Poems by Victor Hugo Part 47

_("Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers.")_

[Bk. x.x.xI.]

When the regiment of Halberdiers Is proudly marching by, The eagle of the mountain screams From out his stormy sky; Who speaketh to the precipice, And to the chasm sheer; Who hovers o'er the thrones of kings, And bids the caitiffs fear.

King of the peak and glacier, King of the cold, white scalps-- He lifts his head, at that close tread, The eagle of the Alps.

O shame! those men that march below-- O ignominy dire!

Are the sons of my free mountains Sold for imperial hire.

Ah! the vilest in the dungeon!

Ah! the slave upon the seas-- Is great, is pure, is glorious, Is grand compared with these, Who, born amid my holy rocks, In solemn places high, Where the tall pines bend like rushes When the storm goes sweeping by;

Yet give the strength of foot they learned By perilous path and flood, And from their blue-eyed mothers won, The old, mysterious blood; The daring that the good south wind Into their nostrils blew, And the proud swelling of the heart With each pure breath they drew; The graces of the mountain glens, With flowers in summer gay; And all the glories of the hills To earn a lackey's pay.

Their country free and joyous-- She of the rugged sides-- She of the rough peaks arrogant Whereon the tempest rides: Mother of the unconquered thought And of the savage form, Who brings out of her st.u.r.dy heart The hero and the storm: Who giveth freedom unto man, And life unto the beast; Who hears her silver torrents ring Like joy-bells at a feast;

Who hath her caves for palaces, And where her chalets stand-- The proud, old archer of Altorf, With his good bow in his hand.

Is she to suckle jailers?

Shall shame and glory rest, Amid her lakes and glaciers, Like twins upon her breast?

Shall the two-headed eagle, Marked with her double blow, Drink of her milk through all those hearts Whose blood he bids to flow?

Say, was it pomp ye needed, And all the proud array Of courtly joust and high parade Upon a gala day?

Look up; have not my valleys Their torrents white with foam-- Their lines of silver bullion On the blue hillocks of home?

Doth not sweet May embroider My rocks with pearls and flowers?

Her fingers trace a richer lace Than yours in all my bowers.

Are not my old peaks gilded When the sun arises proud, And each one shakes a white mist plume Out of the thunder-cloud?

O, neighbor of the golden sky-- Sons of the mountain sod-- Why wear a base king's colors For the livery of G.o.d?

O shame! despair! to see my Alps Their giant shadows fling Into the very waiting-room Of tyrant and of king!

O thou deep heaven, unsullied yet, Into thy gulfs sublime-- Up azure tracts of flaming light-- Let my free pinion climb; Till from my sight, in that clear light, Earth and her crimes be gone-- The men who act the evil deeds-- The caitiffs who look on.

Far, far into that s.p.a.ce immense, Beyond the vast white veil, Where distant stars come out and shine, And the great sun grows pale.

BP. ALEXANDER

THE CUP ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

_("Mon pere, ce heros au sourire.")_

[Bk. XLIX. iv.]

My sire, the hero with the smile so soft, And a tall trooper, his companion oft, Whom he loved greatly for his courage high And strength and stature, as the night drew nigh Rode out together. The battle was done; The dead strewed the field; long sunk was the sun.

It seemed in the darkness a sound they heard,-- Was it feeble moaning or uttered word?

'Twas a Spaniard left from the force in flight, Who had crawled to the roadside after fight; Shattered and livid, less live than dead, Rattled his throat as hoa.r.s.ely he said: "Water, water to drink, for pity's sake!

Oh, a drop of water this thirst to slake!"

My father, moved at his speech heart-wrung, Handed the orderly, downward leapt, The flask of rum at the holster kept.

"Let him have some!" cried my father, as ran The trooper o'er to the wounded man,-- A sort of Moor, swart, b.l.o.o.d.y and grim; But just as the trooper was nearing him, He lifted a pistol, with eye of flame, And covered my father with murd'rous aim.

The hurtling slug grazed the very head, And the helmet fell, pierced, streaked with red, And the steed reared up; but in steady tone: "Give him the whole!" said my father, "and on!"

TORU DUTT

HOW GOOD ARE THE POOR.

_("Il est nuit. La cabane est pauvre.")_

[Bk. LII. iii.]

'Tis night--within the close stout cabin door, The room is wrapped in shade save where there fall Some twilight rays that creep along the floor, And show the fisher's nets upon the wall.

In the dim corner, from the oaken chest, A few white dishes glimmer; through the shade Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed, And a rough mattress at its side is laid.

Five children on the long low mattress lie-- A nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams; In the high chimney the last embers die, And redden the dark room with crimson gleams.

The mother kneels and thinks, and pale with fear, She prays alone, hearing the billows shout: While to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear, The ominous old ocean sobs without.

Poor wives of fishers! Ah! 'tis sad to say, Our sons, our husbands, all that we love best, Our hearts, our souls, are on those waves away, Those ravening wolves that know not ruth, nor rest.

Think how they sport with these beloved forms; And how the clarion-blowing wind unties Above their heads the tresses of the storms: Perchance even now the child, the husband, dies.

For we can never tell where they may be Who, to make head against the tide and gale, Between them and the starless, soulless sea Have but one bit of plank, with one poor sail.

Terrible fear! We seek the pebbly sh.o.r.e, Cry to the rising billows, "Bring them home."

Alas! what answer gives their troubled roar, To the dark thought that haunts us as we roam.

Janet is sad: her husband is alone, Wrapped in the black shroud of this bitter night:

His children are so little, there is none To give him aid. "Were they but old, they might."

Ah, mother! when they too are on the main, How wilt thou weep: "Would they were young again!"

She takes his lantern--'tis his hour at last She will go forth, and see if the day breaks, And if his signal-fire be at the mast; Ah, no--not yet--no breath of morning wakes.

No line of light o'er the dark water lies; It rains, it rains, how black is rain at morn: The day comes trembling, and the young dawn cries-- Cries like a baby fearing to be born.

Sudden her humane eyes that peer and watch Through the deep shade, a mouldering dwelling find, No light within--the thin door shakes--the thatch O'er the green walls is twisted of the wind,

Yellow, and dirty, as a swollen rill, "Ah, me," she saith, "here does that widow dwell; Few days ago my good man left her ill: I will go in and see if all be well."

She strikes the door, she listens, none replies, And Janet shudders. "Husbandless, alone, And with two children--they have scant supplies.

Good neighbor! She sleeps heavy as a stone."