Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

lèvre à ta coupe.”)

[XXV., Jan. 1, 1835.]

 

Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,

Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it,

And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;

Since it was given to me to hear one happy while,

The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,

Your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes;

Since I have known upon my forehead glance and gleam,

A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime’s stream,

Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;

I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours,

Pass—pass upon your way, for I grow never old. Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers,

One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.

Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill

The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet. My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill,

My soul more love than you can make my love forget.

A. LANG.

 

ROSES AND BUTTERFLIES.

(“Roses et Papillons.”)

[XXVII., Dec. 7, 1834.]

 

The grave receives us all:

Ye butterflies and roses gay and sweet Why do ye linger, say?

Will ye not dwell together as is meet? Somewhere high in the air

Would thy wing seek a home ‘mid sunny skies, In mead or mossy dell—

If there thy odors longest, sweetest rise.

Have where ye will your dwelling,

Or breath or tint whose praise we sing; Butterfly shining bright,

Full-blown or bursting rosebud, flow’r or wing. Dwell together ye fair,

‘Tis a boon to the loveliest given; Perchance ye then may choose your home

On the earth or in heaven.

W.C. WESTBROOK

 

A SIMILE.

(“Soyez comme l’oiseau.”)

[XXXIII. vi.]

 

Thou art like the bird

That alights and sings Though the frail spray bends—

For he knows he has wings.

FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER)

 

THE POET TO HIS WIFE.

(“À toi, toujours à toi.”)

[XXXIX., 1823]

 

To thee, all time to thee,

My lyre a voice shall be!

Above all earthly fashion,

Above mere mundane rage,

Your mind made it my passion

To write for noblest stage.

Whoe’er you be, send blessings to her—she Was sister of my soul immortal, free! My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, When green hoped not to gray to run its course; She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven’s dome, My idol in the shrine of curtained home.

 

LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES.—1840.

 

THE BLINDED BOURBONS.

(“Qui leur eût dit l’austère destineé?”)

[II. v., November, 1836.]

 

Who then, to them[1] had told the Future’s story? Or said that France, low bowed before their glory,

One day would mindful be Of them and of their mournful fate no more, Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o’er

The unremembering sea?

That their old Tuileries should see the fall Of blazons from its high heraldic hall,

Dismantled, crumbling, prone;[2] Or that, o’er yon dark Louvre’s architrave[3] A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave

An eagle, then unknown?

That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited, Or that in scenes Le Nôtre’s art created

For princely sport and ease, Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade

Of the great Louis’ trees?

Fraser’s Magazine.

[Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.]

[Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so irreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town Council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.]

[Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers, the Third Napoleon’s initial “N” flourished for two decades, but has been excised or plastered over, the words “National Property” or “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” being cut in the stone profusely.]

 

TO ALBERT DÜRER.

(“Dans les vieilles forêts.”)

[X., April 20, 1837.]

 

Through ancient forests—where like flowing tide The rising sap shoots vigor far and wide, Mounting the column of the alder dark And silv’ring o’er the birch’s shining bark— Hast thou not often, Albert Dürer, strayed Pond’ring, awe-stricken—through the half-lit glade, Pallid and trembling—glancing not behind From mystic fear that did thy senses bind, Yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace? Oh, Master grave! whose musings lone we trace Throughout thy works we look on reverently. Amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind’s eye Saw clearly, ‘mong the shadows soft yet deep, The web-toed faun, and Pan the green-eyed peep, Who deck’d with flowers the cave where thou might’st rest, Leaf-laden dryads, too, in verdure drest. A strange weird world such forest was to thee, Where mingled truth and dreams in mystery; There leaned old ruminating pines, and there The giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bare A hundred rough and crooked elbows made; And in this sombre group the wind had swayed, Nor life—nor death—but life in death seemed found. The cresses drink—the water flows—and round Upon the slopes the mountain rowans meet, And ‘neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet, Intwining slowly where the creepers twine. There, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine, And show the swan-necked flowers, each line by line. Chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee, The glittering scales of mailèd throat we see, And claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree; While from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare. Oh, vegetation! Spirit! Do we dare Question of matter, and of forces found ‘Neath a rude skin-in living verdure bound. Oh, Master—I, like thee, have wandered oft Where mighty trees made arches high aloft, But ever with a consciousness of strife, A surging struggle of the inner life. Ever the trembling of the grass I say, And the boughs rocking as the breezes play, Have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild’ring way. Oh, God! alone Great Witness of all deeds, Of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs, God only knows how often in such scenes Of savage beauty under leafy screens, I’ve felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower— Like me knew mirth and sorrow—sentient power, And whisp’ring each to each in twilight dim, Had hearts that beat—and owned a soul from Him!

MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND

 

TO HIS MUSE.

(“Puisqu’ici-bas tout âme.”)

[XL, May 19, 1836.]

Since everything below,

Doth, in this mortal state, Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow

Communicate;

Since all that lives and moves

Upon the earth, bestows On what it seeks and what it loves

Its thorn or rose;

Since April to the trees

Gives a bewitching sound, And sombre night to grief gives ease,

And peace profound;

Since day-spring on the flower

A fresh’ning drop confers, And the fresh air on branch and bower

Its choristers;

Since the dark wave bestows

A soft caress, imprest On the green bank to which it goes

Seeking its rest;

I give thee at this hour,

Thus fondly bent o’er thee, The best of all the things in dow’r

That in me be.

Receive,-poor gift, ‘tis true,

Which grief, not joy, endears,— My thoughts, that like a shower of dew,

Reach thee in tears.

My vows untold receive,

All pure before thee laid; Receive of all the days I live

The light or shade!

My hours with rapture fill’d,

Which no suspicion wrongs; And all the blandishments distill’d

From all my songs.

My spirit, whose essay

Flies fearless, wild, and free, And hath, and seeks, to guide its way

No star but thee.

No pensive, dreamy Muse,

Who, though all else should smile, Oft as thou weep’st, with thee would choose,

To weep the while.

Oh, sweetest mine! this gift

Receive;—‘tis throe alone;— My heart, of which there’s nothing left

When Love is gone!

Fraser’s Magazine.

 

THE COW.

(“Devant la blanche ferme.”)

[XV., May, 1837.]

 

Before the farm where, o’er the porch, festoon Wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon, Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests, And the old watchdog slumberously rests, They half-attentive to the clarion of their king, Resplendent in the sunshine op’ning wing— There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light, Superb, enormous, dappled red and white— Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young, Letting the children swarm until they hung Around her, under—rustics with their teeth Whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath, And bushy hair fresh and more brown Than mossy walls at old gates of a town, Calling to one another with loud cries For younger imps to be in at the prize; Stealing without concern but tremulous with fear They glance around lest Doll the maid appear;— Their jolly lips—that haply cause some pain, And all those busy fingers, pressing now and ‘gain, The teeming udders whose small, thousand pores Gush out the nectar ‘mid their laughing roars, While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps, And never moves. Anon there creeps A vague soft shiver o’er the hide unmarred, As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard. Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release, And shrinks not while there’s one still to appease.

Thus Nature—refuge ‘gainst the slings of fate! Mother of all, indulgent as she’s great! Lets us, the hungered of each age and rank, Shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank; Mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair, The souls retiring and those that dare, Sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned, All creep beneath or cluster close around, And with unending greed and joyous cries, From sources full, draw need’s supplies, Quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoon Form blood and mind, in freest boon, Respire at length thy sacred flaming light, From all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight— Brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod— Thou undistracted still dost dream of God.

TORU DUTT.

 

MOTHERS.

(“Regardez: les enfants.”)

[XX., June, 1884.]

 

See all the children gathered there, Their mother near; so young, so fair, An eider sister she might be, And yet she hears, amid their games, The shaking of their unknown names

In the dark urn of destiny.

She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares, On that pure heart so like to theirs,

Her spirit with such life is rife That in its golden rays we see, Touched into graceful poesy,

The dull cold commonplace of life.

Still following, watching, whether burn The Christmas log in winter stern,

While merry plays go round; Or streamlets laugh to breeze of May That shakes the leaf to break away—

A shadow falling to the ground.

If some poor man with hungry eyes Her baby’s coral bauble spies,

She marks his look with famine wild, For Christ’s dear sake she makes with joy An alms-gift of the silver toy—

A smiling angel of the child.

Dublin University Magazine

 

TO SOME BIRDS FLOWN AWAY.

(“Enfants! Oh! revenez!”)

[XXII, April, 1837]

 

Children, come back—come back, I say— You whom my folly chased away A moment since, from this my room, With bristling wrath and words of doom! What had you done, you bandits small, With lips as red as roses all? What crime?—what wild and hapless deed?

What porcelain vase by you was split To thousand pieces? Did you need

For pastime, as you handled it, Some Gothic missal to enrich

With your designs fantastical?

Or did your tearing fingers fall On some old picture? Which, oh, which Your dreadful fault? Not one of these; Only when left yourselves to please This morning but a moment here

‘Mid papers tinted by my mind You took some embryo verses near—

Half formed, but fully well designed To open out. Your hearts desire Was but to throw