Poems by Victor Hugo Part 48

She calls again, she knocks, 'tis silence still; No sound--no answer--suddenly the door, As if the senseless creature felt some thrill Of pity, turned--and open lay before.

She entered, and her lantern lighted all The house so still, but for the rude waves' din.

Through the thin roof the plas.h.i.+ng rain-drops fall, But something terrible is couched within.

"So, for the kisses that delight the flesh, For mother's wors.h.i.+p, and for children's bloom, For song, for smile, for love so fair and fresh, For laugh, for dance, there is one goal--the tomb."

And why does Janet pa.s.s so fast away?

What hath she done within that house of dread?

What foldeth she beneath her mantle gray?

And hurries home, and hides it in her bed: With half-averted face, and nervous tread, What hath she stolen from the awful dead?

The dawn was whitening over the sea's verge As she sat pensive, touching broken chords Of half-remorseful thought, while the hoa.r.s.e surge Howled a sad concert to her broken words.

"Ah, my poor husband! we had five before, Already so much care, so much to find, For he must work for all. I give him more.

What was that noise? His step! Ah, no! the wind.

"That I should be afraid of him I love!

I have done ill. If he should beat me now, I would not blame him. Did not the door move?

Not yet, poor man." She sits with careful brow Wrapped in her inward grief; nor hears the roar Of winds and waves that dash against his prow, Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the sh.o.r.e.

Sudden the door flies open wide, and lets Noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear, And the good fisher, dragging his damp nets, Stands on the threshold, with a joyous cheer.

"'Tis thou!" she cries, and, eager as a lover, Leaps up and holds her husband to her breast; Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover; "'Tis I, good wife!" and his broad face expressed

How gay his heart that Janet's love made light.

"What weather was it?" "Hard." "Your fis.h.i.+ng?" "Bad.

The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night; But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad.

"There was a devil in the wind that blew; I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line, And once I thought the bark was broken too; What did you all the night long, Janet mine?"

She, trembling in the darkness, answered, "I!

Oh, naught--I sew'd, I watch'd, I was afraid, The waves were loud as thunders from the sky; But it is over." Shyly then she said--

"Our neighbor died last night; it must have been When you were gone. She left two little ones, So small, so frail--William and Madeline; The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs."

The man looked grave, and in the corner cast His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea, Muttered awhile, and scratched his head,--at last "We have five children, this makes seven," said he.

"Already in bad weather we must sleep Sometimes without our supper. Now! Ah, well-- 'Tis not my fault. These accidents are deep; It was the good G.o.d's will. I cannot tell.

"Why did He take the mother from those sc.r.a.ps, No bigger than my fist. 'Tis hard to read; A learned man might understand, perhaps-- So little, they can neither work nor need.

"Go fetch them, wife; they will be frightened sore, If with the dead alone they waken thus.

That was the mother knocking at our door, And we must take the children home to us.

"Brother and sister shall they be to ours, And they will learn to climb my knee at even; When He shall see these strangers in our bowers, More fish, more food, will give the G.o.d of Heaven.

"I will work harder; I will drink no wine-- Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear?

Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine."

She drew the curtain, saying, "They are here!"

BP. ALEXANDER

LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY.

MENTANA. [1]

(VICTOR HUGO TO GARIBALDI.)

_("Ces jeunes gens, combien etaient-ils.")_

[LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY, December, 1868.]

I.

Young soldiers of the n.o.ble Latin blood, How many are ye--Boys? Four thousand odd.

How many are there dead? Six hundred: count!

Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount, Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled Out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold A red feast; nothing of them left but these Pierced relics, underneath the olive trees, Show where the gin was sprung--the scoundrel-trap Which brought those hero-lads their foul mishap.

See how they fell in swathes--like barley-ears!

Their crime? to claim Rome and her glories theirs; To fight for Right and Honor;--foolish names!

Come--Mothers of the soil! Italian dames!

Turn the dead over!--try your battle luck!

(Bearded or smooth, to her that gave him suck The man is always child)--Stay, here's a brow Split by the Zouaves' bullets! This one, now, With the bright curly hair soaked so in blood, Was yours, ma donna!--sweet and fair and good.

The spirit sat upon his fearless face Before they murdered it, in all the grace Of manhood's dawn. Sisters, here's yours! his lips, Over whose bloom the b.l.o.o.d.y death-foam slips, Lisped house-songs after you, and said your name In loving prattle once. That hand, the same Which lies so cold over the eyelids shut, Was once a small pink baby-fist, and wet With milk beads from thy yearning b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Take thou Thine eldest,--thou, thy youngest born. Oh, flow Of tears never to cease! Oh, Hope quite gone, Dead like the dead!--Yet could they live alone-- Without their Tiber and their Rome? and be Young and Italian--and not also free?

They longed to see the ancient eagle try His lordly pinions in a modern sky.

They bore--each on himself--the insults laid On the dear foster-land: of naught afraid, Save of not finding foes enough to dare For Italy. Ah; gallant, free, and rare Young martyrs of a sacred cause,--Adieu!

No more of life--no more of love--for you!

No sweet long-straying in the star-lit glades At Ave-Mary, with the Italian maids; No welcome home!

II.

This Garibaldi now, the Italian boys Go mad to hear him--take to dying--take To pa.s.sion for "the pure and high";--G.o.d's sake!

It's monstrous, horrible! One sees quite clear Society--our charge--must shake with fear, And shriek for help, and call on us to act When there's a hero, taken in the fact.

If Light s.h.i.+nes in the dark, there's guilt in that!

What's viler than a lantern to a bat?