XXXIII.

Taking atop the bristly tufts betwixt

Their horns, she gives the fire the first libation, Invoking Hecate, whose sway is fix'd

In heav'n and hell.

The others in their station

Bring knives. The spirting blood for expiation They catch in bowls. Æneas smites amain

A dark-fleeced lamb, the due propitiation To the great daughters of old Chaos twain. A barren heifer, too, for Hecate is slain.

XXXIV.

Thus does he auspicate to the Stygian sire
His altar of the night, and minister

For the steer's entrails heap'd upon the fire
The outpour'd oil. Lo! many a mountain spur
With all its woods is wondrously astir,

Soon as the dawn begins to streak the dark;
And as the goddess-presence nears, for her
Bellows the earth, and through the shadows, hark!
Deep-baying all the hounds of hell begin to bark.

XXXV.

"Far hence," the prophetess exclaims, "far hence
Be ye who are profane from all the land!
Much need, Æneas, of the heroic sense

And the firm soul. March onward, sword in hand!" She said, and plunged into the cave, and grand, With fearless steps, he follow'd her right on.

Gods of the manes! voiceless shadows! wann'd And silent places lighted of no sun,

Oh, suffer me to speak, Chaos and Phlegethon!

XXXVI.

Darkling they walk'd beneath the lonely night,

On through the shadows, through the tenantless homes, Realms unsubstantial. Look! such dubious light, Malign and chequer'd, to the traveller comes, Belated far aforest, when there glooms,

Rather than shines, a moon in clouded skies

Upon a colourless world. Before the rooms, Hell's antechambers couchant, there he eyes Sorrow's and conscience's avenging mysteries.

XXXVII.

Yon is the home of Sickness, pale and pining,
Old age, and Fear, and Famine, that can win
To evil deed,-of Poverty entwining

Misery with Shame,- of Death, and Labour's din,
And Sleep, Death's brother and his next of kin.
Over against them, and against the lair

Of those ill joys that are the foulest sin,

War on the threshold stands,—and Discord there,

With ribbons blood-bedropp'd woven through her snaky

hair.

THE EMPEROR'S RETURN.*

TRANSLATED FROM VICTOR HUGO.

"Il disait, 'Oh je reviendrai.'

SIRE! to thy capital thou shalt come back,
Without the battle's tocsin and wild stir;
Beneath the arch, drawn by eight steeds coal black,
Dress'd like an Emperor.

Thro' this same portal, God accompanying,
Sire! thou shalt come upon the car of state;
Like Charlemagne, a high ensainted King,
Like Cæsar, wondrous great.

On thy gold sceptre, to be vanquish'd never,
Thy crimson beakèd bird shall shine anon.
Upon thy mantle all thy bees ashiver

Shall twinkle in the sun.

Paris shall light up all her high and hundred

Tow'rs, shall speak out with all her tones sublime; Bells, clarions, rolling drums shall all be thunder'd

In music at a time.

* These translations from Victor Hugo were executed jointly by my wife and myself.

A mighty people, pale, with steps that falter,
Shall come to thee, by one attraction drawn,
Awe-stricken as a Priest before the altar,
Glad as a child at dawn,—

A people who would lay all laws e'er sung
Or storied at thy feet-aye floating on,
Intoxicate, from Bonaparte the young
To old Napoleon.

Then a new army, burning for the advance,
In exploit terrible, round thy car shall cry
Amain, "Vive l'Empereur!" and "Vive la France!"
And seeing thee pass by,

Chief of the mighty Empire! down shall fall
People and troops-but thou before their view

Shalt not be able to stoop down at all
With "I am pleased with you."

An acclamation, tender, lofty, sweet,
A heart-song high as ecstasy can bear it,
Shall fill, O Captain mine! the city's street,
But thou shalt never hear it.

Stern Grenadiers, the veterans we admire,
Mute thy steed's steps shall kiss-albeit
A sight pathetic, beautiful, yet, sire!

Your majesty shall not see it.

While round thy form gigantic, like a friend,

France and the world awake in shadows deep,

Here in thy Paris ever, world without end,
Thou shalt lie fast asleep-

Ay, fast asleep with that same sullen slumber, Those fadeless dreams that on his stone chair fix The Barbarossa, sitting out that number

Of centuries now six.

Thy sword beside thee, and thine eyelids close,
Thy hand yet moved by Bertrand's kiss-the last,-
Upon the bed whence sleeper never rose,
Thou shalt be stretch'd full fast.

Like to those soldiers marching bolt upright,
So often after thee to field or town,
Who by the wind of battle touch'd one night
Suddenly laid them down

Like sleepers, not like those whose race is

run,

With grave proud attitude of armèd men— But them that voice of dawn, the morning gun, Shall never wake again.

Yea, so much like, that seeing thee all ice,
Like a mute god permitting adoration,
They who came smiling love-drunk, in a trice,
Shall raise a lamentation.

Sire at that moment thou, for kingdom meet,
Shalt have all beating hearts to be thine own.
Nations shall make thy phantom take a seat,
A universal throne.

Poets select, upon their knees in dust,

Shall hail thee far diviner than of old,
And gild thine altar, stain'd by hands unjust,
With a sublimer gold.