Poems by Victor Hugo Part 12

[XIX., August, 1828.]

In a swinging hammock lying, Lightly flying, Zara, lovely indolent, O'er a fountain's crystal wave There to lave Her young beauty--see her bent.

As she leans, so sweet and soft, Flitting oft, O'er the mirror to and fro, Seems that airy floating bat, Like a feather From some sea-gull's wing of snow.

Every time the frail boat laden With the maiden Skims the water in its flight, Starting from its trembling sheen, Swift are seen A white foot and neck so white.

As that lithe foot's timid tips Quick she dips, Pa.s.sing, in the rippling pool, (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!) Frolic, she Laughs to feel the pleasant cool.

Here displayed, but half concealed-- Half revealed, Each bright charm shall you behold, In her innocence emerging, As a-verging On the wave her hands grow cold.

For no star howe'er divine Has the s.h.i.+ne Of a maid's pure loveliness, Frightened if a leaf but quivers As she s.h.i.+vers, Veiled with naught but dripping trees.

By the happy breezes fanned See her stand,-- Blus.h.i.+ng like a living rose, On her bosom swelling high If a fly Dare to seek a sweet repose.

In those eyes which maiden pride Fain would hide, Mark how pa.s.sion's lightnings sleep!

And their glance is brighter far Than the star Brightest in heaven's bluest deep.

O'er her limbs the glittering current In soft torrent Rains adown the gentle girl, As if, drop by drop, should fall, One and all From her necklace every pearl.

Lengthening still the reckless pleasure At her leisure, Care-free Zara ever slow As the hammock floats and swings Smiles and sings, To herself, so sweet and low.

"Oh, were I a capitana, Or sultana, Amber should be always mixt In my bath of jewelled stone, Near my throne, Griffins twain of gold betwixt.

"Then my hammock should be silk, White as milk; And, more soft than down of dove, Velvet cus.h.i.+ons where I sit Should emit Perfumes that inspire love.

"Then should I, no danger near, Free from fear, Revel in my garden's stream; Nor amid the shadows deep Dread the peep, Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam.

"He who thus would play the spy, On the die For such sight his head must throw; In his blood the sabre naked Would be slaked, Of my slaves of ebon brow.

"Then my rich robes trailing show As I go, None to chide should be so bold; And upon my sandals fine How should s.h.i.+ne Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!"

Fancying herself a queen, All unseen, Thus vibrating in delight; In her indolent coquetting Quite forgetting How the hours wing their flight.

As she lists the showery tinkling Of the sprinkling By her wanton curvets made; Never pauses she to think Of the brink Where her wrapper white is laid.

To the harvest-fields the while, In long file, Speed her sisters' lively band, Like a flock of birds in flight Streaming light, Dancing onward hand in hand.

And they're singing, every one, As they run This the burden of their lay: "Fie upon such idleness!

Not to dress Earlier on harvest-day!"

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

EXPECTATION.

_("Moune, ecureuil.")_

[xx.]

Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, To its twig that next the sky Bends and trembles as a flower!

Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,-- From thy nest 'neath old church-bell, Mount to yon tall citadel, And its tallest donjon tower!

To your mountain, eagle old, Mount, whose brow so white and cold, Kisses the last ray of even!

And, O thou that lov'st to mark Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark-- Joyous lark, O mount to heaven!

And now say, from topmost bough, Towering shaft, and peak of snow, And heaven's arch--O, can you see One white plume that like a star, Streams along the plain afar, And a steed that from the war Bears my lover back to me?

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

THE LOVER'S WISH.

_("Si j'etais la feuille.")_

[XXII., September, 1828.]

Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West, His course through the forest uncaring; To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast In a pendulous cradle is bearing.

All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste, As the dewdrops upon me were glancing; When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste, And round her the breezes are dancing.

On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver; Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush, And the murmuring fall of the river.

By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane, To catch the sweet breath of the roses; Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain 'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.

Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky, Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring; Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh, And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.

On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way, A charm that would lead to the bower; Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day, At the dawn and the vesper hour.

Then hovering down on her brow would I light, 'Midst her golden tresses entwining; That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright, And the sunbeams upon it s.h.i.+ning.

A single frail gem on her beautiful head, I should sit in the golden glory; And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread Round the brow of kings famous in story.

V., _Eton Observer_.

THE SACKING OF THE CITY.

_("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")_