Poems by Victor Hugo (best pdf ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“And what of spirits flown, The souls whereon doth close

The tomb’s mouth unawares?” The Rose said to the Grave.

The Rose said: “In the shade From the dawn’s tears is made A perfume faint and strange,

Amber and honey sweet.”

“And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change,

More strangely than the dew,

To God’s own angels new,” The Grave said to the Rose.

A. LANG.

LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES.—1840.

HOLYROOD PALACE.

(“O palais, sois bénié.”)

[II., June, 1839.]

Palace and ruin, bless thee evermore! Grateful we bow thy gloomy tow’rs before; For the old King of France[1] hath found in thee That melancholy hospitality Which in their royal fortune’s evil day, Stuarts and Bourbons to each other pay.

Fraser’s Magazine.

[Footnote 1: King Charles X.]

THE HUMBLE HOME.

(“L’église est vaste et haute.”)

[IV., June 29, 1839.]

The Church[1] is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on high; The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously;

The portal glows resplendent with its “rose,” And ‘neath the vault immense at evening swarm Figures of angel, saint, or demon’s form,

As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose. But not the huge Cathedral’s height, nor yet its vault sublime, Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time;

Nor massy towers, that fascinate mine eyes;

No, ‘tis that spot—the mind’s tranquillity—

Chamber wherefrom the song mounts cheerily,

Placed like a joyful nest well nigh the skies.

Yea! glorious is the Church, I ween, but Meekness dwelleth here; Less do I love the lofty oak than mossy nest it bear;

More dear is meadow breath than stormy wind: And when my mind for meditation’s meant, The seaweed is preferred to the shore’s extent,—

The swallow to the main it leaves behind.

Author of “Critical Essays.”

[Footnote 1: The Cathedral Nôtre Dame of Paris, which is the scene of the author’s romance, “Nôtre Dame.”]

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

(“O dix-huitième siècle!”)

[IV. vi]

O Eighteenth Century! by Heaven chastised! Godless thou livedst, by God thy doom was fixed. Thou in one ruin sword and sceptre mixed,

Then outraged love, and pity’s claim despised. Thy life a banquet—but its board a scaffold at the close, Where far from Christ’s beatic reign, Satanic deeds arose! Thy writers, like thyself, by good men scorned—

Yet, from thy crimes, renown has decked thy name,

As the smoke emplumes the furnace flame, A revolution’s deeds have thine adorned!

Author of “Critical Essays.”

STILL BE A CHILD.

(“O vous que votre âge défende”)

[IX., February, 1840.]

In youthful spirits wild,

Smile, for all beams on thee; Sport, sing, be still the child,

The flower, the honey-bee.

Bring not the future near,

For Joy too soon declines— What is man’s mission here?

Toil, where no sunlight shines!

Our lot is hard, we know;

From eyes so gayly beaming, Whence rays of beauty flow,

Salt tears most oft are streaming.

Free from emotions past,

All joy and hope possessing, With mind in pureness cast,

Sweet ignorance confessing.

Plant, safe from winds and showers,

Heart with soft visions glowing, In childhood’s happy hours

A mother’s rapture showing.

Loved by each anxious friend,

No carking care within— When summer gambols end,

My winter sports begin.

Sweet poesy from heaven

Around thy form is placed, A mother’s beauty given,

By father’s thought is graced!

Seize, then, each blissful second,

Live, for joy sinks in night, And those whose tale is reckoned,

Have had their days of light.

Then, oh! before we part,

The poet’s blessing take, Ere bleeds that aged heart,

Or child the woman make.

Dublin University Magazine.

THE POOL AND THE SOUL.

(“Comme dans les étangs.”)

[X., May, 1839.]

As in some stagnant pool by forest-side, In human souls two things are oft descried; The sky,—which tints the surface of the pool With all its rays, and all its shadows cool; The basin next,—where gloomy, dark and deep, Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep.

R.F. HODGSON

YE MARINERS WHO SPREAD YOUR SAILS.

(“Matelôts, vous déploirez les voiles.”)

[XVI., May 5, 1839.]

Ye mariners! ye mariners! each sail to the breeze unfurled, In joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world; And when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze Upon the shore, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays.

Ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue’s base will bite; Ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the sight; The ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall; The church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call.

Ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound, Where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around; Ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend, And back again your mirror’d forms the water’s surface send.

Ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny; Embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie; Ye lightning-torches still your streams will cast into the air, Which like a troubled spirit’s course float wildly here and there.

Ye thunder-peals will God proclaim, as doth the ocean wave; Ye violets will nourish still the flower that April gave; Upon your ambient tides will be man’s sternest shadow cast; Your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past.

All things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie, Have each its course to follow out, or object to descry; Contributing its little share to that stupendous whole, Where with man’s teeming race combined creation’s wonders roll.

The poet, too, will contemplate th’ Almighty Father’s love, Who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from above, Hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty, Whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity.

Author of “Critical Essays.”

ON A FLEMISH WINDOW-PANE.

(“J’aime le carillon dans tes cités antiques.”)

[XVIII., August, 1837.]

Within thy cities of the olden time Dearly I love to list the ringing chime, Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth, Noble old Flanders! where the rigid North A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel, Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile. The chime, the clinking chime! To Fancy’s eye— Prompt her affections to personify— It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed In guise of Andalusian dancing maid, Appealing by a crevice fine and rare, As of a door oped in “th’ incorporal air.” She comes! o’er drowsy roofs, inert and dull, Shaking her lap, of silv’ry music full, Rousing without remorse the drones abed, Tripping like joyous bird with tiniest tread, Quiv’ring like dart that trembles in the targe, By a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge Bears her slight footfall, tim’rous half, yet free, In innocent extravagance of glee The graceful elf alights from out the spheres, While the quick spirit—thing of eyes and ears— As now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon Descends, those delicate degrees upon, Hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on.

Fraser’s Magazine

THE PRECEPTOR.

(“Homme chauve et noir.”)

[XIX., May, 1839.]

A gruesome man, bald, clad in black, Who kept us youthful drudges in the track, Thinking it good for them to leave home care, And for a while a harsher yoke to bear; Surrender all the careless ease of home, And be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam; For this with blandest smiles he softly asks That they with him will prosecute their tasks; Receives them in his solemn chilly lair, The rigid lot of discipline to share. At dingy desks they toil by day; at night To gloomy chambers go uncheered by light, Where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail Of heavy hours reveal the weary tale; Where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make Long scribbled lines the price of each mistake. By four unpitying walls environed there The homesick students pace the pavements bare.

E.E. FREWER

GASTIBELZA.

(“Gastibelza, l’homme à la carabine.”)

[XXII., March, 1837.]

Gastibelza, with gun the measure beating,

Would often sing: “Has one o’ ye with sweet Sabine been meeting,

As, gay, ye bring Your songs and steps which, by the music,

Are reconciled— Oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing

Will drive me wild!

“You stare as though you hardly knew my lady—

Sabine’s her name! Her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady,

A witch of shame, Who shrieks o’ nights upon the Haunted Tower,

With horrors piled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“Sing on and leap—enjoying all the favors

Good heaven sends; She, too, was young—her lips had peachy savors

With honey blends; Give to that hag—not always old—a penny,

Though crime-defiled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“The queen beside her looked a wench uncomely,

When, near tonight, She proudly stalked a-past the maids so homely,

In bodice tight And collar old as reign of wicked Julian,

By fiend beguiled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“The king himself proclaimed her peerless beauty

Before the court, And held it were to win a kiss his duty

To give a fort, Or, more, to sign away all bright Dorado,

Tho’ gold-plate tiled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“Love her? at least, I know I am most lonely

Without her nigh; I’m but a hound to follow her, and only

At her feet die. I’d gayly spend of toilsome years a dozen—

A felon styled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“One summer day when long—so long? I’d missed her,

She came anew, To play i’ the fount alone but for her sister,

And bared to view The finest, rosiest, most tempting ankle,

Like that of child— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“When I beheld her, I—a lowly shepherd—

Grew in my mind Till I was Caesar—she that crownèd leopard

He crouched behind, No Roman stern, but in her silken leashes

A captive mild— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“Yet dance and sing, tho’ night be thickly falling;—

In selfsame time Poor Sabine heard in ecstasy the calling,

In winning rhyme, Of Saldane’s earl so noble, ay, and wealthy,

Name e’er reviled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“(Let me upon this bench be shortly resting,

So weary, I!) That noble bore her smiling, unresisting,

By yonder high And ragged road that snakes towards the summit

Where crags are piled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

“I saw her pass beside my lofty station—

A glance—‘twas all! And yet I loathe my daily honest ration,

The air’s turned gall! My soul’s in chase, my body chafes to wander—

My dagger’s filed— Oh! this chill wind may change, and o’er the mountain

May drive me wild!”

HENRY L. WILLIAMS.

GUITAR SONG.

(“Comment, disaient-ils.”)

[XXIII., July 18, 1838.]

How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he. How, how! How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he. How—how—how? answered she.

How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he. How, how! How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he. Dream—dream—dream! answered she.

How shall we be happy—be happy? said he. How, how! How shall we be happy—be happy? said he. Love—love—love! whispered she.

COME WHEN I SLEEP.

(“Oh, quand je dors.”)

[XXVII.]

Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place,

As Laura came to bless her poet’s heart, And let thy breath in passing touch my face—

At once a space

My lips will part.

And on my brow where too long weighed supreme

A vision—haply spent now—black as night, Let thy look as a star arise and beam—

At once my dream

Will seem of light.

Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss—

A pure and holy love-light—and forsake The