Poems by Victor Hugo Part 31

How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl, When in the eagle talons ta'en in air!

Aglow, I s.n.a.t.c.hed thee from thy prey--thou fowl-- I held thee, abject conqueror, just where All see the stigma of a fitting name As deeply red as deeply black thy shame!

And though thy matchless impudence may frame Some mask of seeming courage--spite thy sneer, And thou a.s.surest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart!"

Thou feel'st it burning, in and in,--and fear None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!

FACT OR FABLE?

(BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III.)

_("Un jour, sentant un royal appet.i.t.")_

[Bk. III. iii., Jersey, September, 1852.]

One fasting day, itched by his appet.i.te, A monkey took a fallen tiger's hide, And, where the wearer had been savage, tried To overpa.s.s his model. Scratch and bite Gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams, But, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly With crying often: "See the Terror of your dreams!"

Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh.

Left undisturbed to s.n.a.t.c.h, and clog his brambled den, With sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves, And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men, Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves-- He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf Sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things, As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger's self!

Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings Till tramps a butcher by--he risks his head-- In darts the hand and crushes out the yell, And plucks the hide--as from a nut the sh.e.l.l-- He holds him nude, and sneers: "An ape you dread!"

H.L.W.

A LAMENT.

_("Sentiers ou l'herbe se balance.")_

[Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.]

O paths whereon wild gra.s.ses wave!

O valleys! hillsides! forests h.o.a.r!

Why are ye silent as the grave?

For One, who came, and comes no more!

Why is thy window closed of late?

And why thy garden in its sear?

O house! where doth thy master wait?

I only know he is not here.

Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand Will feed thee. In the house is none.

Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.

Where is he gone? Into the dark.-- O sad, and ever-plaining surge!

Whence art thou? From the convict-bark.

And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.

EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.

NO a.s.sa.s.sINATION.

_("Laissons le glaive a Rome.")_

[Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.]

Pray Rome put up her poniard!

And Sparta sheathe the sword; Be none too prompt to punish, And cast indignant word!

Bear back your spectral Brutus From robber Bonaparte; Time rarely will refute us Who doom the hateful heart.

Ye shall be o'ercontented, My banished mates from home, But be no rashness vented Ere time for joy shall come.

No crime can outspeed Justice, Who, resting, seems delayed-- Full faith accord the angel Who points the patient blade.

The traitor still may nestle In balmy bed of state, But mark the Warder, watching His guardsman at his gate.

He wears the crown, a monarch-- Of knaves and stony hearts; But though they're blessed by Senates, None can escape the darts!

Though sh.o.r.ed by spear and crozier, All know the arrant cheat, And shun the square of pavement Uncertain at his feet!

Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding And secret-leaguers' chief, And make no pistol-target Of stars upon the thief.

The knell of G.o.d strikes seldom But in the aptest hour; And when the life is sweetest, The worm will feel His power!

THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM.

_("Pendant que dans l'auberge.")_

[Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.]

While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink, Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink?

Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring st.u.r.dy steed, A mute and grisly rider is trampling gra.s.s and weed, And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear, I known it is _the Future_--G.o.d's Justicer is here!