Poems by Victor Hugo - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Blind, as was Homer; as Belisarius, blind, But one weak child to guide his vision dim.
The hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind-- He'll never see; G.o.d sees it, though, for him.
H.L.C., "_London Society._"
THE QUIET RURAL CHURCH.
It was a humble church, with arches low, The church we entered there, Where many a weary soul since long ago Had past with plaint or prayer.
Mournful and still it was at day's decline, The day we entered there; As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine, The fires extinguished were.
Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound, Scarcely some low breathed word, As in a forest fallen asleep, is found Just one belated bird.
A STORM SIMILE.
_("Oh, regardez le ciel!")_
[June, 1828.]
See, where on high the moving ma.s.ses, piled By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild, Present strange shapes to view; Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds, As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds Sudden his falchion drew.
DRAMATIC PIECES.
THE FATHER'S CURSE.
_("Vous, sire, ecoutez-moi.")_
[LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act I.]
M. ST. VALLIER (_an aged n.o.bleman, from whom King Francis I.
decoyed his daughter, the famous beauty, Diana of Poitiers_).
A king should listen when his subjects speak: 'Tis true your mandate led me to the block, Where pardon came upon me, like a dream; I blessed you then, unconscious as I was That a king's mercy, sharper far than death, To save a father doomed his child to shame; Yes, without pity for the n.o.ble race Of Poitiers, spotless for a thousand years, You, Francis of Valois, without one spark Of love or pity, honor or remorse, Did on that night (thy couch her virtue's tomb), With cold embraces, foully bring to scorn My helpless daughter, Dian of Poitiers.
To save her father's life a knight she sought, Like Bayard, fearless and without reproach.
She found a heartless king, who sold the boon, Making cold bargain for his child's dishonor.
Oh! monstrous traffic! foully hast thou done!
My blood was thine, and justly, tho' it springs Amongst the best and n.o.blest names of France; But to pretend to spare these poor gray locks, And yet to trample on a weeping woman, Was basely done; the father was thine own, But not the daughter!--thou hast overpa.s.sed The right of monarchs!--yet 'tis mercy deemed.
And I perchance am called ungrateful still.
Oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls, I would have sued upon my knees for death, But mercy for my child, my name, my race, Which, once polluted, is my race no more.
Rather than insult, death to them and me.
I come not now to ask her back from thee; Nay, let her love thee with insensate love; I take back naught that bears the brand of shame.
Keep her! Yet, still, amidst thy festivals, Until some father's, brother's, husband's hand ('Twill come to pa.s.s!) shall rid us of thy yoke, My pallid face shall ever haunt thee there, To tell thee, Francis, it was foully done!...
TRIBOULET _(the Court Jester), sneering._ The poor man raves.
ST. VILLIER. Accursed be ye both!
Oh Sire! 'tis wrong upon the dying lion To loose thy dog! _(Turns to Triboulet)_ And thou, whoe'er thou art, That with a fiendish sneer and viper's tongue Makest my tears a pastime and a sport, My curse upon thee!--Sire, thy brow doth bear The gems of France!--on mine, old age doth sit; Thine decked with jewels, mine with these gray hairs; We both are Kings, yet bear a different crown; And should some impious hand upon thy head Heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm Thou canst avenge them! _G.o.d avenges mine!_
FREDK. L. SLOUS.
PATERNAL LOVE.
_("Ma fille! o seul bonheur.")_
[LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act II]
My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me!
Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends, A wife, a husband, va.s.sals, followers, Ancestors, and allies, or many children.
I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich; Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches.
And some believe in angels; I believe In nothing but thy soul. Others have youth, And woman's love, and pride, and grace, and health; Others are beautiful; thou art my beauty, Thou art my home, my country and my kin, My wife, my mother, sister, friend--my child!
My bliss, my wealth, my wors.h.i.+p, and my law, My Universe! Oh, by all other things My soul is tortured. If I should ever lose thee-- Horrible thought! I cannot utter it.
Smile, for thy smile is like thy mother's smiling.
She, too, was fair; you have a trick like her, Of pa.s.sing oft your hand athwart your brow As though to clear it. Innocence still loves A brow unclouded and an azure eye.
To me thou seem'st clothed in a holy halo, My soul beholds thy soul through thy fair body; E'en when my eyes are shut, I see thee still; Thou art my daylight, and sometimes I wish That Heaven had made me blind that thou might'st be The sun that lighted up the world for me.
f.a.n.n.y KEMBLE-BUTLER.
THE DEGENERATE GALLANTS.
_("Mes jeunes cavaliers.")_
