Poems. Victor Hugo

           In a swinging hammock lying,

                 Lightly flying,

           Zara, lovely indolent,

             O'er a fountain's crystal wave

                 There to lave

           Her young beauty – see her bent.

           As she leans, so sweet and soft,

                 Flitting oft,

           O'er the mirror to and fro,

             Seems that airy floating bat,

                 Like a feather

           From some sea-gull's wing of snow.

           Every time the frail boat laden

                 With the maiden

           Skims the water in its flight,

             Starting from its trembling sheen,

                 Swift are seen

           A white foot and neck so white.

           As that lithe foot's timid tips

                 Quick she dips,

           Passing, in the rippling pool,

             (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!)

                 Frolic, she

           Laughs to feel the pleasant cool.

           Here displayed, but half concealed —

                 Half revealed,

           Each bright charm shall you behold,

             In her innocence emerging,

                 As a-verging

           On the wave her hands grow cold.

           For no star howe'er divine

                 Has the shine

           Of a maid's pure loveliness,

             Frightened if a leaf but quivers

                 As she shivers,

           Veiled with naught but dripping trees.

           By the happy breezes fanned

                 See her stand, —

           Blushing like a living rose,

             On her bosom swelling high

                 If a fly

           Dare to seek a sweet repose.

           In those eyes which maiden pride

                 Fain would hide,

           Mark how passion's lightnings sleep!

             And their glance is brighter far

                 Than the star

           Brightest in heaven's bluest deep.

           O'er her limbs the glittering current

                 In soft torrent

           Rains adown the gentle girl,

             As if, drop by drop, should fall,

                One and all

           From her necklace every pearl.

           Lengthening still the reckless pleasure

                 At her leisure,

           Care-free Zara ever slow

             As the hammock floats and swings

                 Smiles and sings,

           To herself, so sweet and low.

           "Oh, were I a capitana,

                 Or sultana,

           Amber should be always mixt

             In my bath of jewelled stone,

                 Near my throne,

           Griffins twain of gold betwixt.

           "Then my hammock should be silk,

                 White as milk;

           And, more soft than down of dove,

             Velvet cushions where I sit

                 Should emit

           Perfumes that inspire love.

           "Then should I, no danger near,

                 Free from fear,

           Revel in my garden's stream;

             Nor amid the shadows deep

                 Dread the peep,

           Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam.

           "He who thus would play the spy,

                 On the die

           For such sight his head must throw;

             In his blood the sabre naked

                 Would be slakèd,

           Of my slaves of ebon brow.

           "Then my rich robes trailing show

                 As I go,

           None to chide should be so bold;

             And upon my sandals fine

                 How should shine

           Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!"

           Fancying herself a queen,

                 All unseen,

           Thus vibrating in delight;

             In her indolent coquetting

                 Quite forgetting

           How the hours wing their flight.

           As she lists the showery tinkling

                 Of the sprinkling

           By her wanton curvets made;

             Never pauses she to think

                 Of the brink

           Where her wrapper white is laid.

           To the harvest-fields the while,

                 In long file,

           Speed her sisters' lively band,

             Like a flock of birds in flight

                 Streaming light,

           Dancing onward hand in hand.

           And they're singing, every one,