Читать книгу Poems - Victor Hugo, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 31

     In a swinging hammock lying,

           Lightly flying,

     Zara, lovely indolent,

       O'er a fountain's crystal wave

           There to lave

     Her young beauty – see her bent.

     As she leans, so sweet and soft,

           Flitting oft,

     O'er the mirror to and fro,

       Seems that airy floating bat,

           Like a feather

     From some sea-gull's wing of snow.

     Every time the frail boat laden

           With the maiden

     Skims the water in its flight,

       Starting from its trembling sheen,

           Swift are seen

     A white foot and neck so white.

     As that lithe foot's timid tips

           Quick she dips,

     Passing, in the rippling pool,

       (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!)

           Frolic, she

     Laughs to feel the pleasant cool.

     Here displayed, but half concealed —

           Half revealed,

     Each bright charm shall you behold,

       In her innocence emerging,

           As a-verging

     On the wave her hands grow cold.

     For no star howe'er divine

           Has the shine

     Of a maid's pure loveliness,

       Frightened if a leaf but quivers

           As she shivers,

     Veiled with naught but dripping trees.

     By the happy breezes fanned

           See her stand, —

     Blushing like a living rose,

       On her bosom swelling high

           If a fly

     Dare to seek a sweet repose.

     In those eyes which maiden pride

           Fain would hide,

     Mark how passion's lightnings sleep!

       And their glance is brighter far

           Than the star

     Brightest in heaven's bluest deep.

     O'er her limbs the glittering current

           In soft torrent

     Rains adown the gentle girl,

       As if, drop by drop, should fall,

          One and all

     From her necklace every pearl.

     Lengthening still the reckless pleasure

           At her leisure,

     Care-free Zara ever slow

       As the hammock floats and swings

           Smiles and sings,

     To herself, so sweet and low.

     "Oh, were I a capitana,

           Or sultana,

     Amber should be always mixt

       In my bath of jewelled stone,

           Near my throne,

     Griffins twain of gold betwixt.

     "Then my hammock should be silk,

           White as milk;

     And, more soft than down of dove,

       Velvet cushions where I sit

           Should emit

     Perfumes that inspire love.

     "Then should I, no danger near,

           Free from fear,

     Revel in my garden's stream;

       Nor amid the shadows deep

           Dread the peep,

     Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam.

     "He who thus would play the spy,

           On the die

     For such sight his head must throw;

       In his blood the sabre naked

           Would be slakèd,

     Of my slaves of ebon brow.

     "Then my rich robes trailing show

           As I go,

     None to chide should be so bold;

       And upon my sandals fine

           How should shine

     Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!"

     Fancying herself a queen,

           All unseen,

     Thus vibrating in delight;

       In her indolent coquetting

           Quite forgetting

     How the hours wing their flight.

     As she lists the showery tinkling

           Of the sprinkling

     By her wanton curvets made;

       Never pauses she to think

           Of the brink

     Where her wrapper white is laid.

     To the harvest-fields the while,

           In long file,

     Speed her sisters' lively band,

       Like a flock of birds in flight

           Streaming light,

     Dancing onward hand in hand.

     And they're singing, every one,

           As they run

     This the burden of their lay:

       "Fie upon such idleness!

           Not to dress

     Earlier on harvest-day!"