Poems - Victor Hugo

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roses white upon their brows,

             With waists that scorn the busk?

           Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes —

             Compared with these, how small!

           Away, ye merry maids, etc.

           A blossom in a city lane,

             Alizia was our pride,

           And oft the blundering bee, deceived,

             Came buzzing to her side —

           But, oh! for one that felt the sting,

             And found, 'neath honey, gall —

           Away, ye merry maids, etc.

           Young, haughty, from still hotter lands,

             A stranger hither came —

           Was he a Moor or African,

             Or Murcian known to fame?

           None knew – least, she – or false or true,

             The name by which to call.

           Away, ye merry maids, etc.

           Alizia asked not his degree,

             She saw him but as Love,

           And through Xarama's vale they strayed,

             And tarried in the grove, —

           Oh! curses on that fatal eve,

             And on that leafy hall!

           Away, ye merry maids, etc.

           The darkened city breathed no more;

             The moon was mantled long,

           Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak

             Upon the steeples' throng;

           The crossway Christ, in ivy draped,

             Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall, —

           Away, ye merry maids, etc.

           But while, alone, they kept the shade,

             The other dark-eyed dears

           Were murmuring on the stifling air

             Their jealous threats and fears;

           Alizia was so blamed, that time,

             Unheeded rang the call:

           Away, ye merry maids, etc.

           Although, above, the hawk describes

             The circle round the lark,

           It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass

             Had eyes but for her spark —

           A spark? – a sun!  'Twas Juan, King!

             Who wears our coronal, —

           Away, ye merry maids, etc.

           A love so far above one's state

             Ends sadly. Came a black

           And guarded palanquin to bear

             The girl that ne'er comes back;

           By royal writ, some nunnery

             Still shields her from us all

           Away, ye merry maids, and haste

             To gather ere they fall!

H. L. WILLIAMS

      MAZEPPA

      ("Ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!")

      {XXXIV., May, 1828.}

           As when a mortal – Genius' prize, alack!

           Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back,

               Thou reinless racing steed!

           In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star,

           Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, far

               Out of the flow'ry mead, —

           So – though thou speed'st implacable, (like him,

           Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim,

               As if each stride the nearer bring

           Him to the grave) – when comes the time,

           After the fall, he rises – KING!

H.L. WILLIAMS

      THE DANUBE IN WRATH

      ("Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?")

      {XXXV., June, 1828.}

           The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams: —

           Ye daughters mine! will naught abate

           Your fierce interminable hate?

           Still am I doomed to rue the fate

             That such unfriendly neighbors made?

           The while ye might, in peaceful cheer,

           Mirror upon your waters clear,

           Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear,

             And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!

Fraser's Magazine

      OLD OCEAN

      ("J'étais seul près des flots.")

      {XXXVII., September 5, 1828.}

           I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight,

           Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright;

             Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye;

           And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around,

           Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound,

             The waves, and the pure stars on high.

           And the clear constellations, that infinite throng,

           While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song,

             Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze —

           And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest,

           Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest

             "Creator! we bless thee and praise!"

R.C. ELLWOOD

      MY NAPOLEON

      ("Toujours lui! lui partout!")

      {XL., December, 1828.}

           Above all others, everywhere I see

             His image cold or burning!

           My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free

             The thoughts within me yearning.

           My quivering lips pour forth the words

            

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