Poems by Victor Hugo Part 44

XVIII.

DAYBREAK.

Then lifts he Mahaud to the ducal chair, And shuts the trap with noiseless, gentle care; And puts in order everything around, So that, on waking, naught should her astound.

"No drop of blood the thing has cost," mused he, "And that is best indeed."

But suddenly Some distant bells clang out. The mountains gray Have scarlet tips, proclaiming dawning day; The hamlets are astir, and crowds come out-- Bearing fresh branches of the broom--about To seek their Lady, who herself awakes Rosy as morn, just when the morning breaks; Half-dreaming still, she ponders, can it be Some mystic change has pa.s.sed, for her to see One old man in the place of two quite young!

Her wondering eyes search carefully and long.

It may be she regrets the change: meanwhile, The valiant knight salutes her with a smile, And then approaching her with friendly mien, Says, "Madam, has your sleep all pleasant been?"

MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.

THE SOUDAN, THE SPHINXES, THE CUP, THE LAMP.

_("Zim-Zizimi, Soudan d'egypte.")_

[Bk. XVI. i.]

Zim Zizimi--(of the Soudan of burnt Egypt, The Commander of Believers, a Bashaw Whose very robes were from Asia's greatest stript, More powerful than any lion with resistless paw) A master weighed on by his immense splendor-- Once had a dream when he was at his evening feast, When the broad table smoked like a perfumed censer, And its grateful odors the appet.i.te increased.

The banquet was outspread in a hall, high as vast, With pillars painted, and with ceiling bright with gold, Upreared by Zim's ancestors in the days long past, And added to till now worth a sum untold.

Howe'er rich no rarity was absent, it seemed, Fruit blushed upon the side-boards, groaning 'neath rich meats, With all the dainties palate ever dreamed In lavishness to waste--for dwellers in the streets Of cities, whether Troy, or Tyre, or Ispahan, Consume, in point of cost, food at a single meal Much less than what is spread before this crowned man--- Who rules his couchant nation with a rod of steel, And whose servitors' chiefest arts it was to squeeze The world's full teats into his royal helpless mouth.

Each hard-sought dainty that never failed to please, All delicacies, wines, from east, west, north or south, Are plenty here--for Sultan Zizimi drinks wine In its variety, trying to find what never sates.

Laughs at the holy writings and the text divine, O'er which the humble dervish prays and venerates.

There is a common saying which holds often good: That cruel is he who is sparing in his cups.

That they are such as are most thirsty of man's blood-- Yet he will see a slave beheaded whilst he sups.

But be this as it all may, glory gilds his reign, He has overrun Africa, the old and black; Asia as well--holding them both beneath a rain Of b.l.o.o.d.y drops from scaffold, pyre, the stake, or rack, To leave his empire's confines, one must run a race Far past the river Baxtile southward; in the north, To the rude, rocky, barren land of Thrace, Yet near enough to shudder when great Zim is wroth.

Conquering in every field, he finds delight In battle-storms; his music is the shout of camps.

On seeing him the eagle speeds away in fright, Whilst hid 'mong rocks, the grisly wolf its victim champs.

Mysore's as well as Agra's rajah is his kin; The great sheiks of the arid sands confess him lord; Omar, who vaunting cried: "Through me doth Allah win!"

Was of his blood--a dreaded line of fire and sword.

The waters of Nagain, sands of Sahara warm, The Atlas and the Caucasus, snow-capped and lone, Mecca, Marcatta, these were ma.s.sed in part to form A portion of the giant shadow of Zim's throne.

Before his might, to theirs, as hardest rock to dust, There have recoiled a horde of savage, warlike chiefs, Who have been into Afric's fiery furnace thrust-- Its scorching heat to his rage greatest of reliefs.

There is no being but fears Zim; to him bows down Even the sainted Llama in the holy place; And the wild Kasburder chieftain at his dark power Turns pale, and seeks a foeman of some lesser race.

Cities and states are bought and sold by Soudan Zim, Whose simple word their thousand people hold as law.

He ruins them at will, for what are men to him, More than to stabled cattle is the sheaf of straw?

The Soudan is not pleased, for he is e'er alone, For who may in his royal sports or joys be leagued.

He must never speak to any one in equal tones, But be by his own dazzling weightiness fatigued.

He has exhausted all the pastimes of the earth; In vain skilled men have fought with sword, the spear, or lance, The quips and cranks most laughed at have to him no mirth; He gives a regal yawn as fairest women dance; Music has outpoured all its notes, the soft and loud, But dully on his wearied ear its accents roll, As dully as the praises of the servile crowd Who falsely sing the purity of his black soul.

He has had before his das from the prison brought Two thieves, whose terror makes their chains to loudly ring, Then gaping most unkingly, he dismissed his slaves, And tranquilly, half rising, looked around to seek In the weighty stillness--such as broods round graves-- Something within his royal scope to which to speak.

The throne, on which at length his eyes came back to rest, Is upheld by rose-crowned Sphinxes, which lyres hold, All cut in whitest marble, with uncovered breast, While their eyes contain that enigma never told.

Each figure has its t.i.tle carved upon its head: _Health_, and _Voluptuousness, Greatness, Joy_, and _Play_, With _Victory, Beauty, Happiness_, may be read, Adorning brands they wear unblus.h.i.+ng in the day.

The Soudan cried: "O, Sphinxes, with the torch-like eye, I am the Conqueror--my name is high-arrayed In characters like flame upon the vaulted sky, Far from oblivion's reach or an effacing shade.

Upon a sheaf of thunderbolts I rest my arm, And G.o.ds might wish my exploits with them were their own.

I live--I am not open to the points of harm, And e'en my throne will be with age an altar-stone.

When the time comes for me to cast off earthly robe, And enter--being Day--into the realms of light, The G.o.ds will say, we call Zizimi from his globe That we may have our brother nearer to our sight!

Glory is but my menial, Pride my own chained slave, Humbly standing when Zizimi is in his seat.

I scorn base man, and have sent thousands to the grave.

They are but as a rushen carpet to my feet.

Instead of human beings, eunuchs, blacks, or mutes, Be yours, oh, Sphinxes, with the glad names on your fronts!

The task, with voice attuned to emulate the flute's, To charm the king, whose chase is man, and wars his hunts.

"Some portion of your splendor back on me reflect, Sing out in praiseful chains of melodious links!

Oh, throne, which I with b.l.o.o.d.y spoils have so bedecked, Speak to your lord! Speak you, the first rose-crested Sphinx!"

Soon on the summons, once again was stillness broke, For the ten figures, in a voice which all else drowned, Parting their stony lips, alternatively spoke-- Spoke clearly, with a deeply penetrative sound.

THE FIRST SPHINX.

So lofty as to brush the heavens' dome, Upon the highest terrace of her tomb Is Queen Nitrocis, thinking all alone, Upon her line, long tenants of the throne, Terrors, scourges of the Greeks and Hebrews, Harsh and bloodthirsty, narrow in their views.

Against the pure scroll of the sky, a blot, Stands out her sepulchre, a fatal spot That seems a baneful breath around to spread.

The birds which chance to near it, drop down dead.

The queen is now attended on by shades, Which have replaced, in horrid guise, her maids.

No life is here--the law says such as bore A corpse alone may enter through yon door.

Before, behind, around the queen, her sight Encounters but the same blank void of night.

Above, the pilasters are like to bars, And, through their gaps, the dead look at the stars, While, till the dawn, around Nitrocis' bones, Spectres hold council, crouching on the stones.

THE SECOND SPHINX.

Howe'er great is pharaoh, the magi, king, Encompa.s.sed by an idolizing ring, None is so high as Tiglath Pileser.

Who, like the G.o.d before whom pales the star, Has temples, with a prophet for a priest, Who serves up daily sacrilegious feast.

His anger there are none who dare provoke, His very mildness is looked on as a yoke; And under his, more feared than other rules, He holds his people bound, like tamed bulls.

Asia is banded with his paths of war; He is more of a scourge than Attila.

He triumphs glorious--but, day by day, The earth falls at his feet, piecemeal away; And the bricks for his tomb's wall, one by one, Are being shaped--are baking in the sun.

THE THIRD SPHINX.

Equal to archangel, for one short while, Was Nimroud, builder of tall Babel's pile.

His sceptre reached across the s.p.a.ce between The sites where Sol to rise and set is seen.

Baal made him terrible to all alike, The greatest cow'ring when he rose to strike.

Unbelief had shown in ev'ry eye, Had any dared to say: "Nimroud will die!"

He lived and ruled, but is--at this time, where?

Winds blow free o'er his realm--a desert bare!

THE FOURTH SPHINX.

There is a statue of King Chrem of old, Of unknown date and maker, but of gold.

How many grandest rulers in his day Chrem plucked down, there are now none can say.

Whether he ruled with gentle hand or rough, None know. He once was--no longer is--enough, Crowned Time, whose seat is on a ruined ma.s.s, Holds, and aye turns, a strange sand in his gla.s.s, A sand sc.r.a.ped from the mould, brushed from the shroud Of all pa.s.sed things, mean, great, lowly, or proud.

Thus meting with the ashes of the dead How hours of the living have quickly fled.