Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SONG OF THE PROW-GILDERS, by VICTOR MARIE HUGO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SONG OF THE PROW-GILDERS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: We are the gilders of the prows
Last Line: Beneath thy groaning galley-slaves.
Subject(s): Sea; Ocean


WE are the gilders of the prows.
The whirl-winds the smooth sea arouse,
Spun onward like a turning wheel;
They fill the hollows of the deep
With shining spume and therein sweep
The galleys on a slanting keel.

The squall whips round, the sly winds veer;
Loud the dark Archer, sounding clear,
Holds the dread trumpet to his lips.
Mid this bewilderment 'tis we,
Though the wroth waves lurch giddily,
Send forth, gold-helmed, the spectre ships.

For spectre-like their golden helms
Thrust thro' the flood and wind that whelms;
Proud from our slips they take the sea,
A dauntless mark for lightning's lance
And a stern, terror-striking glance
To perils lurking stealthily.

Under the cooling leafage go;
Keep shut thy full seraglio;
Let not the veils down fall, O Sire,
From that strange throng that yestermorn
Stark nakéd to the mart were borne
For barter to the highest buyer.

What matters that to wind or wave,
A fair slave or a dusky slave,
From Alep or from Ispahan?
From thee alike all shrink away.
How wouldst thou then that that should sway
The wild and wondrous ocëan?

Each sates and spends his royal whim;
The sceptre's thine; the storm's to him
And lightning; each hath blades to smite;
Thou hast thy scimitar, and he
His wrath; as of the wind the sea,
Men murmur at the Sultan's might.

We toil for ocean and for king.
Loud at our twofold task we sing!
O swarthy Lord of high renown,
Thy stony heart, thy steely eye
Shall not to drowsy birds deny
Their slumber-time when dusk comes down.

For Nature holds eternal sway
Nor falters; God's spread wing's alway
A shield whereunder all may hide;
We sing within the stilly shade
Blithe songs that rise all unafraid
Of black reefs hid beneath the tide.

Let these our masters bear the palm,
Be crowned with laurel; we are calm
So that they leave for us aloof
The myriad stars, so clouds still fly
On their swift courses steadily
Unheeding any man's behoof.

June shines, and flow'r on flow'r unfurls;
The rose buds on white-breasted girls;
There's sport and mirth; the craftsmen sing.
Ah! then is penance hard to dree,
And the shy fawns light-footed flee
And set the leashed hounds quivering.

O Sultan, though thy life be spent
Lapped round with soothest ravishment,
Yet shalt thou die, and be no more.
Then live and reign—for life is sweet.
The fallow deer with folded feet
Lie dreaming on the forest floor.

The mounted stairway leads thee back
To lowly earth; bright fires turn black;
The grave cries "Lo!" to humankind.
Time's changing moons unplume the bird;
The slow resurgent tides are stirred
And dying voices freight the wind.

The air is warm; bare women dive
Into the pool; buds sunward strive
In heedless throngs; all's mirth and love.
White lustre shimmers on the mere;
The woodland roses upward peer,
Self-mirrored in the stars above.

Thy galley we have gilded bright.
Four hundred shackled rowers smite
Out from the port the insurgent waves.
She curbs the wind, she climbs the tide;
On either hand the rowlocks slide
Beneath thy groaning galley-slaves.





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