Poems - Victor Hugo

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Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear,

           Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear,

           In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed,

           Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said:

           "O king, I kept thee far from human state,

             Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne,

           O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate,

             The slavery of kings thou hast not known,

           What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet,

             And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace,

           No earthly diadem has ever set

             A stain upon thy face.

           "Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth,

           But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth,

             And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need.

           Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine;

           Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine,

             His sceptre was a reed."

Dublin University Magazine.

      THE FEAST OF FREEDOM

      ("Lorsqu'à l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")

      {Bk. II. v., 1823.}

      {There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the

      execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet – at the prison

      gate – known as the "Free Festival." – CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."}

      TO YE KINGS

           When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old

           By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold

                   An idolatrous cause,

           Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout

           Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout

                   Of "the People's" applause.

           On the eve of that day of their evenings the last!

           At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast,

                   Rich, unstinted, unpriced,

           That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled,

           With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread

                   For the martyrs of Christ.

           Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline

           On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine

                   Fill'd his cup to the brim!

           Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose,

           Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose,

                   All united for him!

           Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse,

           In profusion procured was put forth to enhance

                   The repast that they gave;

           And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight,

           Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night

                   The elect of the grave.

           And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain,

           Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain

                   The bloodthirsty arena;

           Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds

           And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs

                   Shame the restless hyena.

           They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve,

           In their turn on the morrow were destined to give

                   To the lions their food;

           For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board,

           Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford,

                   Death administering stood.

           Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power,

           But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour —

                   'Tis your knell that it rings!

           To the popular tiger a prey is decreed,

           And the maw of Republican hunger will feed

                   On a banquet of Kings!

"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY)

      GENIUS

      (DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.)

      {Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.}

               Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,

                 Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,

               Bears Genius – treasure of celestial birth,

                 Within his solitary soul enshrined.

               Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure,

                 Like the undying vultures', will be driven

               Into his noble heart, that must endure

           Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,

           Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.

               Still though his destiny on earth may be

                 Grief and injustice; who would not endure

               With joyful calm, each proffered agony;

                 Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?

               What mortal feeling kindled in his soul

                 That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,

               O'er which nor time nor death can have control,

                 Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly

                 From sufferings whose reward is Immortality?

               No! though the clamors of the envious crowd

                 Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise

               From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud

                 Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities.

              

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