Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows

The name, nor there hath trod; And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows

Because of very God.

NELSON R. TYERMAN.

 

THE POET’S SIMPLE FAITH.

You say, “Where goest thou?” I cannot tell, And still go on. If but the way be straight, It cannot go amiss! before me lies Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that Suffices me; I break the bounds; I see, And nothing more; believe, and nothing less. My future is not one of my concerns.

PROF. E. DOWDEN.

 

I AM CONTENT.

(“J’habite l’ombre.”)

[1855.]

 

True; I dwell lone,

Upon sea-beaten cape,

Mere raft of stone;

Whence all escape Save one who shrinks not from the gloom, And will not take the coward’s leap i’ the tomb.

 

My bedroom rocks

With breezes; quakes in storms,

When dangling locks

Of seaweed mock the forms Of straggling clouds that trail o’erhead Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead.

 

Upon the sky

Crape palls are often nailed

With stars. Mine eye

Has scared the gull that sailed To blacker depths with shrillest scream, Still fainter, till like voices in a dream.

 

My days become

More plaintive, wan, and pale,

While o’er the foam

I see, borne by the gale, Infinity! in kindness sent— To find me ever saying: “I’m content!”

 

LA LÉGENDE DES SIÈCLES.

 

CAIN.

(“Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fût enfui.”)

[Bk. II]

 

Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes, Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell The dark man reached a mount in a great plain, And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, Said: “Let us lie down on the earth and sleep.” Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. Raising his head, in that funereal heaven He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night Open, and staring at him in the gloom. “I am too near,” he said, and tremblingly woke up His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife, And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind; Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound; No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur. “Here pause,” he said, “for this place is secure; Here may we rest, for this is the world’s end.” And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky, The selfsame Eye on the horizon’s verge, And the wretch shook as in an ague fit. “Hide me!” he cried; and all his watchful sons, Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell In tents): “Spread here the curtain of thy tent,” And they spread wide the floating canvas roof, And made it fast and fixed it down with lead. “You see naught now,” said Zillah then, fair child The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. But Cain replied, “That Eye—I see it still.” And Jubal cried (the father of all those That handle harp and organ): “I will build A sanctuary;” and he made a wall of bronze, And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned, “That Eye is glaring at me ever.” Henoch cried: “Then must we make a circle vast of towers, So terrible that nothing dare draw near; Build we a city with a citadel; Build we a city high and close it fast.” Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them That work in brass and iron) built a tower— Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought, His fiery brothers from the plain around Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth; They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, And hurled at even arrows to the stars. They set strong granite for the canvas wall, And every block was clamped with iron chains. It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers, With their huge masses made night in the land. The walls were thick as mountains. On the door They graved: “Let not God enter here.” This done, And having finished to cement and build In a stone tower, they set him in the midst. To him, still dark and haggard, “Oh, my sire, Is the Eye gone?” quoth Zillah tremblingly. But Cain replied: “Nay, it is even there.” Then added: “I will live beneath the earth, As a lone man within his sepulchre. I will see nothing; will be seen of none.” They digged a trench, and Cain said: “‘Tis enow,” As he went down alone into the vault; But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, And they had closed the dungeon o’er his head, The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain.

Dublin University Magazine

 

BOAZ ASLEEP.

(“Booz s’était couché.”)

[Bk. II. vi.]

 

At work within his barn since very early,

Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,

Upon the small bed where he always lay Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.

Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well,

Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood

That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.

His beard was silver, as in April all

A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook.

When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, Quoth he, “Of purpose let some handfuls fall.”

He walked his way of life straight on and plain,

With justice clothed, like linen white and clean,

And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.

Good master, faithful friend, in his estate

Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth

He won regard of woman, for in sooth The young man may be fair—the old man’s great.

Life’s primal source, unchangeable and bright,

The old man entereth, the day eterne;

And in the young man’s eye a flame may burn, But in the old man’s eye one seeth light.

As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep

Slept Boaz ‘neath the leaves. Now it betided,

Heaven’s gate being partly open, that there glided A fair dream forth, and hovered o’er his sleep.

And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad,

Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain.

His race ran up it far, like a long chain; Below it sung a king, above it died a God.

Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart,

“The number of my years is past fourscore:

How may this be? I have not any more, Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part.

“In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine;

And she, half living, I half dead within,

Our beings still commingle and are twin, It cannot be that I should found a line!

“Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound

From night, as from a victory. But such

A trembling as the birch-tree’s to the touch Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.

“I bow myself to death, as lone to meet

The water bow their fronts athirst.” He said.

The cedar feeleth not the rose’s head, Nor he the woman’s presence at his feet!

For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth

Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking.

He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; She knowing not what God would have in sooth.

Asphodel scents did Gilgal’s breezes bring—

Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast

The angels sped, for momently there passed A something blue which seemed to be a wing.

Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur—

The stars were glittering in the heaven’s dusk meadows.

Far west among those flowers of the shadows. The thin clear crescent lustrous over her,

Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars

Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer

Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.

BP. ALEXANDER.

SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT

(“Sonnex, clarions!”)

[Bk. VI. vii.]

 

Flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum! The Reiters are mounted! the Reiters will come!

When our bullets cease singing And long swords cease ringing

On backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight, We’ll dig up their dollars To string for girls’ collars—

They’ll jingle around them before it is night!

When flourish the trumpets, etc.

We’re the Emperor’s winners Of right royal dinners,

Where cities are served up and flanked by estates, While we wallow in claret, Knowing not how to spare it,

Though beer is less likely to muddle our pates—

While flourish the trumpets, etc.

Gods of battle! red-handed! Wise it was to have banded

Such arms as are these for embracing of gain! Hearken to each war-vulture Crying, “Down with all culture

Of land or religion!” Hoch! to our refrain

Of flourish the trumpets, etc.

Give us “bones of the devil” To exchange in our revel

The ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon; Coronets are but playthings— We reck not who say things

When the Reiters have ridden to death! none too soon!— To flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum, The Reiters will finish as firm as they come!

H.L.W.

 

KING CANUTE.

(“Un jour, Kanut mourut.”)

[Bk. X. i.]

 

King Canute died.[1] Encoffined he was laid. Of Aarhuus came the Bishop prayers to say, And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held That Canute was a saint—Canute the Great, That from his memory breathed celestial perfume, And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, Seated at God’s right hand, a prophet crowned.

I.

 

Evening came, And hushed the organ in the holy place, And the priests, issuing from the temple doors, Left the dead king in peace. Then he arose, Opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword, And went forth loftily. The massy walls Yielded before the phantom, like a mist.

There is a sea where Aarhuus, Altona, And Elsinore’s vast domes and shadowy towers Glass in deep waters. Over this he went Dark, and still Darkness listened for his foot Inaudible, itself being but a dream. Straight to Mount Savo went he, gnawed by time, And thus, “O mountain buffeted of storms, Give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow To frame a winding-sheet.” The mountain knew him, Nor dared refuse, and with his sword Canute Cut from his flank white snow, enough to make The garment he desired, and then he cried, “Old mountain! death is dumb, but tell me thou The way to God.” More deep each dread ravine And hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus Answered that hoar associate of the clouds: “Spectre, I know not, I am always here.” Canute departed, and with head erect, All white and ghastly in his robe of snow, Went forth into great silence and great night By Iceland and Norway. After him Gloom swallowed up the universe. He stood A sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost Confronted with Immensity. He saw The awful Infinite, at whose portal pale Lightning sinks dying; Darkness, skeleton Whose joints are nights, and utter Formlessness Moving confusedly in the horrible dark Inscrutable and blind. No star was there, Yet something like a haggard gleam; no sound But the dull tide of Darkness, and her dumb And fearful shudder. “‘Tis the tomb,” he said, “God is beyond!” Three steps he took, then cried: ‘Twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice Responded, nor came any breath to sway The snowy mantle, with unsullied white Emboldening the spectral wanderer. Sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star, A spot grew broad upon his livid robe; Slowly it widened, raying darkness forth; And Canute proved it with his spectral hands It was a drop of blood.

R. GARNETT.

 

II.

But he saw nothing; space was black—no