 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
157
VICTOR HUGO INSIDE PARIS.
“I pity you who are with the kings who kill;”
So said he, Victor Hugo, and prepared
In the arms of that sweet city they had dared
To threaten, aged blood of his to spill,
As if her kisses, youthful, he had shared.
So said he, Victor Hugo, and prepared
In the arms of that sweet city they had dared
To threaten, aged blood of his to spill,
As if her kisses, youthful, he had shared.
“I pity you who are with the kings who kill,
But me to minister to a people dying
It suits, and in the rear of Terror flying,
And in the van of Hope that forward will
Advance, to end a life of absent sighing;
But me to minister to a people dying
It suits, and in the rear of Terror flying,
And in the van of Hope that forward will
Advance, to end a life of absent sighing;
158
“Of lonely sighing far apart from her
My own sweet city, yea, my love, my queen,
I come to end the years that rolled between
Us, and my body to inter
Within the walls where long my soul hath been.
My own sweet city, yea, my love, my queen,
I come to end the years that rolled between
Us, and my body to inter
Within the walls where long my soul hath been.
“At a most supreme moment I return
When Freedom re-established on the throne
A chant triumphant ending in a groan
Is singing, one hand pointing to an urn,
The other to a despotism flown!
When Freedom re-established on the throne
A chant triumphant ending in a groan
Is singing, one hand pointing to an urn,
The other to a despotism flown!
“One hand is pointing to the sunset skies
Where sinks, but not this time in seas of blood,
Napoleon's sun that high in heaven stood
But yesterday, and held her for a prize—
And here my Lady hath the thing she would;
Where sinks, but not this time in seas of blood,
Napoleon's sun that high in heaven stood
But yesterday, and held her for a prize—
And here my Lady hath the thing she would;
“But with the other to the raging hordes
Of mad barbarians marching to her gates
To wreak on lips inviolate their hates
She points, and summons garniture of swords,
And lovers' breasts to meet the fickle fates.
Of mad barbarians marching to her gates
To wreak on lips inviolate their hates
She points, and summons garniture of swords,
And lovers' breasts to meet the fickle fates.
159
“And shall she make to any one in vain,
To any one of us, her last appeal,
Crowned with a kiss to each for woe or weal,
A kiss that either lips of Death retain,
Or else that rosy Victory's mouth may seal?”
To any one of us, her last appeal,
Crowned with a kiss to each for woe or weal,
A kiss that either lips of Death retain,
Or else that rosy Victory's mouth may seal?”
| Poems and Sonnets | |