Poems | Page 5

few men thus to see their own apotheosis.
Whilst he was dying, in May, 1885, Paris was but the first mourner for all France; and the magnificent funeral pageant which conducted the pauper's coffin, antithetically enshrining the remains considered worthy of the highest possible reverence and honors, from the Champs Elys��es to the Pantheon, was the more memorable from all that was foremost in French art and letters having marched in the train, and laid a leaf or flower in the tomb of the prot��g�� of Chateaubriand, the brother-in-arms of Dumas, the inspirer of Mars, Dorval, Le-ma?tre, Rachel, and Bernhardt, and, above all, the Nemesis of the Third Empire.
EARLY POEMS.
MOSES ON THE NILE.
_("Mes soeurs, l'onde est plus fraiche.")_
[TO THE FLORAL GAMES, Toulouse, Feb. 10, 1820.]
"Sisters! the wave is freshest in the ray?Of the young morning; the reapers are asleep;?The river bank is lonely: come away!?The early murmurs of old Memphis creep?Faint on my ear; and here unseen we stray,--?Deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn,?Save by the dewy eye-glance of the dawn.
"Within my father's palace, fair to see,?Shine all the Arts, but oh! this river side,?Pranked with gay flowers, is dearer far to me?Than gold and porphyry vases bright and wide;?How glad in heaven the song-bird carols free!?Sweeter these zephyrs float than all the showers?Of costly odors in our royal bowers.
"The sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear:?Unloose your zones, my maidens! and fling down?To float awhile upon these bushes near?Your blue transparent robes: take off my crown,?And take away my jealous veil; for here?To-day we shall be joyous while we lave?Our limbs amid the murmur of the wave.
"Hasten; but through the fleecy mists of morn,?What do I see? Look ye along the stream!?Nay, timid maidens--we must not return!?Coursing along the current, it would seem?An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne,?That from the distant wilderness proceeds,?Downwards, to view our wondrous Pyramids.
"But stay! if I may surely trust mine eye,--?It is the bark of Hermes, or the shell?Of Iris, wafted gently to the sighs?Of the light breeze along the rippling swell;?But no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies?An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest?Looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast.
"He sleeps--oh, see! his little floating bed?Swims on the mighty river's fickle flow,?A white dove's nest; and there at hazard led?By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro,?The cot comes down; beneath his quiet head?The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave?Appears to rock the child upon a grave.
"He wakes--ah, maids of Memphis! haste, oh, haste!?He cries! alas!--What mother could confide?Her offspring to the wild and watery waste??He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide?Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed,?He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath,?Between such helpless innocence and death.
"Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those?Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes;?Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose?Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes!?Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes,?I would I were his mother; but I'll give?If not his birth, at least the claim to live."
Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride?Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh,?Wandered along the Nile's meandering side;?And these diminished beauties, standing by?The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide?Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood,?More lovely than the genius of the flood!
The waters broken by her delicate feet?Receive the eager wader, as alone?By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet?The wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won!?She holds the weeping burden with a sweet?And virgin glow of pride upon her brow,?That knew no flush save modesty's till now.
Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch,?She brought the rescued infant slowly out?Beyond the humid sands; at her approach?Her curious maidens hurried round about?To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch;?Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh?Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye!
Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear,?Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy--?The loved of heaven! come like a stranger near,?And clasp young Moses with maternal joy;?Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear?Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim,?For Iphis knows not yet a mother's name!
With a glad heart, and a triumphal face,?The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led?The humble infant of a hated race,?Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed;?While loudly pealing round the holy place?Of Heaven's white Throne, the voice of angel choirs?Intoned the theme of their undying lyres!
"No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below--?O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell?The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo!?Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell;?And Goshen shall behold thy people go?Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand,?From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land.
"The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai,?Is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven,?A vigorous hand