Poems by Victor Hugo Part 62

Hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws-- Charged with a thousand crimes--for warlike deeds Renowned--and placed under the Empire's ban By the Diet of Frankfort; by the Council Of Pisa banished from the Holy Church; Reprobate, isolated, cursed--yet still Unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will; The bitter foe of the Count Palatine And Treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned For sixty years the ladder which the Empire Upreared to scale his walls? Hast heard that he Shelters the brave--the flaunting rich man strips-- Of master makes a slave? That here, above All dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors--in the eyes Of Germany to their fierce strife a prey, He rears upon his tower, in stern defiance, A signal of appeal to the crushed people, A banner vast, of Sorrow's sable hue, Snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath, So that kings quiver as the jades at whips?

Hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year-- And that, defying fate, in face of heaven, On his invincible peak, no force of war Uprooting other holds--nor powerful Caesar-- Nor Rome--nor age, that bows the pride of man-- Nor aught on earth--hath vanquished, or subdued, Or bent this ancient t.i.tan of the Rhine, The excommunicated Job?

_Democratic Review_.

THE SON IN OLD AGE.

_("Ma Regina, cette n.o.ble figure.")_

[LES BURGRAVES, Part II.]

Thy n.o.ble face, Regina, calls to mind My poor lost little one, my latest born.

He was a gift from G.o.d--a sign of pardon-- That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!

I to his little cradle went, and went, And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.

For when one's very old, one is a child!

Then took it up and placed it on my knees, And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair-- Thou wert not born then--and he would stammer Those pretty little sounds that make one smile!

And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.

He recognized me--nay, knew me right well, And in my face would laugh--and that child-laugh, Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.

I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror, And named him George. One day--oh, bitter thought!

The child played in the fields. When thou art mother, Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play!

The gypsies took him from me--oh, for what?

Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite.

I weep!--now, after twenty years--I weep As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so!

I used to call him "my own little king!"

I was intoxicated with my joy When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands, Thrilling me all through.

_Foreign Quarterly Review._

THE EMPEROR'S RETURN.

_("Un bouffon manquait a cette fete.")_

[LES BURGRAVES, Part II.]

_The EMPEROR FREDERICK BARBAROSSA, believed to be dead, appearing as a beggar among the Rhenish n.o.bility at a castle, suddenly reveals himself._

HATTO. This goodly masque but lacked a fool!

First gypsy; next a beggar;--good! Thy name?

BARBAROSSA. Frederick of Swabia, Emperor of Almain.

ALL. The Red Beard?

BARBAROSSA. Aye, Frederick, by my mountain birthright Prince O' th' Romans, chosen king, crowned emperor, Heaven's sword-bearer, monarch of Burgundy And Arles--the tomb of Karl I dared profane, But have repented me on bended knees In penance 'midst the desert twenty years; My drink the rain, the rocky herbs my food, Myself a ghost the shepherds fled before, And the world named me as among the dead.

But I have heard my country call--come forth, Lifted the shroud--broken the sepulchre.

This hour is one when dead men needs must rise.

Ye own me? Ye mind me marching through these vales When golden spur was ringing at my heel?

Now know me what I am, your master, earls!

Brave knights you deem! You say, "The sons we are Of puissant barons and great n.o.blemen, Whose honors we prolong." You _do_ prolong them?

Your sires were soldiers brave, not prowlers base, Rogues, miscreants, felons, village-ravagers!

They made great wars, they rode like heroes forth, And, worthy, won broad lands and towers and towns, So firmly won that thirty years of strife Made of their followers dukes, their leaders kings!

While you! like jackal and the bird of prey, Who lurk in copses or 'mid muddy beds-- Crouching and hushed, with dagger ready drawn, Hide in the noisome marsh that skirts the way, Trembling lest pa.s.sing hounds snuff out your lair!

Listen at eventide on lonesome path For traveller's footfall, or the mule-bell's chime, Pouncing by hundreds on one helpless man, To cut him down, then back to your retreats-- _You_ dare to vaunt your sires? I call your sires, Bravest of brave and greatest 'mid the great, A line of warriors! you, a pack of thieves!

_Athenaeum_.