Poems. Victor Hugo

           Squirrel, mount yon oak so high,

           To its twig that next the sky

               Bends and trembles as a flower!

           Strain, O stork, thy pinion well, —

           From thy nest 'neath old church-bell,

           Mount to yon tall citadel,

               And its tallest donjon tower!

           To your mountain, eagle old,

           Mount, whose brow so white and cold,

               Kisses the last ray of even!

           And, O thou that lov'st to mark

           Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark,

           Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark —

               Joyous lark, O mount to heaven!

           And now say, from topmost bough,

           Towering shaft, and peak of snow,

               And heaven's arch – O, can you see

           One white plume that like a star,

           Streams along the plain afar,

           And a steed that from the war

               Bears my lover back to me?

           Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,

             His course through the forest uncaring;

           To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast

             In a pendulous cradle is bearing.

           All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste,

             As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;

           When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,

             And round her the breezes are dancing.

           On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush

             Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver;

           Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush,

             And the murmuring fall of the river.

           By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,

             To catch the sweet breath of the roses;

           Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain

             'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.

           Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,

             Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring;

           Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh,

             And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.

           On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,

             A charm that would lead to the bower;

           Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,

             At the dawn and the vesper hour.

           Then hovering down on her brow would I light,

             'Midst her golden tresses entwining;

           That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,

             And the sunbeams upon it shining.

           A single frail gem on her beautiful head,

             I should sit in the golden glory;

           And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread

             Round the brow of kings famous in story.

           Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,

             The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;

           Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,

             Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.

           Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,

             Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;

           Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie,

             While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!

           Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms,

             O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;

           With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms,

             At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.

           Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death;

             Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend!

           Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath,

             Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.

           Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel

             Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind,

           To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel,

             And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.

           Between two ebon rocks

             Behold yon sombre den,

           Where brambles bristle like the locks

             Of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men!

           Remote in ruddy fog

             Still hear the tiger growl

           At the lion and stripèd dog

             That prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl;

           Whilst other monsters fast

             The hissing basilisk;

           The hippopotamus so vast,

             And the boa with waking appetite made brisk!