The Feast Of Freedom.

("Lorsqu'à l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")

[Bk. II. v., 1823.]

[There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet - at the prison gate - known as the "Free Festival." - CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."]


TO YE KINGS.

When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old
By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold
        An idolatrous cause,
Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout
Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout
        Of "the People's" applause.

On the eve of that day of their evenings the last!
At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast,
        Rich, unstinted, unpriced,
That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled,
With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread
        For the martyrs of Christ.

Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline
On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine
        Fill'd his cup to the brim!
Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose,
Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose,
        All united for him!

Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse,
In profusion procured was put forth to enhance
        The repast that they gave;
And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight,
Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night
        The elect of the grave.

And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain,
Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain
        The bloodthirsty arena;
Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds
And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs
        Shame the restless hyena.

They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve,
In their turn on the morrow were destined to give
        To the lions their food;
For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board,
Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford,
        Death administering stood.

Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power,
But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour -
        'Tis your knell that it rings!
To the popular tiger a prey is decreed,
And the maw of Republican hunger will feed
        On a banquet of Kings!

"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY)

Victor-Marie Hugo

Victor-Marie Hugo was a French poet, novelist, and dramatist of the Romantic movement. He is considered one of the greatest French writers, with works such as "Les Misérables" and "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame." His literary works often explore themes of justice, love, and human rights. In addition to his literary achievements, he was also a politician and human rights activist. Hugo's influence extends beyond literature into politics and society.

Victor-Marie Hugo

The Grandmother

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

The Danube In Wrath.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

Milton's Appeal To Cromwell.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

Epitaph.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

English

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("Courtisans! attablés dans le splendide orgie.")

[Bk. I. x., Jersey, December, 1852.]


Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread -
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Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane,
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Marriage And Feasts.

("La salle est magnifique.")

[IV. Aug. 23, 1839.]


The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright -
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The Hermit's Sacrifice.

From Rome's palaces and villas
    Gaily issued forth a throng;
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As they fought and rent each other
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Till like muffled thunders breaking
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The Sacking Of The City.

("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")

[XXIII., November, 1825.]


Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,
The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;
Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,
Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.

Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,
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While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!

Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms,
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Mentana. [1]

(VICTOR HUGO TO GARIBALDI.)

("Ces jeunes gens, combien étaient-ils.")

[LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY, December, 1868.]


I.

Young soldiers of the noble Latin blood,
How many are ye - Boys? Four thousand odd.
How many are there dead? Six hundred: count!
Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount,
Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled
Out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold
A red feast; nothing of them left but these
Pierced relics, underneath the olive trees,
Show where the gin was sprung - the scoundrel-trap
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Battle Of The Norsemen And The Gaels.

("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")

[VII., September, 1825.]


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!

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