Poems by Victor Hugo Part 21

Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd To sorrow's sob, although its call be loud.

Better than waste long nights in idle show, To help the indigent and raise the low-- To train the wicked to forsake his way, And find th' industrious work from day to day!

Better to charity those hours afford, Which now are wasted at the festal board!

And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soul Virtue resides, and Vice has no control; Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin, So fair without--so chaste, so pure within-- Whose honor Want ne'er threatened to betray, Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay; Around whose modesty a hundred arms, Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms; For you this ball is pregnant with delight; As glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night:-- But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad, How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad!

Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere, And like your own to you all lots appear; For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes Can see no dark horizon to the skies.

Such is the chance of life! Each gallant thane, Prince, peer, and n.o.ble, follow in your train;-- They praise your loveliness, and in your ear They whisper pleasing things, but insincere; Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light, Ye seek these realms of revelry each night.

But as ye travel thither, did ye know What wretches walk the streets through which you go.

Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare Of your great l.u.s.tre, all expectant there, Watching the pa.s.sing crowd with avid eye, Till one their love, or l.u.s.t, or shame may buy; Or, with commingling jealousy and rage, They mark the progress of your equipage; And their deceitful life essays the while To mask their woe beneath a sickly smile!

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

PRAYER FOR FRANCE.

_("O Dieu, si vous avez la France.")_

[VII., August, 1832.]

O G.o.d! if France be still thy guardian care, Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare!

The thrones that now are reared but to be broke; The rights we render, and anon revoke; The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs, Flooding our social life as it proceeds; Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one-- Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone; Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow; War, darker still and deeper in its woe; One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes, Than, straight, new views their furious feuds; The great man's pressure on the poor for gold, Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold; Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear, Telling of hate and strife to every ear, That even to midnight sleep no peace is given, For murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven.

J.S. MACRAE.

TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT.

_("Canaris! nous t'avons...o...b..ie.")_

[VIII., October, 1832.]

O Canaris! O Canaris! the poet's song Has blameful left untold thy deeds too long!

But when the tragic actor's part is done, When clamor ceases, and the fights are won, When heroes realize what Fate decreed, When chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed; When they have shone, as clouded or as bright, As fitful meteor in the heaven at night, And when the sycophant no more proclaims To gaping crowds the glory of their names,-- 'Tis then the mem'ries of warriors die, And fall--alas!--into obscurity, Until the poet, in whose verse alone Exists a world--can make their actions known, And in eternal epic measures, show They are not yet forgotten here below.

And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed, Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed, Although our shouts to pigmies rise--no cries To mark thy presence echo to the skies; Farewell to Grecian heroes--silent is the lute, And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?

There was a time men gave no peace To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece!

And Canaris' more-wors.h.i.+pped name was found On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around.

But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age, And thine are not remembered.--Greece, farewell!

The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.

Not that this matters to a man like thee!

To whom is left the dark blue open sea, Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies, And the bright planet guiding in clear skies; All these remain, with accident and strife, Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life, Boon Nature's fairest prospects--land and main-- The noisy starting, glad return again; The pride of freeman on a bounding deck Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck, And e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea, 'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!

Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue, Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view-- The sun in golden beauty ever pure, The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure-- Thy language so mellifluously bland, Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand, As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glide And with them mingle in one placid tide.

Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms-- The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms-- The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest!

And when thy vessel o'er the foaming sound Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound, At once the point of beauty may restore Smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

POLAND.

_("Seule au pied de la tour.")_

[IX., September, 1833.]

Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth The mandates of the Tyrant of the North, Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears, Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears-- Alas! the crucifix is all that's left To her, of freedom and her sons bereft; And on her royal robe foul marks are seen Where Russian hectors' scornful feet have been.

Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms,-- The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms!

And while she weeps against the prison walls, And waves her bleeding arm until it falls, To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes, And sues her sister's succor ere she dies.

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

INSULT NOT THE FALLEN.

_("Oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe.")_

[XIV., Sept. 6, 1835.]

I tell you, hus.h.!.+ no word of sneering scorn-- True, fallen; but G.o.d knows how deep her sorrow.

Poor girl! too many like her only born To love one day--to sin--and die the morrow.

What know you of her struggles or her grief?

Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf From autumn branches, or a drop of rain That hung in frailest splendor from a bough-- Bright, glistening in the sunlight of G.o.d's day-- So had she clung to virtue once. But now-- See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay!

The sin is yours--with your accursed gold-- Man's wealth is master--woman's soul the slave!

Some purest water still the mire may hold.

Is there no hope for her--no power to save?

Yea, once again to draw up from the clay The fallen raindrop, till it s.h.i.+ne above, Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray Of Heaven's suns.h.i.+ne, or of human love.

W.C.K. WILDE.