Виктор Мари Гюго
Poems

THE POET'S LOVE FOR LIVELINESS

("Moi, quelque soit le monde.")

{XV., May 11, 1830.}

     For me, whate'er my life and lot may show,
     Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem'ry's glow,
       Turmoil or peace; never be it mine, I pray,
     To be a dweller of the peopled earth,
     Save 'neath a roof alive with children's mirth
       Loud through the livelong day.

     So, if my hap it be to see once more
     Those scenes my footsteps tottered in before,
       An infant follower in Napoleon's train:
     Rodrigo's holds, Valencia and Leon,
     And both Castiles, and mated Aragon;
       Ne'er be it mine, O Spain!

       To pass thy plains with cities scant between,
     Thy stately arches flung o'er deep ravine,
       Thy palaces, of Moor's or Roman's time;
     Or the swift makings of thy Guadalquiver,
     Save in those gilded cars, where bells forever
       Ring their melodious chime.

Fraser's Magazine

INFANTILE INFLUENCE

("Lorsque l'enfant parait.")

{XIX., May 11, 1830.}

     The child comes toddling in, and young and old
     With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold,
         And artless, babyish joy;
     A playful welcome greets it through the room,
     The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom,
         To greet the happy boy.

     If June with flowers has spangled all the ground,
     Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around
         Draws close the circling seat;
     The child still sheds a never-failing light;
     We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright
         Watches its tottering feet.

     Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw,
     We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law,
         Or politics, or prayer;
     The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play,
     Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay,
         Philosophy and care.

     When fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep
     Lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep
         The dark stream sinks and swells,
     The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o'er the sea,
     Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy
         Of birds and chiming bells;

     Thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field,
     Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield
         When breathed upon by thee,
     Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays,
     And morn pours out its flood of golden rays,
         When thy sweet smile I see.

     Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue;
     And little hands that evil never knew,
         Pure as the new-formed snow;
     Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire,
     Thy golden locks like aureole of fire
         Circle thy cherub brow!

     Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies
     On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes.
         Though weak thine infant feet,
     What strange amaze this new and strange world gives
     To thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives
         In virgin body sweet.

     Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile,
     And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile,
         Quick changing tears and bliss;
     Thy soul expands to catch this new world's light,
     Thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight,
         Thy lips to taste the kiss.

     Oh, God! bless me and mine, and these I love,
     And e'en my foes that still triumphant prove
         Victors by force or guile;
     A flowerless summer may we never see,
     Or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee,
         Or home of infant's smile.

HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.

THE WATCHING ANGEL

("Dans l'alcôve sombre.")

{XX., November, 1831.}

     In the dusky nook,
       Near the altar laid,
     Sleeps the child in shadow
       Of his mother's bed:
     Softly he reposes,
     And his lid of roses,
     Closed to earth, uncloses
       On the heaven o'erhead.

     Many a dream is with him,
       Fresh from fairyland,
     Spangled o'er with diamonds
       Seems the ocean sand;
     Suns are flaming there,
     Troops of ladies fair
     Souls of infants bear
       In each charming hand.

     Oh, enchanting vision!
       Lo, a rill upsprings,
     And from out its bosom
       Comes a voice that sings
     Lovelier there appear
     Sire and sisters dear,
     While his mother near
       Plumes her new-born wings.

     But a brighter vision
       Yet his eyes behold;
     Roses pied and lilies
       Every path enfold;
     Lakes delicious sleeping,
     Silver fishes leaping,
     Through the wavelets creeping
       Up to reeds of gold.

     Slumber on, sweet infant,
       Slumber peacefully
     Thy young soul yet knows not
       What thy lot may be.
     Like dead weeds that sweep
     O'er the dol'rous deep,
     Thou art borne in sleep.
       What is all to thee?

     Thou canst slumber by the way;
       Thou hast learnt to borrow
     Naught from study, naught from care;
       The cold hand of sorrow
     On thy brow unwrinkled yet,
     Where young truth and candor sit,
     Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ
       That sad word, "To-morrow!"

     Innocent! thou sleepest —
       See the angelic band,
     Who foreknow the trials
       That for man are planned;
     Seeing him unarmed,
     Unfearing, unalarmed,
     With their tears have warmed
       This unconscious hand.

     Still they, hovering o'er him,
       Kiss him where he lies,
     Hark, he sees them weeping,
       "Gabriel!" he cries;
     "Hush!" the angel says,
     On his lip he lays
     One finger, one displays
       His native skies.

Foreign Quarterly Review

SUNSET

("Le soleil s'est couché")

{XXXV. vi., April, 1829.}

     The sun set this evening in masses of cloud,
       The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night,
     Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud,
       Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight.
     The days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing.
       O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas,
     O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring
       With a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze;
     The face of the waters, the brow of the mounts
     Deep scarred but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green,
     Their youth shall renew; and the rocks to the founts
     Shall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen.
     But day by day bending still lower my head,
       Still chilled in the sunlight, soon I shall have cast,
     At height of the banquet, my lot with the dead,
       Unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast.

TORU DUTT.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER

("Ma fille, va prier!")

{XXXVII., June, 1830.}

I

     Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done,
       A golden star gleams through the dusk of night;
     The hills are trembling in the rising mist,
       The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;
     All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees
       Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.

     The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze,
       As twilight open flings the doors of night;
     The fringe of carmine narrows in the west,
       The rippling waves are tipped with silver light;
     The bush, the path – all blend in one dull gray;
     The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way.

     Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife;
       Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet,
     The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower,
       The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat —
     All nature groans opprest with toil and care,
     And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer.

     At eve the babes with angels converse hold,
       While we to our strange pleasures wend our way,
     Each with its little face upraised to heaven,
       With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray,
     At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call
     On God, the common Father of them all.

     And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,
       Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,
     In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom
       Their breathing lips and golden locks descry.
     And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,
     Around their curtained cradles clustering come.

     Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent;
       Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light;
     Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles,
       Meet prelude to the harmonies of night;
     As birds beneath the wing enfold their head,
     Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.

HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.

II

     To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayer
     For her who, many nights, with anxious care,
       Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul
     From heaven and gave it to the world; then rife
       With love, still drank herself the gall of life,
     And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl.

     And then – I need it more – then pray for me!
     For she is gentle, artless, true like thee; —
       She has a guileless heart, brow placid still;
     Pity she has for all, envy for none;
     Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on;
       And she endures, nor knows who does the ill.

     In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'er
     Touched e'en the outer rind of vice; no snare
       With smiling show has lured her steps aside:
     On her the past has left no staining mark;
     Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark
       Like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide.

     She knows not – nor mayest thou – the miseries
     In which our spirits mingle: vanities,
       Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, Pleasure's false show:
     Passions which float upon the heart like foam,
     Bitter remembrances which o'er us come,
       And Shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow.

     I know life better! when thou'rt older grown
     I'll tell thee – it is needful to be known —
       Of the pursuit of wealth – art, power; the cost.
     That it is folly, nothingness: that shame
     For glory is oft thrown us in the game
       Of Fortune; chances where the soul is lost.

     The soul will change. Although of everything
     The cause and end be clear, yet wildering
       We roam through life (of vice and error full).
     We wander as we go; we feel the load
     Of doubt; and to the briars upon the road
       Man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool.

     Then go, go pray for me! And as the prayer
     Gushes in words, be this the form they bear: —
       "Lord, Lord, our Father! God, my prayer attend;
     Pardon! Thou art good! Pardon – Thou art great!"
     Let them go freely forth, fear not their fate!
       Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend.

     There's nothing here below which does not find
     Its tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind,
       And reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven,
     Finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle flies
     To seek the sun; the vulture where death lies;
       The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven!

     And when thy voice is raised to God for me,
     I'm like the slave whom in the vale we see
       Seated to rest, his heavy load laid by;
     I feel refreshed – the load of faults and woe
     Which, groaning, I drag with me as I go,
       Thy wingèd prayer bears off rejoicingly!

     Pray for thy father! that his dreams be bright
     With visitings of angel forms of light,
       And his soul burn as incense flaming wide,
     Let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface,
     So that his heart be like that holy place,
       An altar pavement each eve purified!

     And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,
       Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,
     In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom
       Their breathing lips and golden locks descry.
     And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,
     Around their curtained cradles clustering come.

C., Tait's Magazine

LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE. – 1849.
PRELUDE TO "THE SONGS OF TWILIGHT."

("De quel non te nommer?")

{PRELUDE, a, Oct. 20, 1835.}

     How shall I note thee, line of troubled years,
       Which mark existence in our little span?
     One constant twilight in the heaven appears —
       One constant twilight in the mind of man!

     Creed, hope, anticipation and despair,
       Are but a mingling, as of day and night;
     The globe, surrounded by deceptive air,
       Is all enveloped in the same half-light.

     And voice is deadened by the evening breeze,
       The shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bower,
     Mix with the rustling of the neighboring trees,
       Within whose foliage is lulled the power.

     Yet all unites! The winding path that leads
       Thro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye.
     The river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds,
       The muffled anthem, echoing to the sky!

     The ivy smothering the armèd tower;
       The dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear;
     The lordly equipage at midnight hour,
       Draws into danger in a fog the peer;

     The votaries of Satan or of Jove;
       The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe;
     The din of multitudes that onward move;
       The voice of conscience in the heart below;

     The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still;
       Th' elastic air; the streamlet on its way;
     And all that man projects, or sovereigns will;
       Or things inanimate might seem to say;

     The strain of gondolier slow streaming by;
       The lively barks that o'er the waters bound;
     The trees that shake their foliage to the sky;
       The wailing voice that fills the cots around;

     And man, who studies with an aching heart —
       For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere,
     In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart —
       Those doubts at length will arguments appear!

     Hence, reader, know the subject of my song —
       A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,
     Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,
       With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!

G.W.M. REYNOLDS

THE LAND OF FABLE

("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?")

{PRELUDE, b.}

     Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes,
       Unto the East, and say what there appears!
     "Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies,
       "Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!"

     "Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven —
       Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill;
     Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven,
       When the far thunder seems as it were still!

     "But who can tell if that uncertain glare
       Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest;
     Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air,
       Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?

     "Haply the sunset has deceived the sight —
       Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning;
     Bewildered in the mazes of twilight,
       That lucid sunset may appear a dawning!"

G.W.M. REYNOLDS

THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS

("Frères, vous avez vos journées.")

{I., July, 1830.}

     Youth of France, sons of the bold,
     Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold!
     Our civic-laurels – honored dead!
       So bright your triumphs in life's morn,
       Your maiden-standards hacked and torn,
     On Austerlitz might lustre shed.

     All that your fathers did re-done —
     A people's rights all nobly won —
     Ye tore them living from the shroud!
       Three glorious days bright July's gift,
       The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift!
     Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!

     Of patriot sires ye lineage claim,
     Their souls shone in your eye of flame;
     Commencing the great work was theirs;
       On you the task to finish laid
       Your fruitful mother, France, who bade
     Flow in one day a hundred years.

     E'en chilly Albion admires,
     The grand example Europe fires;
     America shall clap her hands,
       When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave,
       Fame sounds the news of how the brave,
     In three bright days, have burst their bands!

     With tyrant dead your fathers traced
     A circle wide, with battles graced;
     Victorious garland, red and vast!
       Which blooming out from home did go
       To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow,
     From Jemappes to Montmirail passed!

     Of warlike Lyceums{1} ye are
     The favored sons; there, deeds of war
     Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook
       The battle-flags in air aloft!
       Passing your lines, Napoleon oft
     Electrified you with a look!

     Eagle of France! whose vivid wing
     Did in a hundred places fling
     A bloody feather, till one night
       The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave!
       Look up – rejoice – for now thy brave
     And worthy eaglets dare the light.

ELIZABETH COLLINS.

{Footnote 1: The pupils of the Polytechnic Military School distinguished

themselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all the

troubles.}

TRIBUTE TO THE VANQUISHED

("Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.")

{I. v.}

       Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past,
         By exile given, by exile claimed once more,
       Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast.
         Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore
         These relics of the monarchy of yore;
     And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid
     War's honors by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed!

Fraser's Magazine

ANGEL OR DEMON

("Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe!")

{I. vii.}

       Angel or demon! thou, – whether of light
       The minister, or darkness – still dost sway
       This age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight
       Bears us, all breathless, after it away.
       The eye that from thy presence fain would stray,
       Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown
       Rests on all pictures of the living day,
       And on the threshold of our time alone,
     Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!

       Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore
       The subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be,
       Whether he wind along the enchanting shore
       To Portici from fair Parthenope,
       Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie,
       O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray,
       Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea
       Seems like some languishing sultana's lay,
     A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way.

       Him, whether Paestum's solemn fane detain,
       Shrouding his soul with meditation's power;
       Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain
       Of tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower,
       Listening, he while away the evening hour;
       Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep,
       Of that sad city, in its dreaming bower
       By the volcano seized, where mansions keep
     The likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep;

       Or be his bark at Posillippo laid,
       While as the swarthy boatman at his side
       Chants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleased shade,
       Ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide,
       From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied,
       From rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore,
       From sea, and spreading mead alike descried,
       The Giant Mount, tow'ring all objects o'er,
     And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore!

Fraser's Magazine

THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS

("Quand longtemps a grondé la bouche du Vésuve.")

{I. vii.}

       When huge Vesuvius in its torment long,
       Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among,
       When its hot lava, like the bubbling wine,
       Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine,
       Then is alarm in Naples.

                                  With dismay,
       Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour,
       Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay,
       Implore the angry Mount – in vain implore!
       For lo! a column tow'ring more and more,
     Of smoke and ashes from the burning crest
     Shoots like a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest.

       Sudden a flash, and from th' enormous den
       Th' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain,
       Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah! then
       Farewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fane!
       Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain,
     The while the lava in profusion wide
     Flings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied.

       It comes – it comes! that lava deep and rich,
       That dower which fertilizes fields and fills
       New moles upon the waters, bay and beach.
       Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills
       As roll the red inexorable rills;
     While Naples trembles in her palaces,
     More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees.

       Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost,
         Dwellings devoured and vomited again.
       Roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed.
         The waters boiling and the burning plain;
     While clang the giant steeples as they reel,
     Unprompted, their own tocsin peal.

       Yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the pride
       Of the green valleys and the isles laid low,
       The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide,
       O'er sea and land; 'mid all this work of woe,
       Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow,
     Forgetful spares – Heaven wills that it should spare,
     The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer.

Fraser's Magazine.