Poems by Victor Hugo
PoemsMEMOIR OF VICTOR MARIE HUGO.EARLY POEMS.ODES.—1818-28.BALLADES.—1823-28.LES ORIENTALES.—1829.LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE.—1831.LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE.—1849.LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES.—1840.LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES.—1840.LES CHÂTIMENTS.—1853.LES CONTEMPLATIONS.—1830-56.DRAMATIC PIECES.ZARA, THE BATHERTO A SICK CHILD DURING THE SIEGE OF PARIS.TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN.Copyright
Poems
Victor Hugo
MEMOIR OF VICTOR MARIE HUGO.
Towards the close of the First French Revolution, Joseph
Leopold Sigisbert Hugo, son of a joiner at Nancy, and an officer
risen from the ranks in the Republican army, married Sophie
Trébuchet, daughter of a Nantes fitter-out of privateers, a Vendean
royalist and devotee.Victor Marie Hugo, their second son, was born on the 26th of
February, 1802, at Besançon, France. Though a weakling, he was
carried, with his boy-brothers, in the train of their father
through the south of France, in pursuit of Fra Diavolo, the Italian
brigand, and finally into Spain.Colonel Hugo had become General, and there, besides being
governor over three provinces, was Lord High Steward at King
Joseph's court, where his eldest son Abel was installed as page.
The other two were educated for similar posts among hostile young
Spaniards under stern priestly tutors in the Nobles' College at
Madrid, a palace become a monastery. Upon the English advance to
free Spain of the invaders, the general and Abel remained at bay,
whilst the mother and children hastened to Paris.Again, in a house once a convent, Victor and his brother
Eugène were taught by priests until, by the accident of their roof
sheltering a comrade of their father's, a change of tutor was
afforded them. This was General Lahorie, a man of superior
education, main supporter of Malet in his daring plot to take the
government into the Republicans' hands during the absence of
Napoleon I. in Russia. Lahorie read old French and Latin with
Victor till the police scented him out and led him to execution,
October, 1812.School claimed the young Hugos after this tragical episode,
where they were oddities among the humdrum tradesmen's sons.
Victor, thoughtful and taciturn, rhymed profusely in tragedies,
"printing" in his books, "Châteaubriand or nothing!" and engaging
his more animated brother to flourish the Cid's sword and roar the
tyrant's speeches.In 1814, both suffered a sympathetic anxiety as their father
held out at Thionville against the Allies, finally repulsing them
by a sortie. This was pure loyalty to the fallen Bonaparte, for
Hugo had lost his all in Spain, his very savings having been sunk
in real estate, through King Joseph's insistence on his adherents
investing to prove they had "come to stay."The Bourbons enthroned anew, General Hugo received, less for
his neutrality than thanks to his wife's piety and loyalty,
confirmation of his title and rank, and, moreover, a
fieldmarshalship. Abel was accepted as a page, too, but there was
no money awarded the ex-Bonapartist—money being what the Eaglet at
Reichstadt most required for an attempt at his father's throne—and
the poor officer was left in seclusion to write consolingly about
his campaigns and "Defences of Fortified Towns."Decidedly the pen had superseded the sword, for Victor and
Eugène were scribbling away in ephemeral political sheets as
apprenticeship to founding a periodical of their own.Victor's poetry became remarkable inLa Muse
FrançaiseandLe Conservateur
Littéraire, the odes being permeated with
Legitimist and anti-revolutionary sentiments delightful to the
taste of Madam Hugo, member as she was of the courtly Order of the
Royal Lily.In 1817, the French Academy honorably mentioned Victor's
"Odes on the Advantages of Study," with a misgiving that some elder
hand was masked under the line ascribing "scant fifteen years" to
the author. At the Toulouse Floral Games he won prizes two years
successively. His critical judgment was sound as well, for he had
divined the powers of Lamartine.His "Odes," collected in a volume, gave his ever-active
mother her opportunity at Court. Louis XVIII. granted the boy-poet
a pension of 1,500 francs.It was the windfall for which the youth had been waiting to
enable him to gratify his first love. In his childhood, his father
and one M. Foucher, head of a War Office Department, had jokingly
betrothed a son of the one to a daughter of the other. Abel had
loftier views than alliance with a civil servant's child; Eugène
was in love elsewhere; but Victor had fallen enamored with Adèle
Foucher. It is true, when poverty beclouded the Hugos, the Fouchers
had shrunk into their mantle of dignity, and the girl had been
strictly forbidden to correspond with her
child-sweetheart.He, finding letters barred out, wrote a love story ("Hans of
Iceland") in two weeks, where were recited his hopes, fears, and
constancy, and this book she could read.It pleased the public no less, and its sale, together with
that of the "Odes" and a West Indian romance, "Buck Jargal,"
together with a royal pension, emboldened the poet to renew his
love-suit. To refuse the recipient of court funds was not possible
to a public functionary. M. Foucher consented to the betrothal in
the summer of 1821.So encloistered had Mdlle. Adèle been, her reading "Hans" the
exceptional intrusion, that she only learnt on meeting her
affianced that he was mourning his mother. In October, 1822, they
were wed, the bride nineteen, the bridegroom but one year the
elder. The dinner was marred by the sinister disaster of Eugène
Hugo going mad. (He died in an asylum five years later.) The author
terminated his wedding year with the "Ode to Louis XVIII.," read to
a society after the President of the Academy had introduced him as
"the most promising of our young lyrists."In spite of new poems revealing a Napoleonic bias, Victor was
invited to see Charles X. consecrated at Rheims, 29th of May, 1825,
and was entered on the roll of the Legion of Honor repaying the
favors with the verses expected. But though a son was born to him
he was not restored to Conservatism; with his mother's death all
that had vanished. His tragedy of "Cromwell" broke lances upon
Royalists and upholders of the still reigning style of tragedy. The
second collection of "Odes" preluding it, showed the spirit of the
son of Napoleon's general, rather than of the Bourbonist
field-marshal. On the occasion, too, of the Duke of Tarento being
announced at the Austrian Ambassador's ball, February, 1827, as
plain "Marshal Macdonald," Victor became the mouthpiece of
indignant Bonapartists in his "Ode to the Napoleon Column" in the
Place Vendôme.His "Orientales," though written in a Parisian suburb by one
who had not travelled, appealed for Grecian liberty, and depicted
sultans and pashas as tyrants, many a line being deemed applicable
to personages nearer the Seine than Stamboul."Cromwell" was not actable, and "Amy Robsart," in
collaboration with his brother-in-law, Foucher, miserably failed,
notwithstanding a finale "superior to Scott's 'Kenilworth.'" In one
twelvemonth, there was this failure to record, the death of his
father from apoplexy at his eldest son's marriage, and the birth of
a second son to Victor towards the close.Still imprudent, the young father again irritated the court
with satire in "Marion Delorme" and "Hernani," two plays
immediately suppressed by the Censure, all the more active as the
Revolution of July, 1830, was surely seething up to the edge of the
crater.(At this juncture, the poet Châteaubriand, fading star to our
rising sun, yielded up to him formally "his place at the poets'
table.")In the summer of 1831, a civil ceremony was performed over
the insurgents killed in the previous year, and Hugo was
constituted poet-laureate of the Revolution by having his hymn sung
in the Pantheon over the biers.Under Louis Philippe, "Marion Delorme" could be played, but
livelier attention was turned to "Nôtre Dame de Paris," the
historical romance in which Hugo vied with Sir Walter. It was to
have been followed by others, but the publisher unfortunately
secured a contract to monopolize all the new novelist's prose
fictions for a term of years, and the author revenged himself by
publishing poems and plays alone. Hence "Nôtre Dame" long stood
unique: it was translated in all languages, and plays and operas
were founded on it. Heine professed to see in the prominence of the
hunchback a personal appeal of the author, who was slightly
deformed by one shoulder being a trifle higher than the other; this
malicious suggestion reposed also on the fact that thequasi-hero of "Le Roi s'Amuse" (1832,
a tragedy suppressed after one representation, for its reflections
on royalty), was also a contorted piece of humanity. This play was
followed by "Lucrezia Borgia," "Marie Tudor," and "Angelo," written
in a singular poetic prose. Spite of bald translations, their
action was sufficiently dramatic to make them successes, and even
still enduring on our stage. They have all been arranged as operas,
whilst Hugo himself, to oblige the father of Louise Bertin, a
magazine publisher of note, wrote "Esmeralda" for her music in
1835.Thus, at 1837, when he was promoted to an officership in the
Legion of Honor, it was acknowledged his due as a laborious worker
in all fields of literature, however contestable the merits and
tendencies of his essays.In 1839, the Academy, having rejected him several times,
elected him among the Forty Immortals. In the previous year had
been successfully acted "Ruy Blas," for which play he had gone to
Spanish sources; with and after the then imperative Rhine tour,
came an unendurable "trilogy," the "Burgraves," played one long,
long night in 1843. A real tragedy was to mark that year: his
daughter Léopoldine being drowned in the Seine with her husband,
who would not save himself when he found that her death-grasp on
the sinking boat was not to be loosed.For distraction, Hugo plunged into politics. A peer in 1845,
he sat between Marshal Soult and Pontécoulant, the regicide-judge
of Louis XVI. His maiden speech bore upon artistic copyright; but
he rapidly became a power in much graver matters.As fate would have it, his speech on the Bonapartes induced
King Louis Philippe to allow Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte to
return, and, there being no gratitude in politics, the emancipated
outlaw rose as a rival candidate for the Presidency, for which Hugo
had nominated himself in his newspaper theEvènement. The story of theCoup d'Étatis well known; for the
Republican's side, read Hugo's own "History of a Crime." Hugo,
proscribed, betook himself to Brussels, London, and the Channel
Islands, waiting to "return with right when the usurper should be
expelled."Meanwhile, he satirized the Third Napoleon and his congeners
with ceaseless shafts, the principal being the famous "Napoleon the
Little," based on the analogical reasoning that as the earth has
moons, the lion the jackal, man himself his simian double, a minor
Napoleon was inevitable as a standard of estimation, the grain by
which a pyramid is measured. These flings were collected in "Les
Châtiments," a volume preceded by "Les Contemplations" (mostly
written in the '40's), and followed by "Les Chansons des Rues et
des Bois."The baffled publisher's close-time having expired, or, at
least, his heirs being satisfied, three novels appeared, long
heralded: in 1862, "Les Misérables" (Ye Wretched), wherein the
author figures as Marius and his father as the Bonapartist officer:
in 1866, "Les Travailleurs de la Mer" (Toilers of the Sea), its
scene among the Channel Islands; and, in 1868, "L'Homme Qui Rit"
(The Man who Grins), unfortunately laid in a fanciful England
evolved from recondite reading through foreign spectacles. Whilst
writing the final chapters, Hugo's wife died; and, as he had
refused the Amnesty, he could only escort her remains to the
Belgian frontier, August, 1868. All this while, in his Paris daily
newspaper,Le Rappei(adorned
with cuts of a Revolutionary drummer beating "to arms!"), he and
his sons and son-in-law's family were reiterating blows at the
throne. When it came down in 1870, and the Republic was proclaimed,
Hugo hastened to Paris.His poems, written during the War and Siege, collected under
the title of "L'Année Terrible" (The Terrible Year, 1870-71),
betray the long-tried exile, "almost alone in his gloom," after the
death of his son Charles and his child. Fleeing to Brussels after
the Commune, he nevertheless was so aggressive in sheltering and
aiding its fugitives, that he was banished the kingdom, lest there
should be a renewal of an assault on his house by the mob, supposed
by his adherents to be, not "the honest Belgians," but the refugee
Bonapartists and Royalists, who had not cared to fight for France
in France endangered. Resting in Luxemburg, he prepared "L'Année
Terrible" for the press, and thence returned to Paris, vainly to
plead with President Thiers for the captured Communists' lives, and
vainly, too, proposing himself for election to the new
House.In 1872, his novel of "'93" pleased the general public here,
mainly by the adventures of three charming little children during
the prevalence of an internecine war. These phases of a bounteously
paternal mood reappeared in "L'Art d'être Grandpère," published in
1877, when he had become a life-senator."Hernani" was in the regular "stock" of the Théâtre Français,
"Rigoletto" (Le Roi s'Amuse) always at the Italian opera-house,
while the same subject, under the title of "The Fool's Revenge,"
held, as it still holds, a high position on the Anglo-American
stage. Finally, the poetic romance of "Torquemada," for over thirty
years promised, came forth in 1882, to prove that the wizard-wand
had not lost its cunning.After dolor, fêtes were come: on one birthday they crown his
bust in the chief theatre; on another, all notable Paris parades
under his window, where he sits with his grandchildren at his knee,
in the shadow of the Triumphal Arch of Napoleon's Star. It is given
to few men thus to see their own apotheosis.Whilst he was dying, in May, 1885, Paris was but the first
mourner for all France; and the magnificent funeral pageant which
conducted the pauper's coffin, antithetically enshrining the
remains considered worthy of the highest possible reverence and
honors, from the Champs Elysées to the Pantheon, was the more
memorable from all that was foremost in French art and letters
having marched in the train, and laid a leaf or flower in the tomb
of the protégé of Châteaubriand, the brother-in-arms of Dumas, the
inspirer of Mars, Dorval, Le-maître, Rachel, and Bernhardt, and,
above all, the Nemesis of the Third Empire.
EARLY POEMS.
MOSES ON THE NILE.("Mes soeurs,
l'onde est plus fraiche.") {TO THE FLORAL GAMES, Toulouse, Feb.
10, 1820.}"Sisters! the wave is freshest in
the ray Of the young morning;
the reapers are asleep; The river bank is lonely: come
away! The early murmurs of old
Memphis creep Faint on my ear; and here unseen we
stray,— Deep in the covert of
the grove withdrawn, Save by the dewy
eye-glance of the dawn. "Within my father's palace, fair to
see, Shine all the Arts, but
oh! this river side, Pranked with gay flowers, is dearer
far to me Than gold and porphyry
vases bright and wide; How glad in heaven the song-bird
carols free! Sweeter these zephyrs
float than all the showers Of costly odors in our
royal bowers. "The sky is pure, the sparkling
stream is clear: Unloose your zones, my
maidens! and fling down To float awhile upon these bushes
near Your blue transparent
robes: take off my crown, And take away my jealous veil; for
here To-day we shall be
joyous while we lave Our limbs amid the
murmur of the wave. "Hasten; but through the fleecy
mists of morn, What do I see? Look ye
along the stream! Nay, timid maidens—we must not
return! Coursing along the
current, it would seem An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea
borne, That from the distant
wilderness proceeds, Downwards, to view our
wondrous Pyramids. "But stay! if I may surely trust
mine eye,— It is the bark of
Hermes, or the shell Of Iris, wafted gently to the
sighs Of the light breeze
along the rippling swell; But no: it is a skiff where sweetly
lies An infant slumbering,
and his peaceful rest Looks as if pillowed on
his mother's breast. "He sleeps—oh, see! his little
floating bed Swims on the mighty
river's fickle flow, A white dove's nest; and there at
hazard led By the faint winds, and
wandering to and fro, The cot comes down; beneath his
quiet head The gulfs are moving,
and each threatening wave Appears to rock the
child upon a grave. "He wakes—ah, maids of Memphis!
haste, oh, haste! He cries! alas!—What
mother could confide Her offspring to the wild and watery
waste? He stretches out his
arms, the rippling tide Murmurs around him, where all rudely
placed, He rests but with a few
frail reeds beneath, Between such helpless
innocence and death. "Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of
those Dark sons of Israel whom
my sire proscribes; Ah! cruel was the mandate that
arose Against most guiltless
of the stranger tribes! Poor child! my heart is yearning for
his woes, I would I were his
mother; but I'll give If not his birth, at
least the claim to live." Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and
pride Of a great monarch;
while her damsels nigh, Wandered along the Nile's meandering
side; And these diminished
beauties, standing by The trembling mother; watching with
eyes wide Their graceful mistress,
admired her as stood, More lovely than the
genius of the flood! The waters broken by her delicate
feet Receive the eager wader,
as alone By gentlest pity led, she strives to
meet The wakened babe; and,
see, the prize is won! She holds the weeping burden with a
sweet And virgin glow of pride
upon her brow, That knew no flush save
modesty's till now. Opening with cautious hands the
reedy couch, She brought the rescued
infant slowly out Beyond the humid sands; at her
approach Her curious maidens
hurried round about To kiss the new-born brow with
gentlest touch; Greeting the child with
smiles, and bending nigh Their faces o'er his
large, astonished eye! Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt
and fear, Dost watch, with
straining eyes, the fated boy— The loved of heaven! come like a
stranger near, And clasp young Moses
with maternal joy; Nor fear the speechless transport
and the tear Will e'er betray thy
fond and hidden claim, For Iphis knows not yet
a mother's name! With a glad heart, and a triumphal
face, The princess to the
haughty Pharaoh led The humble infant of a hated
race, Bathed with the bitter
tears a parent shed; While loudly pealing round the holy
place Of Heaven's white
Throne, the voice of angel choirs Intoned the theme of
their undying lyres! "No longer mourn thy pilgrimage
below— O Jacob! let thy tears
no longer swell The torrent of the Egyptian river:
Lo! Soon on the Jordan's
banks thy tents shall dwell; And Goshen shall behold thy people
go Despite the power of
Egypt's law and brand, From their sad thrall to
Canaan's promised land. "The King of Plagues, the Chosen of
Sinai, Is he that, o'er the
rushing waters driven, A vigorous hand hath rescued for the
sky; Ye whose proud hearts
disown the ways of heaven! Attend, be humble! for its power is
nigh Israel! a cradle shall
redeem thy worth— A Cradle yet shall save
the widespread earth!"Dublin University
Magazine, 1839ENVY AND AVARICE.("L'Avarice et
l'Envie.") {LE CONSERVATEUR LITÉRAIRE,
1820.}Envy and Avarice, one summer
day, Sauntering
abroad In quest of
the abode Of some poor wretch or fool who
lived that way— You—or myself, perhaps—I cannot
say— Along the road, scarce heeding where
it tended, Their way in sullen, sulky silence
wended; For, though twin sisters, these two
charming creatures, Rivals in hideousness of form and
features, Wasted no love between them as they
went. Pale
Avarice, With
gloating eyes, And back and shoulders almost double
bent, Was hugging close that fatal
box For which
she's ever on the watch Some glance
to catch Suspiciously directed to its
locks; And Envy, too, no doubt with silent
winking At her
green, greedy orbs, no single minute Withdrawn from it, was hard
a-thinking Of all the
shining dollars in it. The only words that Avarice could
utter, Her constant doom, in a low,
frightened mutter, "There's not
enough, enough, yet in my store!" While Envy, as she scanned the
glittering sight, Groaned as she gnashed her yellow
teeth with spite, "She's more
than me, more, still forever more!" Thus, each in her own fashion, as
they wandered, Upon the coffer's precious contents
pondered, When
suddenly, to their surprise, The God
Desire stood before their eyes. Desire, that courteous deity who
grants All wishes, prayers, and
wants; Said he to the two sisters:
"Beauteous ladies, As I'm a gentleman, my task and
trade is To be the
slave of your behest— Choose therefore at your own sweet
will and pleasure, Honors or treasure! Or in one
word, whatever you'd like best. But, let us understand each
other—she Who speaks the first, her prayer
shall certainly Receive—the
other, the same boonredoubled!" Imagine how our amiable
pair, At this proposal, all so frank and
fair,
ODES.—1818-28.
KING LOUIS XVII.("En ce temps-là du ciel les
portes.") {Bk. I. v., December,
1822.}The golden gates were opened wide
that day, All through the unveiled heaven
there seemed to play Out of the Holiest of
Holy, light; And the elect beheld, crowd
immortal, A young soul, led up by
young angels bright, Stand in the starry
portal. A fair child fleeing from the
world's fierce hate, In his blue eye the shade of sorrow
sate, His golden hair hung all
dishevelled down, On wasted cheeks that told a
mournful story, And angels twined him
with the innocent's crown, The martyr's palm of
glory. The virgin souls that to the Lamb
are near, Called through the clouds with
voices heavenly clear, God hath prepared a
glory for thy brow, Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts
that sing His praises ever on untired
string, Chant, for a mortal
comes among ye now; Do homage—"'Tis a
king." And the pale shadow saith to God in
heaven: "I am an orphan and no
king at all; I was a weary prisoner
yestereven, My father's murderers
fed my soul with gall. Not me, O Lord, the regal name
beseems. Last night I fell asleep
in dungeon drear, But then I saw my mother in my
dreams, Say, shall I find her
here?" The angels said: "Thy Saviour bids
thee come, Out of an impure world He calls thee
home, From the mad earth,
where horrid murder waves Over the
broken cross her impure wings, And regicides go down
among the graves, Scenting the
blood of kings." He cries: "Then have I finished my
long life? Are all its evils over, all its
strife, And will no cruel jailer
evermore Wake me to pain, this blissful
vision o'er? Is it no dream that nothing else
remains Of all my torments but
this answered cry, And have I had, O God, amid my
chains, The happiness to
die? "For none can tell what cause I had
to pine, What pangs, what miseries, each day
were mine; And when I wept there was no mother
near To soothe my cries, and smile away
my tear. Poor victim of a punishment
unending, Torn like a sapling from
its mother earth, So young, I could not tell what
crime impending Had stained me from my
birth. "Yet far off in dim memory it
seems, With all its horror mingled happy
dreams, Strange cries of glory rocked my
sleeping head, And a glad people watched beside my
bed. One day into mysterious darkness
thrown, I saw the promise of my
future close; I was a little child, left all
alone, Alas! and I had
foes. "They cast me living in a dreary
tomb, Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce
the gloom, Only ye, brother angels, used to
sweep Down from your heaven, and visit me
in sleep. 'Neath blood-red hands my young life
withered there. Dear Lord, the bad are
miserable all, Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my
prayer, It is for them I
call." The angels sang: "See heaven's high
arch unfold, Come, we will crown thee
with the stars above, Will give thee cherub-wings of blue
and gold, And thou shalt learn our
ministry of love, Shalt rock the cradle where some
mother's tears Are dropping o'er her
restless little one, Or, with thy luminous breath, in
distant spheres, Shalt kindle some cold
sun." Ceased the full choir, all heaven
was hushed to hear, Bowed the fair face, still wet with
many a tear, In depths of space, the rolling
worlds were stayed, Whilst the Eternal in the infinite
said: "O king, I kept thee far from human
state, Who hadst a dungeon only
for thy throne, O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter
fate, The slavery of kings
thou hast not known, What if thy wasted arms are bleeding
yet, And wounded with the
fetter's cruel trace, No earthly diadem has ever
set A stain upon thy
face. "Child, life and hope were with thee
at thy birth, But life soon bowed thy tender form
to earth, And hope forsook thee in
thy hour of need. Come, for thy Saviour had His pains
divine; Come, for His brow was crowned with
thorns like thine, His sceptre was a
reed."Dublin University
Magazine.THE FEAST OF FREEDOM.("Lorsqu'à l'antique Olympe
immolant l'evangile.") {Bk. II. v., 1823.} {There was in Rome one antique usage
as follows: On the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were
given a public banquet—at the prison gate—known as the "Free
Festival."—CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."}TO YE KINGS.When the Christians were doomed to
the lions of old By the priest and the praetor,
combined to uphold
An idolatrous cause, Forth they came while the vast
Colosseum throughout Gathered thousands looked on, and
they fell 'mid the shout
Of "the People's" applause. On the eve of that day of their
evenings the last! At the gates of their dungeon a
gorgeous repast,
Rich, unstinted, unpriced, That the doomed might (forsooth)
gather strength ere they bled, With an ignorant pity the jailers
would spread
For the martyrs of Christ. Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of
Paul to recline On voluptuous couch, while Falernian
wine
Fill'd his cup to the brim! Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic
repose, Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian
rose,
All united for him! Every luxury known through the
earth's wide expanse, In profusion procured was put forth
to enhance
The repast that they gave; And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap
of delight, Such a banquet ere tasted as
welcomed that night
The elect of the grave. And the lion, meantime, shook his
ponderous chain, Loud and fierce howled the tiger,
impatient to stain
The bloodthirsty arena; Whilst the women of Rome, who
applauded those deeds And who hailed the forthcoming
enjoyment, must needs
Shame the restless hyena. They who figured as guests on that
ultimate eve, In their turn on the morrow were
destined to give
To the lions their food; For, behold, in the guise of a slave
at that board, Where his victims enjoyed all that
life can afford,
Death administering stood. Such, O monarchs of earth! was your
banquet of power, But the tocsin has burst on your
festival hour—
'Tis your knell that it rings! To the popular tiger a prey is
decreed, And the maw of Republican hunger
will feed
Ona banquet of Kings! "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK
MAHONY)GENIUS.(DEDICATED TO
CHATEAUBRIAND.) {Bk. IV. vi., July,
1822.}Woe unto
him! the child of this sad earth,
Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind, Bears
Genius—treasure of celestial birth,
Within his solitary soul enshrined. Woe unto
him! for Envy's pangs impure,
Like the undying vultures', will be driven Into his
noble heart, that must endure Pangs for each triumph; and, still
unforgiven, Suffer Prometheus' doom, who
ravished fire from Heaven. Still though
his destiny on earth may be
Grief and injustice; who would not endure With joyful
calm, each proffered agony;
Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure? What mortal
feeling kindled in his soul
That clear celestial flame, so pure and high, O'er which
nor time nor death can have control,
Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly
From sufferings whose reward is Immortality? No! though
the clamors of the envious crowd
Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise From the
dull clod, borne by an effort proud
Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities. 'Tis thus
the eagle, with his pinions spread,
Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height Sees the
clouds reel and roll above our head, While he, rejoicing in his tranquil
flight, More upward soars sublime in
heaven's eternal light. MRS. TORRE HULMETHE GIRL OF OTAHEITE.("O! dis-moi, tu veux
fuir?") {Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31,
1821.}Forget? Can I forget the scented
breath Of breezes, sighing of
thee, in mine ear; The strange awaking from a dream of
death, The sudden thrill to
find thee coming near? Our huts were desolate,
and far away I heard thee calling me
throughout the day, No one had
seen thee pass, Trembling I
came. Alas!
Can I forget? Once I was beautiful; my maiden
charms Died with the grief that
from my bosom fell. Ah! weary traveller! rest in my
loving arms! Let there be no regrets
and no farewell! Here of thy
mother sweet, where waters flow, Here of thy
fatherland we whispered low;
Here, music, praise, and prayer
Filled the glad summer air.
Can I forget? Forget? My dear old home must I
forget? And wander forth and
hear my people weep, Far from the woods where, when the
sun has set, Fearless but weary to
thy arms I creep; Far from
lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan I could not
live. Here let me rest alone!
Go! I must follow nigh,
With thee I'm doomed to die,
Never forget! CLEMENT SCOTTNERO'S INCENDIARY SONG.("Amis! ennui nous
tue.") {Bk. IV. xv., March,
1825.}Aweary unto death, my friends, a
mood by wise abhorred, Come to the novel feast I spread,
thrice-consul, Nero, lord, The Caesar, master of the world, and
eke of harmony, Who plays the harp of many strings,
a chief of minstrelsy. My joyful call should instantly
bring all who love me most,— For ne'er were seen such arch
delights from Greek or Roman host; Nor at the free, control-less
jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, Austere but lenient Seneca no
"Ercles" bumper daunts; Nor where upon the Tiber floats
Aglae in galley gay, 'Neath Asian tent of brilliant
stripes, in gorgeous array; Nor when to lutes and tambourines
the wealthy prefect flings A score of slaves, their fetters
wreathed, to feed grim, greedy things. I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the
whole town in a mass; Upon this tower we'll take our stand
to watch the 'wildered pass; How paltry fights of men and beasts!
here be my combatants,— The Seven Hills my circus form, and
fiends shall lead the dance. This is more meet for him who rules
to drive away his stress— He, being god, should lightnings
hurl and make a wilderness— But, haste! for night is
darkling—soon, the festival it brings; Already see the hydra show its
tongues and sombre wings, And mark upon a shrinking prey the
rush of kindling breaths; They tap and sap the threatened
walls, and bear uncounted deaths; And 'neath caresses scorching hot
the palaces decay— Oh, that I, too, could thus caress,
and burn, and blight, and slay! Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes!
Are those real men or ghosts? The stillness spreads of Death
abroad—down come the temple posts, Their molten bronze is coursing fast
and joins with silver waves To leap with hiss of thousand snakes
where Tiber writhes and raves. All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold,
the statues totter—crash! Spite of the names divine engraved,
they are but dust and ash. The victor-scourge sweeps swollen
on, whilst north winds sound the horn To goad the flies of fire yet beyond
the flight forlorn. Proud capital! farewell for e'er!
these flames nought can subdue— The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a
bridge o'er hellish brew. 'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see
Rome brought the lowest down; Yet, Queen of all the earth, give
thanks for such a splendrous crown! When I was young, the Sybils pledged
eternal rule to thee; That Time himself would lay his
bones before thy unbent knee. Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space
ere this "immortal star" Shall be consumed in its own glow,
and vanished—oh, how far! How lovely conflagrations look when
night is utter dark! The youth who fired Ephesus' fane
falls low beneath my mark. The pangs of people—when I sport,
what matters?—See them whirl About, as salamanders frisk and in
the brazier curl. Take from my brow this poor
rose-crown—the flames have made it pine; If blood rains on your festive
gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! I like not overmuch that red—good
taste says "gild a crime?" "To stifle shrieks by
drinking-songs" is—thanks! a hint sublime! I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she
not offer prayers Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?—to
e'en a Jew, she dares! Now, in thy terror, own my right to
rule above them all; Alone I rest—except this pile, I
leave no single hall. Yet I destroy to build anew, and
Rome shall fairer shine— But out, my guards, and slay the
dolts who thought me not divine. The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate!
make ruin all complete— And, slaves, bring in fresh
roses—what odor is more sweet? H.L. WILLIAMSREGRET.("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a
passé.") {Bk. V. ii., February,
1821.}Yes, Happiness hath left me soon
behind! Alas! we all pursue its
steps! and when We've sunk to rest within its arms
entwined, Like the Phoenician virgin, wake,
and find Ourselves alone
again. Then, through the distant future's
boundless space, We seek the lost
companion of our days: "Return, return!" we cry, and lo,
apace Pleasure appears! but not to fill
the place Of that we mourn
always. I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me
now, Will to the wanton
sorc'ress say, "Begone! Respect the cypress on my mournful
brow, Lost Happiness hath left
regret—butthou Leavest remorse,
alone." Yet, haply lest I check the mounting
fire, O friends, that in your
revelry appears! With you I'll breathe the air which
ye respire, And, smiling, hide my melancholy
lyre When it is wet with
tears. Each in his secret heart perchance
doth own Some fond regret 'neath
passing smiles concealed;— Sufferers alike together and
alone Are we; with many a grief to others
known, How many
unrevealed! Alas! for natural tears and simple
pains, For tender
recollections, cherished long, For guileless griefs, which no
compunction stains, We blush; as if we wore these
earthly chains Only for sport and
song! Yes, my blest hours have fled
without a trace: In vain I strove their
parting to delay; Brightly they beamed, then left a
cheerless space, Like an o'erclouded smile, that in
the face Lightens, and fades
away.Fraser's
MagazineTHE MORNING OF LIFE.("Le voile du
matin.") {Bk. V. viii., April,
1822.}The mist of the morning is torn by
the peaks, Old towers gleam white
in the ray, And already the glory so joyously
seeks The lark that's saluting
the day. Then smile away, man, at the heavens
so fair, Though, were you swept
hence in the night, From your dark, lonely tomb the
owlets would stare At the sun rising newly
as bright. But out of earth's trammels your
soul would have flown Where glitters
Eternity's stream, And you shall have waked 'midst pure
glories unknown, As sunshine disperses a
dream.BELOVED NAME.("Le parfum d'un
lis.") {Bk. V. xiii.}The lily's perfume pure, fame's
crown of light, The latest murmur of
departing day, Fond friendship's plaint, that melts
at piteous sight, The mystic farewell of each hour at
flight, The kiss which beauty
grants with coy delay,— The sevenfold scarf that parting
storms bestow As trophy to the proud,
triumphant sun; The thrilling accent of a voice we
know, The love-enthralled maiden's secret
vow, An infant's dream, ere
life's first sands be run,— The chant of distant choirs, the
morning's sigh, Which erst inspired the
fabled Memnon's frame,— The melodies that, hummed, so
trembling die,— The sweetest gems that 'mid
thought's treasures lie, Have naught of sweetness
that can match HER NAME! Low be its utterance, like a prayer
divine, Yet in each warbled song
be heard the sound; Be it the light in darksome fanes to
shine,
BALLADES.—1823-28.
THE GRANDMOTHER("Dors-tu? mère de notre
mère.") {III., 1823.} "To die—to
sleep."—SHAKESPEARE.Still asleep! We have been since the
noon thus alone. Oh, the
hours we have ceased to number! Wake, grandmother!—speechless say
why thou art grown. Then, thy lips are so cold!—the
Madonna of stone Is like thee
in thy holy slumber. We have watched thee in sleep, we
have watched thee at prayer, But what can
now betide thee? Like thy hours of repose all thy
orisons were, And thy lips would still murmur a
blessing whene'er Thy children
stood beside thee. Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy
forehead is bent O'er the
hearth, where ashes smoulder; And behold, the watch-lamp will be
speedily spent.