Poems by Victor Hugo Part 37

BOAZ ASLEEP.

_("Booz s'etait couche.")_

[Bk. II. vi.]

At work within his barn since very early, Fairly tired out with toiling all the day, Upon the small bed where he always lay Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.

Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud And in his smithy blazed no fire of h.e.l.l.

His beard was silver, as in April all A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook.

When the poor gleaner pa.s.sed, with kindly look, Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."

He walked his way of life straight on and plain, With justice clothed, like linen white and clean, And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.

Good master, faithful friend, in his estate Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth He won regard of woman, for in sooth The young man may be fair--the old man's great.

Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, The old man entereth, the day eterne; And in the young man's eye a flame may burn, But in the old man's eye one seeth light.

As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.

And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain.

His race ran up it far, like a long chain; Below it sung a king, above it died a G.o.d.

Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart, "The number of my years is past fourscore: How may this be? I have not any more, Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part.

"In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine; And she, half living, I half dead within, Our beings still commingle and are twin, It cannot be that I should found a line!

"Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound From night, as from a victory. But such A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.

"I bow myself to death, as lone to meet The water bow their fronts athirst." He said.

The cedar feeleth not the rose's head, Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!

For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking.

He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; She knowing not what G.o.d would have in sooth.

Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring-- Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast The angels sped, for momently there pa.s.sed A something blue which seemed to be a wing.

Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur-- The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows.

Far west among those flowers of the shadows.

The thin clear crescent l.u.s.trous over her,

Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what G.o.d, what comer Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.

BP. ALEXANDER.

SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT

_("Sonnex, clarions!")_

[Bk. VI. vii.]

Flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum!

The _Reiters_ are mounted! the Reiters will come!

When our bullets cease singing And long swords cease ringing On backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight, We'll dig up their dollars To string for girls' collars-- They'll jingle around them before it is night!

When flourish the trumpets, etc.

We're the Emperor's winners Of right royal dinners, Where cities are served up and flanked by estates, While we wallow in claret, Knowing not how to spare it, Though beer is less likely to muddle our pates-- While flourish the trumpets, etc.

G.o.ds of battle! red-handed!

Wise it was to have banded Such arms as are these for embracing of gain!

Hearken to each war-vulture Crying, "Down with all culture Of land or religion!" _Hoch_! to our refrain Of flourish the trumpets, etc.

Give us "bones of the devil"

To exchange in our revel The ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon; Coronets are but playthings-- We reck not who say things When the Reiters have ridden to death! none too soon!-- To flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum, The Reiters will finish as firm as they come!

H.L.W.

KING CANUTE.

_("Un jour, Kanut mourut.")_

[Bk. X. i.]

King Canute died.[1] Encoffined he was laid.

Of Aarhuus came the Bishop prayers to say, And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held That Canute was a saint--Canute the Great, That from his memory breathed celestial perfume, And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, Seated at G.o.d's right hand, a prophet crowned.

I.

Evening came, And hushed the organ in the holy place, And the priests, issuing from the temple doors, Left the dead king in peace. Then he arose, Opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword, And went forth loftily. The ma.s.sy walls Yielded before the phantom, like a mist.

There is a sea where Aarhuus, Altona, And Elsinore's vast domes and shadowy towers Gla.s.s in deep waters. Over this he went Dark, and still Darkness listened for his foot Inaudible, itself being but a dream.

Straight to Mount Savo went he, gnawed by time, And thus, "O mountain buffeted of storms, Give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow To frame a winding-sheet." The mountain knew him, Nor dared refuse, and with his sword Canute Cut from his flank white snow, enough to make The garment he desired, and then he cried, "Old mountain! death is dumb, but tell me thou The way to G.o.d." More deep each dread ravine And hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus Answered that h.o.a.r a.s.sociate of the clouds: "Spectre, I know not, I am always here."

Canute departed, and with head erect, All white and ghastly in his robe of snow, Went forth into great silence and great night By Iceland and Norway. After him Gloom swallowed up the universe. He stood A sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost Confronted with Immensity. He saw The awful Infinite, at whose portal pale Lightning sinks dying; Darkness, skeleton Whose joints are nights, and utter Formlessness Moving confusedly in the horrible dark Inscrutable and blind. No star was there, Yet something like a haggard gleam; no sound But the dull tide of Darkness, and her dumb And fearful shudder. "'Tis the tomb," he said, "G.o.d is beyond!" Three steps he took, then cried: 'Twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice Responded, nor came any breath to sway The snowy mantle, with unsullied white Emboldening the spectral wanderer.

Sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star, A spot grew broad upon his livid robe; Slowly it widened, raying darkness forth; And Canute proved it with his spectral hands It was a drop of blood.

_R. GARNETT._