Poems by Victor Hugo Part 9

'Neath great slabs of marble they hid them in vain, 'Gainst this everliving fire, G.o.d's own flaming rain!

'Tis the rash whom G.o.d seeks out the first; They call on their G.o.ds, who were deaf to their cries, For the punishing flame caused their cold granite eyes In tears of hot lava to burst!

Thus away in the whirlwind did everything pa.s.s, The man and the city, the soil and its gra.s.s!

G.o.d burnt this sad, sterile champaign; Naught living was left of this people destroyed, And the unknown wind which blew over the void, Each mountain changed into a plain.

XI.

The palm-tree that grows on the rock to this day, Feels its leaf growing yellow, its slight stem decay, In the blasting and ponderous air; These towns are no more! but to mirror their past, O'er their embers a cold lake spread far and spread fast, With smoke like a furnace, lies there!

J.N. FAZAKERLEY

PIRATES' SONG.

_("Nous emmenions en esclavage.")_

[VIII., March, 1828.]

We're bearing fivescore Christian dogs To serve the cruel drivers: Some are fair beauties gently born, And some rough coral-divers.

We hardy skimmers of the sea Are lucky in each sally, And, eighty strong, we send along The dreaded Pirate Galley.

A nunnery was spied ash.o.r.e, We lowered away the cutter, And, landing, seized the youngest nun Ere she a cry could utter; Beside the creek, deaf to our oars, She slumbered in green alley, As, eighty strong, we sent along The dreaded Pirate Galley.

"Be silent, darling, you must come-- The wind is off sh.o.r.e blowing; You only change your prison dull For one that's splendid, glowing!

His Highness doats on milky cheeks, So do not make us dally"-- We, eighty strong, who send along The dreaded Pirate Galley.

She sought to flee back to her cell, And called us each a devil!

We dare do aught becomes Old Scratch, But like a treatment civil, So, spite of buffet, prayers, and calls-- Too late her friends to rally-- We, eighty strong, bore her along Unto the Pirate Galley.

The fairer for her tears profuse, As dews refresh the flower, She is well worth three purses full, And will adorn the bower-- For vain her vow to pine and die Thus torn from her dear valley: She reigns, and we still row along The dreaded Pirate Galley.

THE TURKISH CAPTIVE.

_("Si je n'etait captive.")_

[IX., July, 1828.]

Oh! were I not a captive, I should love this fair countree; Those fields with maize abounding, This ever-plaintive sea: I'd love those stars unnumbered, If, pa.s.sing in the shade, Beneath our walls I saw not The spahi's sparkling blade.

I am no Tartar maiden That a blackamoor of price Should tune my lute and hold to me My gla.s.s of sherbet-ice.

Far from these haunts of vices, In my dear countree, we With sweethearts in the even May chat and wander free.

But still I love this climate, Where never wintry breeze Invades, with chilly murmur, These open lattices; Where rain is warm in summer, And the insect glossy green, Most like a living emerald, Shines 'mid the leafy screen.

With her chapelles fair Smyrna-- A gay princess is she!

Still, at her summons, round her Unfading spring ye see.

And, as in beauteous vases, Bright groups of flowers repose, So, in her gulfs are lying Her archipelagoes.

I love these tall red turrets; These standards brave unrolled; And, like an infant's playthings, These houses decked with gold.

I love forsooth these reveries, Though sandstorms make me pant, Voluptuously swaying Upon an elephant.

Here in this fairy palace, Full of such melodies, Methinks I hear deep murmurs That in the deserts rise; Soft mingling with the music The Genii's voices pour, Amid the air, unceasing, Around us evermore.

I love the burning odors This glowing region gives; And, round each gilded lattice, The trembling, wreathing leaves; And, 'neath the bending palm-tree, The gayly gushing spring; And on the snow-white minaret, The stork with snowier wing.

I love on mossy couch to sing A Spanish roundelay, And see my sweet companions Around commingling gay,-- A roving band, light-hearted, In frolicsome array,-- Who 'neath the screening parasols Dance down the merry day.

But more than all enchanting At night, it is to me, To sit, where winds are sighing, Lone, musing by the sea; And, on its surface gazing, To mark the moon so fair, Her silver fan outspreading, In trembling radiance there.

W.D., _Tait's Edin. Magazine_

MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS.

_("La lune etait sereine.")_

[X., September, 1828.]

Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave; At the cool cas.e.m.e.nt, to the evening breeze flung wide, Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide, With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.

From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar.

She listens--hark! that sound that echoes dull and low.

Is it the beat upon the Archipelago Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar?

Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one, Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls?

Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone?

Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio?

'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float, 'Tis no dull plume of stone--no oars of Turkish boat, With measured beat along the water creeping slow.

'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves; And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide, Something like human form would stir within its side.

Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.