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep, Lingering upon that little lip doth keep One pendent drop the while.

Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined, He wept; that father-heart all unconfined, Outpoured in love alone.

My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child.

Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled, Forgot the world's lost throne.

_Fraser's Magazine_

INVOCATION.

[V, vi., August, 1832.]

Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tell Where lurks the good invisible Amid the depths of discord's sea-- That seem, alas! so dark to me!

Oppressive to a mighty state, Contentions, feuds, the people's hate-- But who dare question that which fate Has ordered to have been?

Haply the earthquake may unfold The resting-place of purest gold, And haply surges up have rolled The pearls that were unseen!

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

OUTSIDE THE BALL-ROOM.

_("Ainsi l'Hotel de Ville illumine.")_

[VI., May, 1833.]

Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight, From step to cornice one grand glare of light; The noise of mirth and revelry resounds, Like fairy melody on haunted grounds.

But who demands this profuse, wanton glee, These shouts prolonged and wild festivity-- Not sure our city--web, more woe than bliss, In any hour, requiring aught but this!