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

At once, I wis,

My soul will wake!

WM. W. TOMLINSON.

EARLY LOVE REVISITED.

(“O douleur! j’ai voulu savoir.”)

[XXXIV. i., October, 183-.]

I have wished in the grief of my heart to know

If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, And to see what this beautiful valley could show

Of all that was once to my soul most dear. In how short a span doth all Nature change,

How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene— And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range,

The links that bound our hearts to the scene.

Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste;

The fir is felled that our names once bore; Our rows of roses, by urchins’ haste,

Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o’er. The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride,

She so gayly drank, from the wood descending; In her fairy hand was transformed the tide,

And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending

The wild, rugged path is paved with spars,

Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced, When so small were the prints that the surface mars,

That they seemed to smile ere by mine effaced. The bank on the side of the road, day by day,

Where of old she awaited my loved approach, Is now become the traveller’s way

To avoid the track of the thundering coach.

Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends,

Of all that was ours, there is little left— Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds,

Of all souvenirs is the place bereft. Do we live no more—is our hour then gone?

Will it give back naught to our hungry cry? The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone,

The house that was mine makes no reply.

True! others shall pass, as we have passed,

As we have come, so others shall meet, And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste,

Shall others continue, but never complete. For none upon earth can achieve his scheme,

The best as the worst are futile here: We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream—

All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.

Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart,

To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat, All that nature to timid love can impart

Of solemn repose and communion sweet. In our fields, in our paths, shall strangers stray,

In thy wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost, And other fair forms in the stream shall play

Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.

Author of “Critical Essays.”

SWEET MEMORY OF LOVE.

(“Toutes les passions s’éloignent avec l’âge.”)

[XXXIV. ii., October, 183-.]

As life wanes on, the passions slow depart,

One with his grinning mask, one with his steel; Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art,

Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill. But naught can Love’s all charming power efface,

That light, our misty tracks suspended o’er, In joy thou’rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace,

The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

But when the weight of years bow down the head,

And man feels all his energies decline, His projects gone, himself tomb’d with the dead,

Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine, When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o’er,

We count within our hearts so near congealed, Each grief that’s past, each dream, exhausted ore!

As counting dead upon the battlefield.

As one who walks by the lamp’s flickering blaze,

Far from the hum of men, the joys of earth— Our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways,

At that drear gulf where but despair has birth. E’en there, amid the darkness of that night,

When all seems closing round in empty air, Is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light!

‘Tis Love’s sweet memory that lingers there!

Author of “Critical Essays.”

THE MARBLE FAUN.

(“Il semblait grelotter.”)

[XXXVI., December, 1837.]

He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. ‘Twas a poor statue underneath a mass Of leafless branches, with a blackened back And a green foot—an isolated Faun In old deserted park, who, bending forward, Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs, Half in his marble settings. He was there, Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things Devoid of movement, he was there—forgotten.

Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts— Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, And, like himself, grown old in that same place. Through the dark network of their undergrowth, Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. Starless and moonless, a rough winter’s night Was letting down her lappets o’er the mist.

This—nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.

Poor, helpless marble, how I’ve pitied it! Less often man—the harder of the two.

So, then, without a word that might offend His ear deformed—for well the marble hears The voice of thought—I said to him: “You hail From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you When you were happy? Were you of the Court?

“Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass. Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days, Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye Winked at the Farnese Hercules?—Alone, Have you, O Faun, considerately turned From side to side when counsel-seekers came, And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr?— Have you sometimes, upon this very bench, Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling Grace into Gondi?—Have you ever thrown That searching glance on Louis with Fontange, On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth From corner of the wood?—Was your advice As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked, When, in grand ballet of fantastic form, God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court, Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan, Calling her Amaryllis?—La Fontaine, Flying the courtiers’ ears of stone, came he, Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux?—What said Boileau to you—to you—O lettered Faun, Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held That charming dialogue?—Say, have you seen Young beauties sporting on the sward?—Have you Been honored with a sight of Molière In dreamy mood?—Has he perchance, at eve, When here the thinker homeward went, has he, Who—seeing souls all naked—could not fear Your nudity, in his inquiring mind, Confronted you with Man?”

Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus Did I speak to him; he no answer gave.

I shook my head, and moved myself away; Then, from the copses, and from secret caves Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice Came forth and woke an echo in my souls As in the hollow of an amphora.

“Imprudent poet,” thus it seemed to say, “What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know, Poet, that ever it is impious deemed, In desert spots where drowsy shades repose— Though love itself might prompt thee—to shake down The moss that hangs from ruined centuries, And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words, To mar the recollections of the dead?”

Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days, And still behind me—hieroglyph obscure Of antique alphabet—the lonely Faun Held to his laughter, through the falling night.

I went my way; but yet—in saddened spirit Pondering on all that had my vision crossed, Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time— Through all, at distance, would my fancy see, In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!

A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS.

[XXXVII., April 12, 1840.]

My love flowed e’er for things with wings.

When boy I sought for forest fowl, And caged them in rude rushes’ mesh,

And fed them with my breakfast roll; So that, though fragile were the door,

They rarely fled, and even then Would flutter back at faintest call!

Man-grown, I charm for men.

BABY’S SEASIDE GRAVE.

(“Vieux lierre, frais gazon.”)

[XXXVIII., 1840.]

Brown ivy old, green herbage new;

Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle; An ancient chapel where a crew,

Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle. A far-off forest’s darkling frown,

Which makes the prudent start and tremble, Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down,

And clouds in demon hordes assemble.

Land birds which twit the mews that scream

Round walls where lolls the languid lizard; Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream

Past caves fit for an ocean wizard. Alow, aloft, no lull—all life,

But far aside its whirls are keeping, As wishfully to let its strife

Spare still the mother vainly weeping

O’er baby, lost not long, asleeping.

LES CHÂTIMENTS.—1853.

INDIGNATION!

(“Toi qu’aimais Juvénal.”)

[Nox (PRELUDE) ix., Jersey, November, 1852.]

Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed

His style so sharp to scar imperial brows, And lent the lustre lightening

The gloom in Dante’s murky verse that flows— Muse Indignation! haste, and help

My building up before this roseate realm, And its so fruitless victories,

Whence transient shame Right’s prophets overwhelm, So many pillories, deserved!

That eyes to come will pry without avail, Upon the wood impenetrant,

And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale.

IMPERIAL REVELS.

(“Courtisans! attablés dans le splendide orgie.”)

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

Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread—

The board that groans with shame and plate, Still fawning to the sham-crowned head

That hopes front brazen turneth fate! Drink till the comer last is full, And never hear in revels’ lull, Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,

Whilst I gnaw at the crust

Of Exile in the dust— But Honor makes it sweet!

Ye cheaters in the tricksters’ fane,

Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief, In blazing cafés spend the gain,

But draw the blind, lest at his thief Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance And interrupts with steel the dance! But let him toilsomely tramp by,

As I myself afar

Follow no gilded car In ways of Honesty.

Ye troopers who shot mothers down,

And marshals whose brave cannonade Broke infant arms and split the stone

Where slumbered age and guileless maid— Though blood is in the cup you fill, Pretend it “rosy” wine, and still Hail Cannon “King!” and Steel the “Queen!”

But I prefer to sup

From Philip Sidney’s cup— True soldier’s draught serene.

Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime,

When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace, Can you be dazed by tinselled crime,

And spy no wolf beneath the fleece? Build palaces where Fortunes feast, And bear your loads like well-trained beast, Though once such masters you made flee!

But then, like me, you ate

Food of a blessed fête— The bread of Liberty!

H.L.W.

POOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

(“La femelle! elle est morte.”)

[Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.]

Mother birdie stiff and cold,

Puss has hushed the other’s singing; Winds go whistling o’er the wold,—

Empty nest in sport a-flinging.

Poor little birdies!

Faithless shepherd strayed afar,

Playful dog the gadflies catching; Wolves bound boldly o’er the bar,

Not a friend the fold is watching—

Poor little lambkins!

Father into prison fell,

Mother begging through the parish; Baby’s cot they, too, will sell,—

Who will now feed, clothe and cherish?

Poor little children!

APOSTROPHE TO NATURE.

(“O Soleil!”)

[Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d’État, 1852.]

O Sun! thou countenance divine!

Wild flowers of the glen, Caves swoll’n with shadow, where sunshine

Has pierced not, far from men; Ye sacred hills and antique rocks,

Ye oaks that worsted time, Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks

Hurl up in storms sublime; And sky above, unruflfed blue,

Chaste rills that alway ran From stainless source