Poems

FIRST LOVE

("Vous êtes singulier.")

{MARION DELORME, Act I., June, 1829, played 1831.}

 
     MARION (smiling.) You're strange, and yet I love you thus.
 
 
     DIDIER.                     You love me?
     Beware, nor with light lips utter that word.
     You love me! – know you what it is to love
     With love that is the life-blood in one's veins,
     The vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered,
     Smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing,
     And purifying in its growth the soul.
     A love that from the heart eats every passion
     But its sole self; love without hope or limit,
     Deep love that will outlast all happiness;
     Speak, speak; is such the love you bear me?
 
 
     MARION.                                      Truly.
 
 
     DIDIER. Ha! but you do not know how I love you!
     The day that first I saw you, the dark world
     Grew shining, for your eyes lighted my gloom.
     Since then, all things have changed; to me you are
     Some brightest, unknown creature from the skies.
     This irksome life, 'gainst which my heart rebelled,
     Seems almost fair and pleasant; for, alas!
     Till I knew you wandering, alone, oppressed,
     I wept and struggled, I had never loved.
 

FANNY KEMBLE-BUTLER.

THE FIRST BLACK FLAG

("Avez-vous oui dire?")

{LES BURGRAVES, Part I., March, 1843.}

 
       JOB. Hast thou ne'er heard men say
     That, in the Black Wood, 'twixt Cologne and Spire,
     Upon a rock flanked by the towering mountains,
     A castle stands, renowned among all castles?
     And in this fort, on piles of lava built,
     A burgrave dwells, among all burgraves famed?
     Hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws —
     Charged with a thousand crimes – for warlike deeds
     Renowned – and placed under the Empire's ban
     By the Diet of Frankfort; by the Council
     Of Pisa banished from the Holy Church;
     Reprobate, isolated, cursed – yet still
     Unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will;
     The bitter foe of the Count Palatine
     And Treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned
     For sixty years the ladder which the Empire
     Upreared to scale his walls? Hast heard that he
     Shelters the brave – the flaunting rich man strips —
     Of master makes a slave? That here, above
     All dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors – in the eyes
     Of Germany to their fierce strife a prey,
     He rears upon his tower, in stern defiance,
     A signal of appeal to the crushed people,
     A banner vast, of Sorrow's sable hue,
     Snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath,
     So that kings quiver as the jades at whips?
     Hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year —
     And that, defying fate, in face of heaven,
     On his invincible peak, no force of war
     Uprooting other holds – nor powerful Cæsar —
     Nor Rome – nor age, that bows the pride of man —
     Nor aught on earth – hath vanquished, or subdued,
     Or bent this ancient Titan of the Rhine,
     The excommunicated Job?
 

Democratic Review.

THE SON IN OLD AGE

("Ma Regina, cette noble figure.")

{LES BURGRAVES, Part II.}

 
     Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind
     My poor lost little one, my latest born.
     He was a gift from God – a sign of pardon —
     That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!
     I to his little cradle went, and went,
     And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.
     For when one's very old, one is a child!
     Then took it up and placed it on my knees,
     And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair —
     Thou wert not born then – and he would stammer
     Those pretty little sounds that make one smile!
     And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.
     He recognized me – nay, knew me right well,
     And in my face would laugh – and that child-laugh,
     Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.
     I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror,
     And named him George. One day – oh, bitter thought!
     The child played in the fields. When thou art mother,
     Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play!
     The gypsies took him from me – oh, for what?
     Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite.
     I weep! – now, after twenty years – I weep
     As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so!
     I used to call him "my own little king!"
     I was intoxicated with my joy
     When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands,
     Thrilling me all through.
 

Foreign Quarterly Review.

THE EMPEROR'S RETURN

("Un bouffon manquait à cette fête.")

{LES BURGRAVES, Part II.}

The EMPEROR FREDERICK BARBAROSSA, believed to be dead, appearing as a beggar among the Rhenish nobility at a castle, suddenly reveals himself.

 
       HATTO. This goodly masque but lacked a fool!
     First gypsy; next a beggar; – good! Thy name?
 
 
       BARBAROSSA. Frederick of Swabia, Emperor of Almain.
 
 
       ALL. The Red Beard?
 
 
       BARBAROSSA. Aye, Frederick, by my mountain birthright Prince
     O' th' Romans, chosen king, crowned emperor,
     Heaven's sword-bearer, monarch of Burgundy
     And Arles – the tomb of Karl I dared profane,
     But have repented me on bended knees
     In penance 'midst the desert twenty years;
     My drink the rain, the rocky herbs my food,
     Myself a ghost the shepherds fled before,
     And the world named me as among the dead.
     But I have heard my country call – come forth,
     Lifted the shroud – broken the sepulchre.
     This hour is one when dead men needs must rise.
     Ye own me? Ye mind me marching through these vales
     When golden spur was ringing at my heel?
     Now know me what I am, your master, earls!
     Brave knights you deem! You say, "The sons we are
     Of puissant barons and great noblemen,
     Whose honors we prolong." You do prolong them?
     Your sires were soldiers brave, not prowlers base,
     Rogues, miscreants, felons, village-ravagers!
     They made great wars, they rode like heroes forth,
     And, worthy, won broad lands and towers and towns,
     So firmly won that thirty years of strife
     Made of their followers dukes, their leaders kings!
     While you! like jackal and the bird of prey,
     Who lurk in copses or 'mid muddy beds —
     Crouching and hushed, with dagger ready drawn,
     Hide in the noisome marsh that skirts the way,
     Trembling lest passing hounds snuff out your lair!
     Listen at eventide on lonesome path
     For traveller's footfall, or the mule-bell's chime,
     Pouncing by hundreds on one helpless man,
     To cut him down, then back to your retreats —
     You dare to vaunt your sires? I call your sires,
     Bravest of brave and greatest 'mid the great,
     A line of warriors! you, a pack of thieves!
 

Athenaeum.