Читать книгу Poems - Victor Hugo, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 17

     Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey!

     Ye wolves of war, make no delay!

     For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall

     Ere night may veil with purple pall.

     The evening psalms are nearly o'er,

       And priests who follow in our train

       Have promised us the final gain,

     And filled with faith our valiant corps.

     Let orphans weep, and widows brood!

     To-morrow we shall wash the blood

     Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent,

     So, close the ranks and fire the tent!

     And chill yon coward cavalcade

       With brazen bugles blaring loud,

       E'en though our chargers' neighing proud

     Already has the host dismayed.

     Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds!

     On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds!

     Through helmet plumes the arrows flit,

     And plated breasts the pikeheads split.

     The double-axe fells human oaks,

       And like the thistles in the field

       See bristling up (where none must yield!)

     The points hewn off by sweeping strokes!

     We, heroes all, our wounds disdain;

     Dismounted now, our horses slain,

     Yet we advance – more courage show,

     Though stricken, seek to overthrow

     The victor-knights who tread in mud

       The writhing slaves who bite the heel,

       While on caparisons of steel

     The maces thunder – cudgels thud!

     Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred,

     Seize each your man and hug him dead!

     Who falls unslain will only make

     A mouthful to the wolves who slake

     Their month-whet thirst.  No captives, none!

       We die or win! but should we die,

       The lopped-off hand will wave on high

     The broken brand to hail the sun!