Poems

     My love flowed e'er for things with wings.       When boy I sought for forest fowl,     And caged them in rude rushes' mesh,       And fed them with my breakfast roll;     So that, though fragile were the door,       They rarely fled, and even then     Would flutter back at faintest call!       Man-grown, I charm for men.

BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE

("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.")

{XXXVIII., 1840.}

     Brown ivy old, green herbage new;       Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle;     An ancient chapel where a crew,       Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle.     A far-off forest's darkling frown,       Which makes the prudent start and tremble,     Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down,       And clouds in demon hordes assemble.     Land birds which twit the mews that scream       Round walls where lolls the languid lizard;     Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream       Past caves fit for an ocean wizard.     Alow, aloft, no lull – all life,       But far aside its whirls are keeping,     As wishfully to let its strife       Spare still the mother vainly weeping       O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.

LES CHÂTIMENTS. – 1853.

INDIGNATION!

("Toi qu'aimais Juvénal.")

{Nox (PRELUDE) ix., Jersey, November, 1852.}

     Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed       His style so sharp to scar imperial brows,     And lent the lustre lightening       The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows —     Muse Indignation! haste, and help       My building up before this roseate realm,     And its so fruitless victories,       Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm,     So many pillories, deserved!       That eyes to come will pry without avail,     Upon the wood impenetrant,       And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale.

IMPERIAL REVELS

("Courtisans! attablés dans le splendide orgie.")

{Bk. I. x., Jersey, December, 1852.}

     Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread —       The board that groans with shame and plate,     Still fawning to the sham-crowned head       That hopes front brazen turneth fate!     Drink till the comer last is full,     And never hear in revels' lull,     Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,           Whilst I gnaw at the crust           Of Exile in the dust —     But Honor makes it sweet!     Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane,       Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief,     In blazing cafés spend the gain,       But draw the blind, lest at his thief     Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance     And interrupts with steel the dance!     But let him toilsomely tramp by,           As I myself afar           Follow no gilded car     In ways of Honesty.     Ye troopers who shot mothers down,       And marshals whose brave cannonade     Broke infant arms and split the stone       Where slumbered age and guileless maid —     Though blood is in the cup you fill,     Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still     Hail Cannon "King!" and Steel the "Queen!"           But I prefer to sup           From Philip Sidney's cup —     True soldier's draught serene.     Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime,       When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace,     Can you be dazed by tinselled crime,       And spy no wolf beneath the fleece?     Build palaces where Fortunes feast,     And bear your loads like well-trained beast,     Though once such masters you made flee!           But then, like me, you ate           Food of a blessed fête—     The bread of Liberty!H.L.W.

POOR LITTLE CHILDREN

("La femelle! elle est morte.")

{Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.}

     Mother birdie stiff and cold,       Puss has hushed the other's singing;     Winds go whistling o'er the wold, —       Empty nest in sport a-flinging.           Poor little birdies!     Faithless shepherd strayed afar,       Playful dog the gadflies catching;     Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar,       Not a friend the fold is watching —           Poor little lambkins!     Father into prison fell,       Mother begging through the parish;     Baby's cot they, too, will sell, —       Who will now feed, clothe and cherish?           Poor little children!

APOSTROPHE TO NATURE

("O Soleil!")

{Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d'État, 1852.}

     O Sun! thou countenance divine!       Wild flowers of the glen,     Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine       Has pierced not, far from men;     Ye sacred hills and antique rocks,       Ye oaks that worsted time,     Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks       Hurl up in storms sublime;     And sky above, unruflfed blue,       Chaste rills that alway ran     From stainless source a course still true,       What think ye of this man?

NAPOLEON "THE LITTLE."

("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")

{Bk. III. ii., Jersey, August, 1852.}

     How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl,       When in the eagle talons ta'en in air!     Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey – thou fowl —       I held thee, abject conqueror, just where     All see the stigma of a fitting name       As deeply red as deeply black thy shame!     And though thy matchless impudence may frame       Some mask of seeming courage – spite thy sneer,     And thou assurest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart!"       Thou feel'st it burning, in and in, – and fear     None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!

FACT OR FABLE?

(BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III.)

("Un jour, sentant un royal appétit.")

{Bk. III. iii., Jersey, September, 1852.}

     One fasting day, itched by his appetite,       A monkey took a fallen tiger's hide,       And, where the wearer had been savage, tried     To overpass his model. Scratch and bite     Gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams,       But, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly     With crying often: "See the Terror of your dreams!"       Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh.     Left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den,       With sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves,     And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men,       Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves —     He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf       Sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things,     As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger's self!       Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings     Till tramps a butcher by – he risks his head —       In darts the hand and crushes out the yell,       And plucks the hide – as from a nut the shell —     He holds him nude, and sneers: "An ape you dread!"H.L.W.      A LAMENT.

("Sentiers où l'herbe se balance.")

{Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.}

     O paths whereon wild grasses wave!       O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar!     Why are ye silent as the grave?       For One, who came, and comes no more!     Why is thy window closed of late?       And why thy garden in its sear?     O house! where doth thy master wait?       I only know he is not here.     Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand       Will feed thee. In the house is none.     Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And       O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.     Where is he gone? Into the dark. —       O sad, and ever-plaining surge!     Whence art thou? From the convict-bark.       And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.

NO ASSASSINATION

("Laissons le glaive à Rome.")

{Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.}

     Pray Rome put up her poniard!       And Sparta sheathe the sword;     Be none too prompt to punish,       And cast indignant word!     Bear back your spectral Brutus       From robber Bonaparte;     Time rarely will refute us       Who doom the hateful heart.     Ye shall be o'ercontented,       My banished mates from home,     But be no rashness vented       Ere time for joy shall come.     No crime can outspeed Justice,       Who, resting, seems delayed —     Full faith accord the angel       Who points the patient blade.     The traitor still may nestle       In balmy bed of state,     But mark the Warder, watching       His guardsman at his gate.     He wears the crown, a monarch —       Of knaves and stony hearts;     But though they're blessed by Senates,       None can escape the darts!     Though shored by spear and crozier,       All know the arrant cheat,     And shun the square of pavement       Uncertain at his feet!     Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding       And secret-leaguers' chief,     And make no pistol-target       Of stars upon the thief.     The knell of God strikes seldom       But in the aptest hour;     And when the life is sweetest,       The worm will feel His power!

THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM

("Pendant que dans l'auberge.")

{Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.}

     While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink,     Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink?     Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed,     A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed,     And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear,     I known it is the Future– God's Justicer is here!

THE SEAMAN'S SONG

("Adieu, patrie.")

{Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.}

           Farewell the strand,           The sails expand                 Above!           Farewell the land                 We love!     Farewell, old home where apples swing!     Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!           Farewell, riff-raff           Of Customs' clerks who laugh                 And shout:           "Farewell!" We'll quaff                 One bout     To thee, young lass, with kisses sweet!     Farewell, my dear – the ship flies fleet!     The fog shuts out the last fond peep,     As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep.     Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird!     The whistling wind alone is heard:                 Farewell! Farewell!

THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW

("Il neigeait.")

{Bk. V. xiii., Nov. 25-30, 1852.}

     It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red!     For once the eagle was hanging its head.     Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back     On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.     The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign     Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain.     Nor chief nor banner in order could keep,     The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep.     The wings from centre could hardly be known     Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown,     Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn     Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn:     Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode     Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad.     The shells and bullets came down with the snow     As though the heavens hated these poor troops below.     Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold,     Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold     Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung     'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.     It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze     Whistled upon the glassy endless seas,     Where naked feet on, on for ever went,     With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.     They were not living troops as seen in war,     But merely phantoms of a dream, afar     In darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim, —     A mystery; of shadows a procession grim,     Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim.     Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold     Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold,     A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense,     A shroud of magnitude for host immense;     Till every one felt as if left alone     In a wide wilderness where no light shone,     To die, with pity none, and none to see     That from this mournful realm none should get free.     Their foes the frozen North and Czar – That, worst.     Cannon were broken up in haste accurst     To burn the frames and make the pale fire high,     Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die.     Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled     Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.     'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised     O'er regiments. And History, amazed,     Could not record the ruin of this retreat,     Unlike a downfall known before or the defeat     Of Hannibal – reversed and wrapped in gloom!     Of Attila, when nations met their doom!     Perished an army – fled French glory then,     Though there the Emperor! he stood and gazed     At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed     In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw —     He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.     Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love     Kept those that rose all dastard fear above,     As on his tent they saw his shadow pass —     Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas!     His fortune's star! it could not, could not be     That he had not his work to do – a destiny?     To hurl him headlong from his high estate,     Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate.     But all the while he felt himself alone,     Stunned with disasters few have ever known.     Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul,     What more was written on the Future's scroll?     Was this an expiation? It must be, yea!     He turned to God for one enlightening ray.     "Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed,     But the first murmur on his parched lips died.     "Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?"     A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet     Sprang in the darkness; – a Voice answered; "No!     Not yet."                 Outside still fell the smothering snow.     Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream?     It was the vulture's, but how like the sea-bird's scream.TORU DUTT.

THE OCEAN'S SONG

("Nous nous promenions à Rozel-Tower.")

{Bk. VI. iv., October, 1852.}

     We walked amongst the ruins famed in story             Of Rozel-Tower,     And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory             And heave in power.     O ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder,             Whilst waves marked time.     "Appeal, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder,             "And shine sublime!     "The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles, —             To despots sold,     Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles,             The Right uphold.     "Be born; arise; o'er earth and wild waves bounding             Peoples and suns!     Let darkness vanish; – tocsins be resounding,             And flash, ye guns!     "And you, – who love no pomps of fog, or glamour,             Who fear no shocks,     Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamor,             Exiles – the rocks!"TORU DUTT

THE TRUMPETS OF THE MIND

("Sonnez, clairons de la pensée!")

{Bk. VII. i., March 19, 1853.}

     Sound, sound for ever, Clarions of Thought!     When Joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought,     He marched around it with his banner high,     His troops in serried order following nigh,     But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang,     Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang.     At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king,     And at the second sneered, half wondering:     "Hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?"     At the third round, the ark of old renown     Swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud,     And then the troops with ensigns waving proud.     Stepped out upon the old walls children dark     With horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark.     At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites,     Women appeared upon the crenelated heights —     Those battlements embrowned with age and rust —     And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust,     And spun and sang when weary of the game.     At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame,     And with wild uproar clamorous and high     Railed at the clarion ringing to the sky.     At the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest,     So high that there the eagle built his nest,     So hard that on it lightning lit in vain,     Appeared in merriment the king again:     "These Hebrew Jews musicians are, meseems!"     He scoffed, loud laughing, "but they live on dreams."     The princes laughed submissive to the king,     Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring,     And thence the laughter spread through all the town.     At the seventh blast – the city walls fell down.TORU DUTT.

AFTER THE COUP D'ÊTAT

("Devant les trahisons.")

{Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.}

     Before foul treachery and heads hung down,       I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene.     Oh! faith in fallen things – be thou my crown,       My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean:     Yes, whilst he's there, or struggle some or fall,       O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain.     Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves – my all,       I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again.     I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore,       France, save my duty, I shall all forget;     Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar,       And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set.     O bitter exile, hard, without a term,       Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know     Who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm,       And who have fled that should have fought the foe.     If true a thousand stand, with them I stand;       A hundred? 'tis enough: we'll Sylla brave;     Ten? put my name down foremost in the band;       One? – well, alone – until I find my grave.TORU DUTT.

PATRIA.{1}

("Là-haut, qui sourit.")

{Bk. VII. vii., September, 1853.}

     Who smiles there? Is it     A stray spirit,     Or woman fair?       Sombre yet soft the brow!       Bow, nations, bow;     O soul in air,       Speak – what art thou?     In grief the fair face seems —     What means those sudden gleams?     Our antique pride from dreams     Starts up, and beams     Its conquering glance, —     To make our sad hearts dance,     And wake in woods hushed long     The wild bird's song.     Angel of Day!     Our Hope, Love, Stay,     Thy countenance       Lights land and sea       Eternally,     Thy name is France       Or Verity.     Fair angel in thy glass     When vile things move or pass,     Clouds in the skies amass;     Terrible, alas!     Thy stern commands are then:     "Form your battalions, men,     The flag display!"     And all obey.     Angel of might     Sent kings to smite,     The words in dark skies glance,       "Mené, Mené," hiss       Bolts that never miss!     Thy name is France,       Or Nemesis.     As halcyons in May,     O nations, in his ray     Float and bask for aye,     Nor know decay!     One arm upraised to heaven     Seals the past forgiven;     One holds a sword     To quell hell's horde,     Angel of God!     Thy wings stretch broad       As heaven's expanse!       To shield and free       Humanity!     Thy name is France,      Or Liberty!

{Footnote 1: Written to music by Beethoven.}

THE UNIVERSAL REPUBLIC

("Temps futurs.")

{Part "Lux," Jersey, Dec. 16-20, 1853.}

     O vision of the coming time!     When man has 'scaped the trackless slime       And reached the desert spring;     When sands are crossed, the sward invites     The worn to rest 'mid rare delights       And gratefully to sing.     E'en now the eye that's levelled high,     Though dimly, can the hope espy       So solid soon, one day;     For every chain must then be broke,     And hatred none will dare evoke,       And June shall scatter May.     E'en now amid our misery     The germ of Union many see,       And through the hedge of thorn,     Like to a bee that dawn awakes,     On, Progress strides o'er shattered stakes,       With solemn, scathing scorn.     Behold the blackness shrink, and flee!     Behold the world rise up so free       Of coroneted things!     Whilst o'er the distant youthful States,     Like Amazonian bosom-plates,       Spread Freedom's shielding wings.     Ye, liberated lands, we hail!     Your sails are whole despite the gale!     Your masts are firm, and will not fail —       The triumph follows pain!     Hear forges roar! the hammer clanks —     It beats the time to nations' thanks —       At last, a peaceful strain!     'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns,     And shattered shells are but the runs       Where warring insects cope;     And all the headsman's racks and blades     And pincers, tools of tyrants' aids,       Are buried with the rope.     Upon the sky-line glows i' the dark     The Sun that now is but a spark;       But soon will be unfurled —     The glorious banner of us all,     The flag that rises ne'er to fall,       Republic of the World!

LES CONTEMPLATIONS. – 1830-56.

THE VALE TO YOU, TO ME THE HEIGHTS

A FABLE

{Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.}

     A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird               Of Jove to drink:     When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd,               The moistened brink,     Beneath the palm —they always tempt pugnacious hands —               Both travel-sore;     But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands               Straight to each core;     As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call               Of Eagle shrill:     "Yon crownèd couple, who supposed the world too small,               Now one grave fill!     Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleachèd sapless bone               Becomes a pipe     Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone               By quail and snipe.     Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid,               And mortal feud?     I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo – none afraid —               In solitude:     At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood.               Kings, he and I;     For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood,               And he to me the sky."H.L.W.

CHILDHOOD

("L'enfant chantait.")

{Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.}

     The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed,       With anguish moaned, – fair Form pain should possess not long;     For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head:       I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.     The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye       Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright;     And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day       Carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night.     The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway;       And the blithe little lad began anew to sing…     Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weigh       Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.NELSON R. TYERMAN.

SATIRE ON THE EARTH

("Une terre au flanc maigre.")

{Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.}

     A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face,     Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race;     And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil,     Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil;     Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands,     And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands,     Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends,     And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends!     Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor;     Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two!     Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new,     That only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell,     In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell!     No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high,     Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry.     At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot;     Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot;     Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land,     Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand.     And this to those who, luckily, abide afar —     This is, ha! ha! a star!

HOW BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN

("Comme le matin rit sur les roses.")

{Bk. I. xii.}

     The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers     The tearful roses – lo, the little lovers —     That kiss the buds and all the flutterings     In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings     That go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide     With muffled music, murmured far and wide!     Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the lays     That dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays,     Of the proud hearts within a billet bound,     Of all the soft silk paper that men wound,     The messages of love that mortals write,     Filled with intoxication of delight,     Written in April, and before the Maytime     Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime.     We dream that all white butterflies above,     Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,     And leave their lady mistress to despair,     To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair,     Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies     Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.A. LANG.