Poems by Victor Hugo Part 61

CROMWELL. And is it mine? And have my feet at length Attained the summit of the rock i' the sand?

THURLOW. And yet, my lord, you have long reigned.

CROM. Nay, nay!

Power I have 'joyed, in sooth, but not the name.

Thou smilest, Thurlow. Ah, thou little know'st What hole it is Ambition digs i' th' heart What end, most seeming empty, is the mark For which we fret and toil and dare! How hard With an unrounded fortune to sit down!

Then, what a l.u.s.tre from most ancient times Heaven has flung o'er the sacred head of kings!

King--Majesty--what names of power! No king, And yet the world's high arbiter! The thing Without the word! no handle to the blade!

Away--the empire and the name are one!

Alack! thou little dream'st how grievous 'tis, Emerging from the crowd, and at the top Arrived, to feel that there is _something_ still Above our heads; something, nothing! no matter-- That word is everything.

LEITCH RITCHIE.

MILTON'S APPEAL TO CROMWELL.

_("Non! je n'y puis tenir.")_

[CROMWELL, Act III. sc. iv.]

Stay! I no longer can contain myself, But cry you: Look on John, who bares his mind To Oliver--to Cromwell, Milton speaks!

Despite a kindling eye and marvel deep A voice is lifted up without your leave; For I was never placed at council board To speak _my_ promptings. When awed strangers come Who've seen Fox-Mazarin wince at the stings In my epistles--and bring admiring votes Of learned colleges, they strain to see My figure in the glare--the usher utters, "Behold and hearken! that's my Lord Protector's Cousin--that, his son-in-law--that next"--who cares!

Some perfumed puppet! "Milton?" "He in black-- Yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence!"

Still 'chronicling small-beer,'--such is my duty!

Yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones Till Pope and Louis Grand quaked on their thrones, And echoed "Vengeance for the Vaudois," where The Sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses.

He is but the mute in this seraglio-- "Pure" Cromwell's Council!

But to be dumb and blind is overmuch!

Impatient Issachar kicks at the load!

Yet diadems are burdens painfuller, And I would spare thee that sore imposition.

Dear brother Noll, I plead against thyself!

Thou aim'st to be a king; and, in thine heart, What fool has said: "There is no king but thou?"

For thee the mult.i.tude waged war and won-- The end thou art of wrestlings and of prayer, Of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears And blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless, And homeless lords! The ma.s.s must always suffer That one should reign! the collar's but newly clamp'd, And nothing but the name thereon is changed-- Master? still masters! mark you not the red Of shame unutterable in my sightless white?

Still hear me, Cromwell, speaking for your sake!

These fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted, Have sought for Liberty--to give it thee?

To make our interests your huckster gains?

The king a lion slain that you may flay, And wear the robe--well, worthily--I say't, For I will not abase my brother!

No! I would keep him in the realm serene, My own ideal of heroes! loved o'er Israel, And higher placed by me than all the others!

And such, for tinkling t.i.tles, hollow haloes Like that around yon painted brow--thou! thou!

Apostle, hero, saint-dishonor thyself!

And snip and trim the flag of Naseby-field As scarf on which the maid-of-honor's dog Will yelp, some summer afternoon! That sword Shrink into a sceptre! brilliant bauble! Thou, Thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state, Brain-turned by safety's miracle, thou risest Upon the tott'ring stone whilst ocean ebbs, And, reeking of no storms to come to-morrow, Or to-morrow--deem that a certain pedestal Whereon thou'lt be adored for e'er--e'en while It shakes--o'ersets the rider! Tremble, thou!

For he who dazzles, makes men Samson-blind, Will see the pillars of his palace kiss E'en at the whelming ruin! Then, what word Of answer from your wreck when I demand Account of Cromwell! glory of the people Smothered in ashes! through the dust thou'lt hear; "What didst thou with thy virtue?" Will it respond: "When battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple On which to lay the head, lulled by the praise Of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers!

Wearied of war-horse, gratefully one glides In gilded barge, or in crowned, velvet car, From gay Whitehall to gloomy Temple Bar--"

(Where--had you slipt, that head were bleaching now!

And that same rabble, splitting for a hedge, Had joined their rows to cheer the active headsman; Perchance, in mockery, they'd gird the skull With a hop-leaf crown! Bitter the brewing, Noll!) Are crowns the end-all of ambition? Remember Charles Stuart! and that they who make can break!

This same Whitehall may black its front with c.r.a.pe, And this broad window be the portal twice To lead upon a scaffold! Frown! or laugh!

Laugh on as they did at Ca.s.sandra's speech!

But mark--the prophetess was right! Still laugh, Like the credulous Ethiop in his faith in stars!

But give one thought to Stuart, two for yourself!

In his appointed hour, all was forthcoming-- Judge, axe, and deathsman veiled! and my poor eyes Descry--as would thou saw'st!--a figure veiled, Uplooming there--afar, like sunrise, coming!

With blade that ne'er spared Judas 'midst free brethren!

Stretch not the hand of Cromwell for the prize Meant not for him, nor his! Thou growest old, The people are ever young! Like her i' the chase Who drave a dart into her lover, embowered, Piercing the incense-clouds, the popular shaft May slay thee in a random shot at Tyranny!

Man, friend, remain a Cromwell! in thy name, Rule! and if thy son be worthy, he and his, So rule the rest for ages! be it grander thus To be a Cromwell than a Carolus.

No lapdog combed by wantons, but the watch Upon the freedom that we won! Dismiss Your flatterers--let no harpings, no gay songs Prevent your calm dictation of good laws To guard, to fortify, and keep enlinked England and Freedom! Be thine old self alone!

And make, above all else accorded me, My most desired claim on all posterity, That thou in Milton's verse wert foremost of the free!

FIRST LOVE.

_("Vous etes singulier.")_

[MARION DELORME, Act I., June, 1829, _played_ 1831.]

MARION _(smiling.)_ You're strange, and yet I love you thus.

DIDIER. You love me?

Beware, nor with light lips utter that word.

You love me!--know you what it is to love With love that is the life-blood in one's veins, The vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered, Smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing, And purifying in its growth the soul.

A love that from the heart eats every pa.s.sion But its sole self; love without hope or limit, Deep love that will outlast all happiness; Speak, speak; is such the love you bear me?

MARION. Truly.

DIDIER. Ha! but you do not know how I love you!

The day that first I saw you, the dark world Grew s.h.i.+ning, for your eyes lighted my gloom.

Since then, all things have changed; to me you are Some brightest, unknown creature from the skies.

This irksome life, 'gainst which my heart rebelled, Seems almost fair and pleasant; for, alas!

Till I knew you wandering, alone, oppressed, I wept and struggled, I had never loved.

f.a.n.n.y KEMBLE-BUTLER.

THE FIRST BLACK FLAG.

_("Avez-vous oui dire?")_

[LES BURGRAVES, Part I., March, 1843.]

JOB. Hast thou ne'er heard men say That, in the Black Wood, 'twixt Cologne and Spire, Upon a rock flanked by the towering mountains, A castle stands, renowned among all castles?

And in this fort, on piles of lava built, A burgrave dwells, among all burgraves famed?