Poems by Victor Hugo Part 5

Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book, So feared by h.e.l.l and Satan; At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look, At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook, And the hymns and the prayers in Latin.

Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young, Thy voice was wont to gladden; Have thy lips yet no language--no wisdom thy tongue?

Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung On the wall forms that sadden.

Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume To haunt thy holy dwelling; Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room-- Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom These fearful thoughts dispelling.

Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath The gra.s.s, in a churchyard lonely: Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath, And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say, _Is this death_, Or thy prayer or thy slumber only?

ENVOY.

Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair, Kind angels hovered o'er them-- And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet--and there, On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair, With the missal-book before them.

"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).

THE GIANT IN GLEE.

_("Ho, guerriers! je suis ne dans le pays des Gaules.")_

[V., March 11, 1825.]

Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls; O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like b.a.l.l.s Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.

Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,-- A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow.

He is weak, very old--he can scarcely uptear A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;

But here's to replace him!--I can toy with his axe; As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax, And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees.

How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!

I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps, I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps, And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds, Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.

There were tempests! I blew them back into their source!

And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course, Through the ocean I went wading after the whale, And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale.

Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach, And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach; And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb, Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb.

But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest; It is warfare and carnage that now I love best: The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear;

When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood, Announces an army rolls along as a flood, Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks, Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks, Till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I stand With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand.

Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears.

I am naked. At armor of steel I should joke-- True, I'm helmed--a bra.s.s pot you could draw with ten yoke.

I look for no ladder to invade the king's hall-- I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall, Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick, Whilst the flagstaff I use 'midst my teeth as a pick.

Oh, when cometh my turn to succ.u.mb like my prey, May brave men my body s.n.a.t.c.h away from th' array Of the crows--may they heap on the rocks till they loom Like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb!

_Foreign Quarterly Review (adapted)_

THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE.

_("Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne.")_

[VI., October, 1825.]

My lord the Duke of Brittany Has summoned his barons bold-- Their names make a fearful litany!

Among them you will not meet any But men of giant mould.

Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep, And steel-clad knight and peer, Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep-- But none excel in soldiership My own loved cymbaleer.

Clashing his cymbals, forth he went, With a bold and gallant bearing; Sure for a captain he was meant, To judge his pride with courage blent, And the cloth of gold he's wearing.

But in my soul since then I feel A fear in secret creeping; And to my patron saint I kneel, That she may recommend his weal To his guardian-angel's keeping.

I've begged our abbot Bernardine His prayers not to relax; And to procure him aid divine I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine Three pounds of virgin wax.

Our Lady of Loretto knows The pilgrimage I've vowed: "To wear the scallop I propose, If health and safety from the foes My lover be allowed."

No letter (fond affection's gage!) From him could I require, The pain of absence to a.s.suage-- A va.s.sal-maid can have no page, A liegeman has no squire.

This day will witness, with the duke's, My cymbaleer's return: Gladness and pride beam in my looks, Delay my heart impatient brooks, All meaner thoughts I spurn.

Back from the battlefield elate His banner brings each peer; Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, The martial triumph pa.s.s in state-- With the princes my cymbaleer.

We'll have from the rampart walls a glance Of the air his steed a.s.sumes; His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, And on his head unceasing dance, In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!

Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste!

Come, see him bear the bell, With laurels decked, with true love graced, While in his bold hands, fitly placed, The bounding cymbals swell!

Mark well the mantle that he'll wear, Embroidered by his bride!

Admire his burnished helmet's glare, O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair That waves in jet folds wide!

The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold, With a voice like a viper hissing.

(Though I had crossed her palm with gold), That from the ranks a spirit bold Would be to-day found missing.

But I have prayed so much, I trust Her words may prove untrue; Though in a tomb the hag accurst Muttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!"

Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue.

My joy her spells shall not prevent.

Hark! I can hear the drums!

And ladies fair from silken tent Peep forth, and every eye is bent On the cavalcade that comes!