Poems by Victor Hugo Part 51

MOURNING.

_("Charle! o mon fils!")_

[March, 1871.]

Charles, Charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me?

Must all fade, naught endure?

Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee, But still for us obscure?

My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines!

Sweet mutual love we've known; For man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines With others' souls his own.

He cries, "This has no end!" pursues his way: He soon is downward bound: He lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day Mere dust and ashes found.

I've wandered twenty years, in distant lands, With sore heart forced to stay: Why fell the blow Fate only understands!

G.o.d took my home away.

To-day one daughter and one son remain Of all my goodly show: Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane; G.o.d takes my children now.

Linger, ye two still left me! though decays Our nest, our hearts remain; In gloom of death your mother silent prays, I in this life of pain.

Martyr of Sion! holding Thee in sight, I'll drain this cup of gall, And scale with step resolved that dangerous height, Which rather seems a fall.

Truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs Than end so n.o.bly shown.

Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads, I seek the vast unknown.

MARWOOD TUCKER.

THE LESSON OF THE PATRIOT DEAD.

_("O caresse sublime.")_

[April, 1871.]

Upon the grave's cold mouth there ever have caresses clung For those who died ideally good and grand and pure and young; Under the scorn of all who clamor: "There is nothing just!"

And bow to dread inquisitor and wors.h.i.+p lords of dust; Let sophists give the lie, hearts droop, and courtiers play the worm, Our martyrs of Democracy the Truth sublime affirm!

And when all seems inert upon this seething, troublous round, And when the rashest knows not best to flee ar stand his ground, When not a single war-cry from the sombre ma.s.s will rush, When o'er the universe is spread by Doubting utter hush, Then he who searches well within the walls that close immure Our teachers, leaders, heroes slain because they lived too pure, May glue his ear upon the ground where few else came to grieve, And ask the austere shadows: "Ho! and must one still believe?

Read yet the orders: 'Forward, march!' and 'charge!'" Then from the lime, Which burnt the bones but left the soul (Oh! tyrants' useless crime!) Will rise reply: "Yes!" "yes!" and "yes!" the thousand, thousandth time!

H.L.W.

THE BOY ON THE BARRICADE.

_("Sur une barricade.")_

[June, 1871.]

Like Casabianca on the devastated deck, In years yet younger, but the selfsame core.

Beside the battered barricado's restless wreck, A lad stood splashed with gouts of guilty gore, But gemmed with purest blood of patriot more.

Upon his fragile form the troopers' b.l.o.o.d.y grip Was deeply dug, while sharply challenged they: "Were you one of this currish crew?"--pride pursed his lip, As firm as bandog's, brought the bull to bay-- While answered he: "I fought with others. Yea!"

"Prepare then to be shot! Go join that death-doomed row."

As paced he pertly past, a volley rang-- And as he fell in line, mock mercies once more flow Of man's lead-lightning's sudden scathing pang, But to his home-turned thoughts the b.a.l.l.s but sang.

"Here's half-a-franc I saved to buy my mother's bread!"-- The captain started--who mourns not a dear, The dearest! mother!--"Where is she, wolf-cub?" he said Still gruffly. "There, d'ye see? not far from here."

"Haste! make it hers! then back to swell _their_ bier."

He sprang aloof as springald from detested school, Or ocean-rover from protected port.

"The little rascal has the laugh on us! no fool To breast our bullets!"--but the scoff was short, For soon! the rogue is racing from his court;

And with still fearless front he faces them and calls: "READY! but level low--_she's_ kissed these eyes!"

From cooling hands of _men_ each rifle falls, And their gray officer, in grave surprise, Life grants the lad whilst his last comrade dies.

Brave youth! I know not well what urged thy act, Whether thou'lt pa.s.s in palace, or die rackt; But _then_, shone on the guns, a sublime soul.-- A Bayard-boy's, bound by his pure parole!

Honor redeemed though paid by parlous price, Though lost be sunlit sports, wild boyhood's spice, The Gates, the cheers of mates for bright device!

Greeks would, whilom, have choicely clasped and circled thee, Set thee the first to s.h.i.+eld some new Thermopylae; Thy deed had touched and tuned their true Tyrtaeus tongue, And staged by Aeschylus, grouped thee grand G.o.ds among.

And thy lost name (now known no more) been gilt and graved On cloud-kissed column, by the sweet south ocean laved.

From us no crown! no honors from the civic sheaf-- Purely this poet's tear-bejewelled, aye-green leaf!

H.L.W.

TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN.

_("O Charles, je te sens pres de moi.")_

[July, 1871.]