Читать книгу Poems - Victor Hugo, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 36

           Town, tower,

             Shore, deep,

           Where lower

             Cliff's steep;

           Waves gray,

           Where play

           Winds gay,

             All sleep.

         Hark! a sound,

           Far and slight,

         Breathes around

           On the night

         High and higher,

         Nigh and nigher,

         Like a fire,

           Roaring, bright.

         Now, on 'tis sweeping

           With rattling beat,

         Like dwarf imp leaping

           In gallop fleet

         He flies, he prances,

         In frolic fancies,

         On wave-crest dances

           With pattering feet.

         Hark, the rising swell,

           With each new burst!

         Like the tolling bell

           Of a convent curst;

         Like the billowy roar

         On a storm-lashed shore, —

         Now hushed, but once more

           Maddening to its worst.

         O God! the deadly sound

           Of the Djinn's fearful cry!

         Quick, 'neath the spiral round

           Of the deep staircase fly!

         See, see our lamplight fade!

         And of the balustrade

         Mounts, mounts the circling shade

           Up to the ceiling high!

       'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm

         Whistling in their tempest flight;

       Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm,

         Like a pine flame crackling bright.

       Swift though heavy, lo! their crowd

       Through the heavens rushing loud

       Like a livid thunder-cloud

         With its bolt of fiery might!

     Ho! they are on us, close without!

       Shut tight the shelter where we lie!

     With hideous din the monster rout,

       Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!

     The loosened rafter overhead

     Trembles and bends like quivering reed;

     Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,

       As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly!

     Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek!

       The horrid troop before the tempest tossed —

     O Heaven! – descends my lowly roof to seek:

       Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host.

     Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn

     From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne,

     Up from its deep foundations it were torn

       To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!

         O Prophet! if thy hand but now

           Save from these hellish things,

         A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow,

           Laden with pious offerings.

         Bid their hot breath its fiery rain

         Stream on the faithful's door in vain;

         Vainly upon my blackened pane

           Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!

       They have passed! – and their wild legion

         Cease to thunder at my door;

       Fleeting through night's rayless region,

         Hither they return no more.

       Clanking chains and sounds of woe

       Fill the forests as they go;

       And the tall oaks cower low,

         Bent their flaming light before.

       On! on! the storm of wings

         Bears far the fiery fear,

       Till scarce the breeze now brings

         Dim murmurings to the ear;

       Like locusts' humming hail,

       Or thrash of tiny flail

       Plied by the fitful gale

         On some old roof-tree sere.

           Fainter now are borne

             Feeble mutterings still;

           As when Arab horn

             Swells its magic peal,

           Shoreward o'er the deep

           Fairy voices sweep,

           And the infant's sleep

             Golden visions fill.

           Each deadly Djinn,

             Dark child of fright,

           Of death and sin,

             Speeds in wild flight.

           Hark, the dull moan,

           Like the deep tone

           Of Ocean's groan,

             Afar, by night!

           More and more

             Fades it slow,

           As on shore

             Ripples flow, —

           As the plaint

           Far and faint

           Of a saint

             Murmured low.

           Hark! hist!

             Around,

           I list!

             The bounds

               Of space

               All trace

               Efface

             Of sound.