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 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!
Victor Hugo - Poems
]
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! attables 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 _cafes_ 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 _fete_--
The bread of _Liberty_!
H. L. W.
POOR LITTLE CHILDREN.
_("La femelle! elle est morte. ")_
[Bk. I. xiii. , Jersey, February, 1853.
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! attables 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 _cafes_ 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 _fete_--
The bread of _Liberty_!
H. L. W.
POOR LITTLE CHILDREN.
_("La femelle! elle est morte. ")_
[Bk. I. xiii. , Jersey, February, 1853.
