(VICTOR HUGO TO GARIBALDI.)("Ces jeunes gens, combien étaient-ils."){LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY, December, 1868.}
I.Young soldiers of the noble Latin blood,How many are ye—Boys? Four thousand odd.How many are there dead? Six hundred: count!Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount,Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolledOut from their ribs, to give the wolves of the woldA red feast; nothing of them left but thesePierced relics, underneath the olive trees,Show where the gin was sprung—the scoundrel-trapWhich brought those hero-lads their foul mishap.See how they fell in swathes—like barley-ears!Their crime? to claim Rome and her glories theirs;To fight for Right and Honor;—foolish names!Come—Mothers of the soil! Italian dames!Turn the dead over!—try your battle luck!(Bearded or smooth, to her that gave him suckThe man is always child)—Stay, here's a browSplit by the Zouaves' bullets! This one, now,With the bright curly hair soaked so in blood,Was yours, ma donna!—sweet and fair and good.The spirit sat upon his fearless faceBefore they murdered it, in all the graceOf manhood's dawn. Sisters, here's yours! his lips,Over whose bloom the bloody death-foam slips,Lisped house-songs after you, and said your nameIn loving prattle once. That hand, the sameWhich lies so cold over the eyelids shut,Was once a small pink baby-fist, and wetWith milk beads from thy yearning breasts.Take thouThine eldest,—thou, thy youngest born. Oh, flowOf tears never to cease! Oh, Hope quite gone,Dead like the dead!—Yet could they live alone—Without their Tiber and their Rome? and beYoung and Italian—and not also free?They longed to see the ancient eagle tryHis lordly pinions in a modern sky.They bore—each on himself—the insults laidOn the dear foster-land: of naught afraid,Save of not finding foes enough to dareFor Italy. Ah; gallant, free, and rareYoung martyrs of a sacred cause,—Adieu!No more of life—no more of love—for you!No sweet long-straying in the star-lit gladesAt Ave-Mary, with the Italian maids;No welcome home!II.This Garibaldi now, the Italian boysGo mad to hear him—take to dying—takeTo passion for "the pure and high";—God's sake!It's monstrous, horrible! One sees quite clearSociety—our charge—must shake with fear,And shriek for help, and call on us to actWhen there's a hero, taken in the fact.If Light shines in the dark, there's guilt in that!What's viler than a lantern to a bat?III.Your Garibaldi missed the mark! You seeThe end of life's to cheat, and not to beCheated: The knave is nobler than the fool!Get all you can and keep it! Life's a pool,The best luck wins; if Virtue starves in rags,I laugh at Virtue; here's my money-bags!Here's righteous metal! We have kings, I say,To keep cash going, and the game at play;There's why a king wants money—he'd be missedWithout a fertilizing civil list.Do but tryThe question with a steady moral eye!The colonel strives to be a brigadier,The marshal, constable. Call the game fair,And pay your winners! Show the trump, I say!A renegade's a rascal—till the dayThey make him Pasha: is he rascal then?What with these sequins? Bah! you speak to Men,And Men want money—power—luck—life's joy—Those take who can: we could, and fobbed Savoy;For those who live content with honest state,They're public pests; knock we 'em on the pate!They set a vile example! Quick—arrestThat Fool, who ruled and failed to line his nest.Just hit a bell, you'll see the clapper shake—Meddle with Priests, you'll find the barrack wake—Ah! Princes know the People's a tight boot,March 'em sometimes to be shot and to shoot,Then they'll wear easier. So let them preachThe righteousness of howitzers; and teachAt the fag end of prayer: "Now, slit their throats!My holy Zouaves! my good yellow-coats!"We like to see the Holy Father sendPowder and steel and lead without an end,To feed Death fat; and broken battles mend.So they!IV.But thou, our Hero, baffled, foiled,The Glorious Chief who vainly bled and toiled.The trust of all the Peoples—Freedom's Knight!The Paladin unstained—the Sword of Right!What wilt thou do, whose land finds thee but jails!The banished claim the banished! deign to cheerThe refuge of the homeless—enter here,And light upon our households dark will fallEven as thou enterest. Oh, Brother, all,Each one of us—hurt with thy sorrows' proof,Will make a country for thee of his roof.Come, sit with those who live as exiles learn:Come! Thou whom kings could conquer but not yet turn.We'll talk of "Palermo"{2}—"the Thousand" true,Will tell the tears of blood of France to you;Then by his own great Sea we'll read, together,Old Homer in the quiet summer weather,And after, thou shalt go to thy desireWhile that faint star of Justice grows to fire.{3}V.Oh, Italy! hail your Deliverer,Oh, Nations! almost he gave Rome to her!Strong-arm and prophet-heart had all but comeTo win the city, and to make it "Rome."Calm, of the antique grandeur, ripe to beNamed with the noblest of her history.He would have Romanized your Rome—controlledHer glory, lordships, Gods, in a new mould.Her spirits' fervor would have melted inThe hundred cities with her; made a twinVesuvius and the Capitol; and blendedStrong Juvenal's with the soul, tender and splendid,Of Dante—smelted old with new alloy—Stormed at the Titans' road full of bold joyWhereby men storm Olympus. Italy,Weep!—This man could have made one Rome of thee!VI.But the crime's wrought! Who wrought it?Honest Man—Priest Pius? No! Each does but what he can.Yonder's the criminal! The warlike wightWho hides behind the ranks of France to fight,Greek Sinon's blood crossed thick with Judas-Jew's,The Traitor who with smile which true men woos,Lip mouthing pledges—hand grasping the knife—Waylaid French Liberty, and took her life.Kings, he is of you! fit companion! oneWhom day by day the lightning looks uponKeen; while the sentenced man triples his guardAnd trembles; for his hour approaches hard.Ye ask me "when?" I saysoon! Hear ye notYon muttering in the skies above the spot?Mark ye no coming shadow, Kings? the shroudOf a great storm driving the thunder-cloud?Hark! like the thief-catcher who pulls the pin,God's thunder asks tospeak to one within!VII.And meanwhile this death-odor—this corpse-scentWhich makes the priestly incense redolentOf rotting men, and the Te Deums stink—Reeks through the forests—past the river's brink,O'er wood and plain and mountain, till it foulsFair Paris in her pleasures; then it prowls,A deadly stench, to Crete, to Mexico,To Poland—wheresoe'er kings' armies go:And Earth one Upas-tree of bitter sadness,Opening vast blossoms of a bloody madness.Throats cut by thousands—slain men by the ton!Earth quite corpse-cumbered, though the half not done!They lie, stretched out, where the blood-puddles soak,Their black lips gaping with the last cry spoke."Stretched;" nay!sown broadcast; yes, the word is "sown."The fallows Liberty—the harsh wind blownOver the furrows, Fate: and these stark deadAre grain sublime, from Death's cold fingers shedTo make the Abyss conceive: the Future bearMore noble Heroes! Swell, oh, Corpses dear!Rot quick to the green blade of Freedom! Death!Do thy kind will with them! They without breath,Stripped, scattered, ragged, festering, slashed and blue,Dangle towards God the arms French shot tore throughAnd wait in meekness, Death! for Him and You!VIII.Oh, France! oh, People! sleeping unabashed!Liest thou like a hound when it was lashed?Thou liest! thine own blood fouling both thy hands,And on thy limbs the rust of iron bands,And round thy wrists the cut where cords went deep.Say did they numb thy soul, that thou didst sleep?Alas! sad France is grown a cave for sleeping,Which a worse night than Midnight holds in keeping,Thou sleepest sottish—lost to life and fame—While the stars stare on thee, and pale for shame.Stir! rouse thee! Sit! if thou know'st not to rise;Sit up, thou tortured sluggard! ope thine eyes!Stretch thy brawn, Giant! Sleep is foul and vile!Art fagged, art deaf, art dumb? art blind this while?They lie who say so! Thou dost know and feelThe things they do to thee and thine. The heelThat scratched thy neck in passing—whose? Canst say?Yes, yes, 'twashis, and this is hisfête-day.Oh, thou that wert of humankind—couched so—A beast of burden on this dunghill! oh!Bray to them, Mule! Oh, Bullock! bellow then!Since they have made thee blind, grope in thy den!Do something, Outcast One, that wast so grand!Who knows if thou putt'st forth thy poor maimed hand,There may be venging weapon within reach!Feel with both hands—with both huge arms go stretchAlong the black wall of thy cellar. Nay,Theremaybe some odd thing hidden away?Who knows—theremay! Those great hands might so comeIn course of ghastly fumble through the gloom,Upon a sword—asword! The hands once claspIts hilt, must wield it with a Victor's grasp.EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.{Footnote 1: The Battle of Mentana, so named from a village by Rome, wasfought between the allied French and Papal Armies and the Volunteer Forcesof Garibaldi, Nov. 3, 1867.}{Footnote 2: Palermo was taken immediately after the Garibaldianvolunteers, 1000 strong, landed at Marsala to inaugurate the rising whichmade Italy free.}{Footnote 3: Both poet and his idol lived to see the French Republic forthe fourth time proclaimed. When Hugo rose in the Senate, on the firstoccasion after his return to Paris after the expulsion of the Napoleons,and his white head was seen above that of Rouher, ex-Prime Minister of theEmpire, all the house shuddered, and in a nearly unanimous voice shouted:"The judgment of God! expiation!"}
("Orphée au bois du Caystre."){Bk. I. ii.}
Orpheus, through the hellward woodHurried, ere the eve-star glowed,For the fauns' lugubrious hootsFollowed, hollow, from crookèd roots;Aeschylus, where Aetna smoked,Gods of Sicily evokedWith the flute, till sulphur taintDulled and lulled the echoes faint;Pliny, soon his style mislaid,Dogged Miletus' merry maid,As she showed eburnean limbsAll-multiplied by brooklet brims;Plautus, see! like Plutus, holdBosomfuls of orchard-gold,Learns he why that mystic coreWas sweet Venus' meed of yore?Dante dreamt (while spirits passAs in wizard's jetty glass)Each black-bossed Briarian trunkWaved live arms like furies drunk;Winsome Will, 'neath Windsor Oak,Eyed each elf that cracked a jokeAt poor panting grease-hart fast—Obese, roguish Jack harassed;At Versailles, Molière did courtCues 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 danceStill, and will, in thy green expanse!
{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 pourFrom the incense-bowl divine,And around us dewdrops, shaken,Mirror each a twinkling ray'Twixt the flowers that awakenIn this glory great as day.Mists and fogs all vanish fleetly;And the birds begin to sing,Whilst the rain is murm'ring sweetlyAs if angels echoing.And, methinks, to show she's gratefulFor this seed from heaven come,Earth is holding up a platefulOf the birds and buds a-bloom!
("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 grandWhose pictures please you—while I trembling standTo see their big leaves tattered by your hand—Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth,When all your tiny frame rustles with mirthTo welcome me. No work of author wiseCan match the thought half springing to your eyes,And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange,Regarding man with all the boundless rangeOf angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clearThat God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here.Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and bringsGrave 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 leavenWhen man no shadow feels: if fond caressRound parent twines, children the world possess.Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and loveFrom Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove;No wider range of view your heart can takeThan what her nursing and his bright smiles make;They two alone on this your opening hourCan 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 besideMe 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 showYour cradles gilded by the morning's glow.Pure new-born wonderer! your infant lifeStrange 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 charmsTo mighty Paris clashing mighty arms.Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hearYou 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.
("Si vous continuez toute pâle."){November, 1870.}
If you continue thus so wan and white;If I, one day, beholdYou pass from out our dull air to the light,You, infant—I, so old:If I the thread of our two lives must seeThus 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 mysterySoft, 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 seeLaugh, walk, be well and gay;If like a little soul you seem to meThat fain would fly away—I'll deem that to this world, where oft are blentThe pall and swaddling-band,You came but to depart—an angel sentTo bear me from the land.LUCY H. HOOPER.
("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!
("Enfants, on vous dira plus tard."){January, 1871.}
In later years, they'll tell you grandpapaAdored his little darlings; for them didHis utmost just to pleasure them and marNo moments with a frown or growl amidTheir rosy rompings; that he loved them so(Though men have called him bitter, cold, and stern,)That in the famous winter when the snowCovered 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.
("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 twinesWith 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 dayMere 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 remainOf all my goodly show:Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane;God takes my children now.Linger, ye two still left me! though decaysOur 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 needsThan end so nobly shown.Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads,I seek the vast unknown.MARWOOD TUCKER.
("O caresse sublime."){April, 1871.}
Upon the grave's cold mouth there ever have caresses clungFor 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 immureOur 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.
("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 gripWas 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 flowOf 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 saidStill gruffly. "There, d'ye see? not far from here.""Haste! make it hers! then back to swelltheirbier."He sprang aloof as springald from detested school,Or ocean-rover from protected port."The little rascal has the laugh on us! no foolTo 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'skissed these eyes!"From cooling hands ofmeneach 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;Butthen, 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 gravedOn 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.
("O Charles, je te sens près de moi."){July, 1871.}
I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! downIn 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 soundsTwo little children's strain.George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play!Your father's form recall,Now darkened by his sombre shade, now giltBy beams that wandering fall.Oh, knowledge! what thy use? did we not knowDeath holds no more the dead;But Heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and starSmile 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 asideFrom 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 plaguedBy shadows at that stage.Hath any done—nay, only half performed—The good he might for others?Hath any conquered hatred, or had strengthTo 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 pulseNe'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 outburstingOf the soul in bloom, steeped in the draughtsOf nature's boundless spring.George is the sapling, set in mournful soil;Jeanne's folding petals shroudA mind which trembles at our uproar, yetHalf 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 hourFact and his dreamings meet.I, too, when death is past, one day shall graspThat end I know not now;And over you will bend me down, all filledWith dawn's mysterious glow.I'll learn what means this exile, what this shroudEnveloping your prime;And why the truth and sweetness of one manSeem 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, whySo great a pile of doom:Why endless frost enfolds me, and methinksMy 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.
{Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les Châtiments" duringthe 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!
("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 birthAre lights in the blue sky.In our brief bitter world of wrongThey 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, ParadiseWeeps, and if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.The want that saps their sinless flowerSpeaks 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.
("Un lion avait pris un enfant."){XIII.}
A Lion in his jaws caught up a child—Not harming it—and to the woodland, wildWith 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 besideHad but one girl, two years of age, and soThe monarch suffered, being old, much woe;His heir the monster's prey, while the whole landIn dread both of the beast and king did stand;Sore terrified were all.By came a knightThat 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 wentBack to its rocky couch and slept content.Sudden, loud cries and clamors! striking outQualm to the heart of the quiet, horn and shoutCausing 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 kingWith 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 paceFurther stirred any man; but bolt and dartMade 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 hostMelted, 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 sowThe seed down wind, thus did that lion throwHis 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 waitTo 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 adownPraying, some crying; pallid cheeks, swift feet,And a huge lion stalking through the street.It seemed scarce short of rash impietyTo cross its path as the fierce beast went by.So to the palace and its gilded domeWith 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 breathSpecially precious to the realm. Now deathIs not thus viewed by honest beasts of prey;And when the lion foundhimfled 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 hallTo hall—green, yellow, crimson—empty all!Rich couches void, soft seats unoccupied!And as he walked he looked from side to sideTo find some pleasant nook for his repast,Since appetite was come to munch at lastThe princely morsel!—Ah! what sight astoundsThat grisly lounger?In the palace groundsAn alcove on a garden gives, and thereA tiny thing—forgot in the general fear,Lulled in the flower-sweet dreams of infancy,Bathed with soft sunlight falling brokenlyThrough 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 soThe beast caught sight of her and stopped—And thenEntered—the floor creaked as he stalked straight in.Above the playthings by the little bedThe 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 bruteSet 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.