Poems by Victor Hugo Part 60

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE.

_("Derision! que cet amour boiteux.")_

[HERNANI, Act III.]

O mockery! that this halting love That fills the heart so full of flame and transport, Forgets the body while it fires the soul!

If but a youthful shepherd cross my path, He singing on the way--I sadly musing, He in his fields, I in my darksome alleys-- Then my heart murmurs: "O, ye mouldering towers!

Thou olden ducal dungeon! O how gladly Would I exchange ye, and my fields and forests, Mine ancient name, mine ancient rank, my ruins-- My ancestors, with whom I soon shall lie, For _his_ thatched cottage and his youthful brow!"

His hair is black--his eyes s.h.i.+ne forth like _thine_.

Him thou might'st look upon, and say, fair youth, Then turn to me, and think that I am old.

And yet the light and giddy souls of cavaliers Harbor no love so fervent as their words bespeak.

Let some poor maiden love them and believe them, Then die for them--they smile. Aye! these young birds, With gay and glittering wing and amorous song, Can shed their love as lightly as their plumage.

The old, whose voice and colors age has dimmed, Flatter no more, and, though less fair, are faithful.

When _we_ love, we love true. Are our steps frail?

Our eyes dried up and withered? Are our brows Wrinkled? There are no wrinkles in the heart.

Ah! when the graybeard loves, he should be spared; The heart is young--_that_ bleeds unto the last.

I love thee as a spouse,--and in a thousand Other fas.h.i.+ons,--as sire,--as we love The morn, the flowers, the overhanging heavens.

Ah me! when day by day I gaze upon thee, Thy graceful step, thy purely-polished brow, Thine eyes' calm fire,--I feel my heart leap up, And an eternal suns.h.i.+ne bathe my soul.

And think, too! Even the world admires, When age, expiring, for a moment totters Upon the marble margin of a tomb, To see a wife--a pure and dove-like angel-- Watch over him, soothe him, and endure awhile The useless old man, only fit to die; A sacred task, and worthy of all honor, This latest effort of a faithful heart; Which, in his parting hour, consoles the dying, And, without loving, wears the look of love.

Ah! thou wilt be to me this sheltering angel, To cheer the old man's heart--to share with him The burden of his evil years;--a daughter In thy respect, a sister in thy pity.

DONNA SOL. My fate may be more to precede than follow.

My lord, it is no reason for long life That we are young! Alas! I have seen too oft The old clamped firm to life, the young torn thence; And the lids close as sudden o'er their eyes As gravestones sealing up the sepulchre.

G. MOIR.

THE ROLL OF THE DE SILVA RACE.

_("Celui-ci, des Silvas, c'est l'aine.")_

[HERNANI, Act III.]

In that reverend face Behold the father of De Silva's race, Silvius; in Rome he filled the consul's place Three times (your patience for such honored names).

This second was Grand Master of St. James And Calatrava; his strong limbs sustained Armor which ours would sink beneath. He gained Thirty pitched battles, and took, as legends tell, Three hundred standards from the Infidel; And from the Moorish King Motril, in war, Won Antiquera, Suez, and Nijar; And then died poor. Next to him Juan stands, His son; his plighted hand was worth the hands Of kings. Next Gaspar, of Mendoza's line-- Few n.o.ble stems but chose to join with mine: Sandoval sometimes fears, and sometimes woos Our smiles; Manriquez envies; Lara sues; And Alancastre hates. Our rank we know: Kings are but just above us, dukes below.

Vasquez, who kept for sixty years his vow-- Greater than he I pa.s.s. This reverend brow, This was my sire's--the greatest, though the last: The Moors his friend had taken and made fast-- Alvar Giron. What did my father then?

He cut in stone an image of Alvar, Cunningly carved, and dragged it to the war; He vowed a vow to yield no inch of ground Until that image of itself turned round; He reached Alvar--he saved him--and his line Was old De Silva's, and his name was mine-- Ruy Gomez.

King CARLOS. Drag me from his lurking-place The traitor!

[DON RUY _leads the_ KING _to the portrait behind which_ HERNANI _is hiding_.]

Sire, your highness does me grace.

This, the last portrait, bears my form and name, And you would write this motto on the frame!

"This last, sprung from the n.o.blest and the best, Betrayed his plighted troth, and sold his guest!"

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE)

THE LOVERS' COLLOQUY.

_("Mon duc, rien qu'un moment.")_

[HERNANI, Act V.]

One little moment to indulge the sight With the rich beauty of the summer's night.

The harp is hushed, and, see, the torch is dim,-- Night and ourselves together. To the brim The cup of our felicity is filled.

Each sound is mute, each harsh sensation stilled.

Dost thou not think that, e'en while nature sleeps, Some power its amorous vigils o'er us keeps?

No cloud in heaven; while all around repose, Come taste with me the fragrance of the rose, Which loads the night-air with its musky breath, While everything is still as nature's death.

E'en as you spoke--and gentle words were those Spoken by you,--the silver moon uprose; How that mysterious union of her ray, With your impa.s.sioned accents, made its way Straight to my heart! I could have wished to die In that pale moonlight, and while thou wert by.

HERNANI. Thy words are music, and thy strain of love Is borrowed from the choir of heaven above.

DONNA SOL. Night is too silent, darkness too profound Oh, for a star to s.h.i.+ne, a voice to sound-- To raise some sudden note of music now Suited to night.

HERN. Capricious girl! your vow Was poured for silence, and to be released From the thronged tumult of the marriage feast.

DONNA SOL. Yes; but one bird to carol in the field,-- A nightingale, in mossy shade concealed,-- A distant flute,--for music's stream can roll To soothe the heart, and harmonize the soul,-- O! 'twould be bliss to listen.

[_Distant sound of a horn, the signal that_ HERNANI _must go to_ DON RUY, _who, having saved his life, had him bound in a vow to yield it up._]

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE).

CROMWELL AND THE CROWN.

_("Ah! je le tiens enfin.")_

[CROMWELL, Act II., October, 1827.]

THURLOW _communicates the intention of Parliament to offer_ CROMWELL _the crown_.