Читать книгу Poems - Victor Hugo, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 2

     "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       Deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn,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 hath rescued for the sky;

       Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven!

     Attend, be humble! for its power is nigh

       Israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth —

       A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!"