Kitabı oku: «Poems», sayfa 15

LES CHANSONS DES RUES ET DES BOIS.
LOVE OF THE WOODLAND

("Orphée au bois du Caystre.")

{Bk. I. ii.}

 
     Orpheus, through the hellward wood
     Hurried, ere the eve-star glowed,
     For the fauns' lugubrious hoots
     Followed, hollow, from crookèd roots;
     Aeschylus, where Aetna smoked,
     Gods of Sicily evoked
     With the flute, till sulphur taint
     Dulled and lulled the echoes faint;
     Pliny, soon his style mislaid,
     Dogged Miletus' merry maid,
     As she showed eburnean limbs
     All-multiplied by brooklet brims;
     Plautus, see! like Plutus, hold
     Bosomfuls of orchard-gold,
     Learns he why that mystic core
     Was sweet Venus' meed of yore?
     Dante dreamt (while spirits pass
     As in wizard's jetty glass)
     Each black-bossed Briarian trunk
     Waved live arms like furies drunk;
     Winsome Will, 'neath Windsor Oak,
     Eyed each elf that cracked a joke
     At poor panting grease-hart fast —
     Obese, roguish Jack harassed;
     At Versailles, Molière did court
     Cues from Pan (in heron port,
     Half in ooze, half treeward raised),
     "Words so witty, that Boileau's 'mazed!"
 
 
     Foliage! fondly you attract!
     Dian's faith I keep intact,
     And declare that thy dryads dance
     Still, and will, in thy green expanse!
 

SHOOTING STARS

{FOR MY LITTLE CHILD ONLY.}

("Tas de feux tombants.")

{Bk. III. vii.}

 
     See the scintillating shower!
       Like a burst from golden mine —
     Incandescent coals that pour
       From the incense-bowl divine,
     And around us dewdrops, shaken,
       Mirror each a twinkling ray
     'Twixt the flowers that awaken
       In this glory great as day.
     Mists and fogs all vanish fleetly;
       And the birds begin to sing,
     Whilst the rain is murm'ring sweetly
       As if angels echoing.
     And, methinks, to show she's grateful
       For this seed from heaven come,
     Earth is holding up a plateful
       Of the birds and buds a-bloom!
 

L'ANNÉE TERRIBLE.
TO LITTLE JEANNE

("Vous eûtes donc hier un an.")

{September, 1870.}

 
     You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child,
     Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild,
     New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough,
     Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow.
     Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand
     Whose pictures please you – while I trembling stand
     To see their big leaves tattered by your hand —
     Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth,
     When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth
     To welcome me. No work of author wise
     Can match the thought half springing to your eyes,
     And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange,
     Regarding man with all the boundless range
     Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear
     That God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here.
 
 
     Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings
     Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings,
     You're at that hour of life most like to heaven,
     When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven
     When man no shadow feels: if fond caress
     Round parent twines, children the world possess.
     Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love
     From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove;
     No wider range of view your heart can take
     Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make;
     They two alone on this your opening hour
     Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour:
     They two – none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I,
     Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by.
     You come – I go: though gloom alone my right,
     Blest be the destiny which gives you light.
 
 
     Your fair-haired brother George and you beside
     Me play – in watching you is all my pride;
     And all I ask – by countless sorrows tried —
     The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show
     Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow.
 
 
     Pure new-born wonderer! your infant life
     Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife.
     Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play,
     And baby smiles have dared a world at bay:
     Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms
     To mighty Paris clashing mighty arms.
     Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hear
     You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near,
     And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer,
     I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan,
     Trembles, and passes with half-uttered moan.
     For though these hundred towers of Paris bend,
     Though close as foundering ship her glory's end,
     Though rocks the universe, which we defend;
     Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled,
     God sends His blessing by a little child.
 

MARWOOD TUCKER.

TO A SICK CHILD DURING THE SIEGE OF PARIS

("Si vous continuez toute pâle.")

{November, 1870.}

 
     If you continue thus so wan and white;
           If I, one day, behold
     You pass from out our dull air to the light,
           You, infant – I, so old:
     If I the thread of our two lives must see
           Thus blent to human view,
     I who would fain know death was near to me,
           And far away for you;
     If your small hands remain such fragile things;
           If, in your cradle stirred,
     You have the mien of waiting there for wings,
           Like to some new-fledged bird;
     Not rooted to our earth you seem to be.
           If still, beneath the skies,
     You turn, O Jeanne, on our mystery
           Soft, discontented eyes!
     If I behold you, gay and strong no more;
           If you mope sadly thus;
     If you behind you have not shut the door,
           Through which you came to us;
     If you no more like some fair dame I see
           Laugh, walk, be well and gay;
     If like a little soul you seem to me
           That fain would fly away —
     I'll deem that to this world, where oft are blent
           The pall and swaddling-band,
     You came but to depart – an angel sent
           To bear me from the land.
 

LUCY H. HOOPER.

THE CARRIER PIGEON

("Oh! qu'est-ce que c'est donc que l'Inconnu.")

{January, 1871.}

 
     Who then – oh, who, is like our God so great,
     Who makes the seed expand beneath the mountain's weight;
     Who for a swallow's nest leaves one old castle wall,
     Who lets for famished beetles savory apples fall,
     Who bids a pigmy win where Titans fail, in yoke,
     And, in what we deem fruitless roar and smoke,
     Makes Etna, Chimborazo, still His praises sing,
     And saves a city by a word lapped 'neath a pigeon's wing!
 

TOYS AND TRAGEDY

("Enfants, on vous dira plus tard.")

{January, 1871.}

 
     In later years, they'll tell you grandpapa
       Adored his little darlings; for them did
     His utmost just to pleasure them and mar
       No moments with a frown or growl amid
     Their rosy rompings; that he loved them so
       (Though men have called him bitter, cold, and stern,)
     That in the famous winter when the snow
       Covered poor Paris, he went, old and worn,
     To buy them dolls, despite the falling shells,
     At which laughed Punch, and they, and shook his bells.
 

MOURNING

("Charle! ô mon fils!")

{March, 1871.}

 
     Charles, Charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me?
         Must all fade, naught endure?
     Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee,
         But still for us obscure?
 
 
     My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines!
         Sweet mutual love we've known;
     For man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines
         With others' souls his own.
 
 
     He cries, "This has no end!" pursues his way:
         He soon is downward bound:
     He lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day
         Mere dust and ashes found.
 
 
     I've wandered twenty years, in distant lands,
         With sore heart forced to stay:
     Why fell the blow Fate only understands!
         God took my home away.
 
 
     To-day one daughter and one son remain
         Of all my goodly show:
     Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane;
         God takes my children now.
 
 
     Linger, ye two still left me! though decays
         Our nest, our hearts remain;
     In gloom of death your mother silent prays,
         I in this life of pain.
 
 
     Martyr of Sion! holding Thee in sight,
         I'll drain this cup of gall,
     And scale with step resolved that dangerous height,
         Which rather seems a fall.
 
 
     Truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs
         Than end so nobly shown.
     Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads,
         I seek the vast unknown.
 

MARWOOD TUCKER.

THE LESSON OF THE PATRIOT DEAD

("O caresse sublime.")

{April, 1871.}

 
     Upon the grave's cold mouth there ever have caresses clung
     For those who died ideally good and grand and pure and young;
     Under the scorn of all who clamor: "There is nothing just!"
     And bow to dread inquisitor and worship lords of dust;
     Let sophists give the lie, hearts droop, and courtiers play the worm,
     Our martyrs of Democracy the Truth sublime affirm!
     And when all seems inert upon this seething, troublous round,
     And when the rashest knows not best to flee ar stand his ground,
     When not a single war-cry from the sombre mass will rush,
     When o'er the universe is spread by Doubting utter hush,
     Then he who searches well within the walls that close immure
     Our teachers, leaders, heroes slain because they lived too pure,
     May glue his ear upon the ground where few else came to grieve,
     And ask the austere shadows: "Ho! and must one still believe?
     Read yet the orders: 'Forward, march!' and 'charge!'" Then from the lime,
     Which burnt the bones but left the soul (Oh! tyrants' useless crime!)
     Will rise reply: "Yes!" "yes!" and "yes!" the thousand, thousandth time!
 

H.L.W.

THE BOY ON THE BARRICADE

("Sur une barricade.")

{June, 1871.}

 
     Like Casabianca on the devastated deck,
       In years yet younger, but the selfsame core.
     Beside the battered barricado's restless wreck,
       A lad stood splashed with gouts of guilty gore,
       But gemmed with purest blood of patriot more.
 
 
     Upon his fragile form the troopers' bloody grip
       Was deeply dug, while sharply challenged they:
     "Were you one of this currish crew?" – pride pursed his lip,
       As firm as bandog's, brought the bull to bay —
       While answered he: "I fought with others. Yea!"
 
 
     "Prepare then to be shot! Go join that death-doomed row."
       As paced he pertly past, a volley rang —
     And as he fell in line, mock mercies once more flow
       Of man's lead-lightning's sudden scathing pang,
       But to his home-turned thoughts the balls but sang.
 
 
     "Here's half-a-franc I saved to buy my mother's bread!" —
       The captain started – who mourns not a dear,
     The dearest! mother! – "Where is she, wolf-cub?" he said
       Still gruffly. "There, d'ye see? not far from here."
       "Haste! make it hers! then back to swell their bier."
 
 
     He sprang aloof as springald from detested school,
       Or ocean-rover from protected port.
     "The little rascal has the laugh on us! no fool
       To breast our bullets!" – but the scoff was short,
       For soon! the rogue is racing from his court;
 
 
     And with still fearless front he faces them and calls:
       "READY! but level low —she's kissed these eyes!"
     From cooling hands of men each rifle falls,
         And their gray officer, in grave surprise,
         Life grants the lad whilst his last comrade dies.
 
 
       Brave youth! I know not well what urged thy act,
       Whether thou'lt pass in palace, or die rackt;
       But then, shone on the guns, a sublime soul. —
       A Bayard-boy's, bound by his pure parole!
       Honor redeemed though paid by parlous price,
       Though lost be sunlit sports, wild boyhood's spice,
       The Gates, the cheers of mates for bright device!
 
 
     Greeks would, whilom, have choicely clasped and circled thee,
     Set thee the first to shield some new Thermopylae;
     Thy deed had touched and tuned their true Tyrtaeus tongue,
     And staged by Aeschylus, grouped thee grand gods among.
 
 
     And thy lost name (now known no more) been gilt and graved
     On cloud-kissed column, by the sweet south ocean laved.
     From us no crown! no honors from the civic sheaf —
     Purely this poet's tear-bejewelled, aye-green leaf!
 

H.L.W.

TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN

("O Charles, je te sens près de moi.")

{July, 1871.}

 
     I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down
           In earth, where men decay,
     I search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb,
           Burst out pale morning's ray.
 
 
     Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead,
           To charm us, live again:
     Kneeling, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds
           Two little children's strain.
 
 
     George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play!
           Your father's form recall,
     Now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt
           By beams that wandering fall.
 
 
     Oh, knowledge! what thy use? did we not know
           Death holds no more the dead;
     But Heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and star
           Smile at the grave we dread?
 
 
     A Heaven, which childhood represents on earth.
           Orphans, may God be nigh!
     That God, who can your bright steps turn aside
           From darkness, where I sigh.
 
 
     All joy be yours, though sorrow bows me down!
           To each his fitting wage:
     Children, I've passed life's span, and men are plagued
           By shadows at that stage.
 
 
     Hath any done – nay, only half performed —
           The good he might for others?
     Hath any conquered hatred, or had strength
           To treat his foes like brothers?
 
 
     E'en he, who's tried his best, hath evil wrought:
           Pain springs from happiness:
     My heart has triumphed in defeat, my pulse
           Ne'er quickened at success.
 
 
     I seemed the greater when I felt the blow:
           The prick gives sense of gain;
     Since to make others bleed my courage fails,
           I'd rather bear the pain.
 
 
     To grow is sad, since evils grow no less;
           Great height is mark for all:
     The more I have of branches, more of clustering boughs,
           The ghastlier shadows fall.
 
 
     Thence comes my sadness, though I grant your charms:
           Ye are the outbursting
     Of the soul in bloom, steeped in the draughts
           Of nature's boundless spring.
 
 
     George is the sapling, set in mournful soil;
           Jeanne's folding petals shroud
     A mind which trembles at our uproar, yet
           Half longs to speak aloud.
 
 
     Give, then, my children – lowly, blushing plants,
           Whom sorrow waits to seize —
     Free course to instincts, whispering 'mid the flowers,
           Like hum of murmuring bees.
 
 
     Some day you'll find that chaos comes, alas!
           That angry lightning's hurled,
     When any cheer the People, Atlas huge,
           Grim bearer of the world!
 
 
     You'll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance,
           Each man, unknowing, great,
     Should frame life so, that at some future hour
           Fact and his dreamings meet.
 
 
     I, too, when death is past, one day shall grasp
           That end I know not now;
     And over you will bend me down, all filled
           With dawn's mysterious glow.
 
 
     I'll learn what means this exile, what this shroud
           Enveloping your prime;
     And why the truth and sweetness of one man
           Seem to all others crime.
 
 
     I'll hear – though midst these dismal boughs you sang —
           How came it, that for me,
     Who every pity feel for every woe,
           So vast a gloom could be.
 
 
     I'll know why night relentless holds me, why
           So great a pile of doom:
     Why endless frost enfolds me, and methinks
           My nightly bed's a tomb:
 
 
     Why all these battles, all these tears, regrets,
           And sorrows were my share;
     And why God's will of me a cypress made,
           When roses bright ye were.
 

MARWOOD TUCKER.

TO THE CANNON "VICTOR HUGO."

{Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les Châtiments" during

the Siege of Paris.}

{1872.}

 
         Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse,
     Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart,
     And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart!
 

L'ART D'ÊTRE GRANDPÊRE.
THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR

("Prenez garde à ce petit être.")

{LAUS PUER: POEM V.}

 
     Take heed of this small child of earth;
       He is great: in him is God most high.
     Children before their fleshly birth
       Are lights in the blue sky.
 
 
     In our brief bitter world of wrong
       They come; God gives us them awhile.
     His speech is in their stammering tongue,
       And His forgiveness in their smile.
 
 
     Their sweet light rests upon our eyes:
       Alas! their right to joy is plain.
     If they are hungry, Paradise
       Weeps, and if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
 
 
     The want that saps their sinless flower
       Speaks judgment on Sin's ministers.
     Man holds an angel in his power.
       Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs.
 
 
     When God seeks out these tender things,
       Whom in the shadow where we keep,
     He sends them clothed about with wings,
       And finds them ragged babes that weep!
 

Dublin University Magazine.

THE EPIC OF THE LION

("Un lion avait pris un enfant.")

{XIII.}

 
     A Lion in his jaws caught up a child —
     Not harming it – and to the woodland, wild
     With secret streams and lairs, bore off his prey —
     The beast, as one might cull a bud in May.
     It was a rosy boy, a king's own pride,
     A ten-year lad, with bright eyes shining wide,
     And save this son his majesty beside
     Had but one girl, two years of age, and so
     The monarch suffered, being old, much woe;
     His heir the monster's prey, while the whole land
     In dread both of the beast and king did stand;
     Sore terrified were all.
 
 
                               By came a knight
     That road, who halted, asking, "What's the fright?"
     They told him, and he spurred straight for the site!
     The beast was seen to smile ere joined they fight,
     The man and monster, in most desperate duel,
     Like warring giants, angry, huge, and cruel.
     Stout though the knight, the lion stronger was,
     And tore that brave breast under its cuirass,
     Scrunching that hero, till he sprawled, alas!
     Beneath his shield, all blood and mud and mess:
     Whereat the lion feasted: then it went
     Back to its rocky couch and slept content.
     Sudden, loud cries and clamors! striking out
     Qualm to the heart of the quiet, horn and shout
     Causing the solemn wood to reel with rout.
     Terrific was this noise that rolled before;
     It seemed a squadron; nay, 'twas something more —
     A whole battalion, sent by that sad king
     With force of arms his little prince to bring,
     Together with the lion's bleeding hide.
     Which here was right or wrong? Who can decide?
     Have beasts or men most claim to live? God wots!
     He is the unit, we the cipher-dots.
     Ranged in the order a great hunt should have,
     They soon between the trunks espy the cave.
     "Yes, that is it! the very mouth of the den!"
     The trees all round it muttered, warning men;
     Still they kept step and neared it. Look you now,
     Company's pleasant, and there were a thou —
     Good Lord! all in a moment, there's its face!
     Frightful! they saw the lion! Not one pace
     Further stirred any man; but bolt and dart
     Made target of the beast. He, on his part,
     As calm as Pelion in the rain or hail,
     Bristled majestic from the teeth to tail,
     And shook full fifty missiles from his hide,
     But no heed took he; steadfastly he eyed,
     And roared a roar, hoarse, vibrant, vengeful, dread,
     A rolling, raging peal of wrath, which spread,
     Making the half-awakened thunder cry,
     "Who thunders there?" from its black bed of sky.
     This ended all! Sheer horror cleared the coast;
     As fogs are driven by the wind, that valorous host
     Melted, dispersed to all the quarters four,
     Clean panic-stricken by that monstrous roar.
     Then quoth the lion, "Woods and mountains, see,
     A thousand men, enslaved, fear one beast free!"
     He followed towards the hill, climbed high above,
     Lifted his voice, and, as the sowers sow
     The seed down wind, thus did that lion throw
     His message far enough the town to reach:
     "King! your behavior really passes speech!
     Thus far no harm I've wrought to him your son;
     But now I give you notice – when night's done,
     I will make entry at your city-gate,
     Bringing the prince alive; and those who wait
     To see him in my jaws – your lackey-crew —
     Shall see me eat him in your palace, too!"
     Next morning, this is what was viewed in town:
     Dawn coming – people going – some adown
     Praying, some crying; pallid cheeks, swift feet,
     And a huge lion stalking through the street.
     It seemed scarce short of rash impiety
     To cross its path as the fierce beast went by.
     So to the palace and its gilded dome
     With stately steps unchallenged did he roam;
     He enters it – within those walls he leapt!
     No man!
 
 
              For certes, though he raged and wept,
     His majesty, like all, close shelter kept,
     Solicitous to live, holding his breath
     Specially precious to the realm. Now death
     Is not thus viewed by honest beasts of prey;
     And when the lion found him fled away,
     Ashamed to be so grand, man being so base,
     He muttered to himself, "A wretched king!
     'Tis well; I'll eat his boy!" Then, wandering,
     Lordly he traversed courts and corridors,
     Paced beneath vaults of gold on shining floors,
     Glanced at the throne deserted, stalked from hall
     To hall – green, yellow, crimson – empty all!
     Rich couches void, soft seats unoccupied!
     And as he walked he looked from side to side
     To find some pleasant nook for his repast,
     Since appetite was come to munch at last
     The princely morsel! – Ah! what sight astounds
     That grisly lounger?
 
 
                           In the palace grounds
     An alcove on a garden gives, and there
     A tiny thing – forgot in the general fear,
     Lulled in the flower-sweet dreams of infancy,
     Bathed with soft sunlight falling brokenly
     Through leaf and lattice – was at that moment waking;
     A little lovely maid, most dear and taking,
     The prince's sister – all alone, undressed —
     She sat up singing: children sing so best.
     Charming this beauteous baby-maid; and so
     The beast caught sight of her and stopped —
 
 
                                                  And then
     Entered – the floor creaked as he stalked straight in.
     Above the playthings by the little bed
     The lion put his shaggy, massive head,
     Dreadful with savage might and lordly scorn,
     More dreadful with that princely prey so borne;
     Which she, quick spying, "Brother, brother!" cried,
     "Oh, my own brother!" and, unterrified,
     She gazed upon that monster of the wood,
     Whose yellow balls not Typhon had withstood,
     And – well! who knows what thoughts these small heads hold?
     She rose up in her cot – full height, and bold,
     And shook her pink fist angrily at him.
     Whereon – close to the little bed's white rim,
     All dainty silk and laces – this huge brute
     Set down her brother gently at her foot,
     Just as a mother might, and said to her,
     "Don't be put out, now! There he is, dear, there!"
 

EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.