Poems, Victor Hugo [highly recommended books TXT] 📗

CHILD DURING THE SIEGE OF PARIS.

(“Si vous continuez toute pâle.”)

[November, 1870.]

 

If you continue thus so wan and white;

If I, one day, behold You pass from out our dull air to the light,

You, infant—I, so old: If I the thread of our two lives must see

Thus blent to human view, I who would fain know death was near to me,

And far away for you; If your small hands remain such fragile things;

If, in your cradle stirred, You have the mien of waiting there for wings,

Like to some new-fledged bird; Not rooted to our earth you seem to be.

If still, beneath the skies, You turn, O Jeanne, on our mystery

Soft, discontented eyes! If I behold you, gay and strong no more;

If you mope sadly thus; If you behind you have not shut the door,

Through which you came to us; If you no more like some fair dame I see

Laugh, walk, be well and gay; If like a little soul you seem to me

That fain would fly away— I’ll deem that to this world, where oft are blent

The pall and swaddling-band, You came but to depart—an angel sent

To bear me from the land.

LUCY H. HOOPER.

 

THE CARRIER PIGEON.

(“Oh! qu’est-ce que c’est donc que l’Inconnu.”)

[January, 1871.]

 

Who then—oh, who, is like our God so great, Who makes the seed expand beneath the mountain’s weight; Who for a swallow’s nest leaves one old castle wall, Who lets for famished beetles savory apples fall, Who bids a pigmy win where Titans fail, in yoke, And, in what we deem fruitless roar and smoke, Makes Etna, Chimborazo, still His praises sing, And saves a city by a word lapped ‘neath a pigeon’s wing!

 

TOYS AND TRAGEDY.

(“Enfants, on vous dira plus tard.”)

[January, 1871.]

 

In later years, they’ll tell you grandpapa

Adored his little darlings; for them did His utmost just to pleasure them and mar

No moments with a frown or growl amid Their rosy rompings; that he loved them so

(Though men have called him bitter, cold, and stern,) That in the famous winter when the snow

Covered poor Paris, he went, old and worn, To buy them dolls, despite the falling shells, At which laughed Punch, and they, and shook his bells.

 

MOURNING.

(“Charle! ô mon fils!”)

[March, 1871.]

 

Charles, Charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me?

Must all fade, naught endure? Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee,

But still for us obscure?

My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines!

Sweet mutual love we’ve known; For man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines

With others’ souls his own.

He cries, “This has no end!” pursues his way:

He soon is downward bound: He lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day

Mere dust and ashes found.

I’ve wandered twenty years, in distant lands,

With sore heart forced to stay: Why fell the blow Fate only understands!

God took my home away.

To-day one daughter and one son remain

Of all my goodly show: Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane;

God takes my children now.

Linger, ye two still left me! though decays

Our nest, our hearts remain; In gloom of death your mother silent prays,

I in this life of pain.

Martyr of Sion! holding Thee in sight,

I’ll drain this cup of gall, And scale with step resolved that dangerous height,

Which rather seems a fall.

Truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs

Than end so nobly shown. Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads,

I seek the vast unknown.

MARWOOD TUCKER.

 

THE LESSON OF THE PATRIOT DEAD.

(“O caresse sublime.”)

[April, 1871.]

 

Upon the grave’s cold mouth there ever have caresses clung For those who died ideally good and grand and pure and young; Under the scorn of all who clamor: “There is nothing just!” And bow to dread inquisitor and worship lords of dust; Let sophists give the lie, hearts droop, and courtiers play the worm, Our martyrs of Democracy the Truth sublime affirm! And when all seems inert upon this seething, troublous round, And when the rashest knows not best to flee ar stand his ground, When not a single war-cry from the sombre mass will rush, When o’er the universe is spread by Doubting utter hush, Then he who searches well within the walls that close immure Our teachers, leaders, heroes slain because they lived too pure, May glue his ear upon the ground where few else came to grieve, And ask the austere shadows: “Ho! and must one still believe? Read yet the orders: ‘Forward, march!’ and ‘charge!’” Then from the lime, Which burnt the bones but left the soul (Oh! tyrants’ useless crime!) Will rise reply: “Yes!” “yes!” and “yes!” the thousand, thousandth time!

H.L.W.

 

THE BOY ON THE BARRICADE.

(“Sur une barricade.”)

[June, 1871.]

 

Like Casabianca on the devastated deck,

In years yet younger, but the selfsame core. Beside the battered barricado’s restless wreck,

A lad stood splashed with gouts of guilty gore,

But gemmed with purest blood of patriot more.

Upon his fragile form the troopers’ bloody grip

Was deeply dug, while sharply challenged they: “Were you one of this currish crew?”—pride pursed his lip,

As firm as bandog’s, brought the bull to bay—

While answered he: “I fought with others. Yea!”

“Prepare then to be shot! Go join that death-doomed row.”

As paced he pertly past, a volley rang— And as he fell in line, mock mercies once more flow

Of man’s lead-lightning’s sudden scathing pang,

But to his home-turned thoughts the balls but sang.

“Here’s half-a-franc I saved to buy my mother’s bread!”—

The captain started—who mourns not a dear, The dearest! mother!—“Where is she, wolf-cub?” he said

Still gruffly. “There, d’ye see? not far from here.”

“Haste! make it hers! then back to swell their bier.”

He sprang aloof as springald from detested school,

Or ocean-rover from protected port. “The little rascal has the laugh on us! no fool

To breast our bullets!”—but the scoff was short,

For soon! the rogue is racing from his court;

And with still fearless front he faces them and calls:

“READY! but level low—_she’s_ kissed these eyes!” From cooling hands of men each rifle falls,

And their gray officer, in grave surprise,

Life grants the lad whilst his last comrade dies.

 

Brave youth! I know not well what urged thy act,

Whether thou’lt pass in palace, or die rackt;

But then, shone on the guns, a sublime soul.—

A Bayard-boy’s, bound by his pure parole!

Honor redeemed though paid by parlous price,

Though lost be sunlit sports, wild boyhood’s spice,

The Gates, the cheers of mates for bright device!

Greeks would, whilom, have choicely clasped and circled thee, Set thee the first to shield some new Thermopylae; Thy deed had touched and tuned their true Tyrtaeus tongue, And staged by Aeschylus, grouped thee grand gods among.

And thy lost name (now known no more) been gilt and graved On cloud-kissed column, by the sweet south ocean laved. From us no crown! no honors from the civic sheaf— Purely this poet’s tear-bejewelled, aye-green leaf!

H.L.W.

 

TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN.

(“O Charles, je te sens près de moi.”)

[July, 1871.]

 

I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down

In earth, where men decay, I search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb,

Burst out pale morning’s ray.

Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead,

To charm us, live again: Kneeling, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds

Two little children’s strain.

George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play!

Your father’s form recall, Now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt

By beams that wandering fall.

Oh, knowledge! what thy use? did we not know

Death holds no more the dead; But Heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and star

Smile at the grave we dread?

A Heaven, which childhood represents on earth.

Orphans, may God be nigh! That God, who can your bright steps turn aside

From darkness, where I sigh.

All joy be yours, though sorrow bows me down!

To each his fitting wage: Children, I’ve passed life’s span, and men are plagued

By shadows at that stage.

Hath any done—nay, only half performed—

The good he might for others? Hath any conquered hatred, or had strength

To treat his foes like brothers?

E’en he, who’s tried his best, hath evil wrought:

Pain springs from happiness: My heart has triumphed in defeat, my pulse

Ne’er quickened at success.

I seemed the greater when I felt the blow:

The prick gives sense of gain; Since to make others bleed my courage fails,

I’d rather bear the pain.

To grow is sad, since evils grow no less;

Great height is mark for all: The more I have of branches, more of clustering boughs,

The ghastlier shadows fall.

Thence comes my sadness, though I grant your charms:

Ye are the outbursting Of the soul in bloom, steeped in the draughts

Of nature’s boundless spring.

George is the sapling, set in mournful soil;

Jeanne’s folding petals shroud A mind which trembles at our uproar, yet

Half longs to speak aloud.

Give, then, my children—lowly, blushing plants,

Whom sorrow waits to seize— Free course to instincts, whispering ‘mid the flowers,

Like hum of murmuring bees.

Some day you’ll find that chaos comes, alas!

That angry lightning’s hurled, When any cheer the People, Atlas huge,

Grim bearer of the world!

You’ll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance,

Each man, unknowing, great, Should frame life so, that at some future hour

Fact and his dreamings meet.

I, too, when death is past, one day shall grasp

That end I know not now; And over you will bend me down, all filled

With dawn’s mysterious glow.

I’ll learn what means this exile, what this shroud

Enveloping your prime; And why the truth and sweetness of one man

Seem to all others crime.

I’ll hear—though midst these dismal boughs you sang—

How came it, that for me, Who every pity feel for every woe,

So vast a gloom could be.

I’ll know why night relentless holds me, why

So great a pile of doom: Why endless frost enfolds me, and methinks

My nightly bed’s a tomb:

Why all these battles, all these tears, regrets,

And sorrows were my share; And why God’s will of me a cypress made,

When roses bright ye were.

MARWOOD TUCKER.

 

TO THE CANNON “VICTOR HUGO.”

[Bought with the proceeds of Readings of “Les Châtiments” during the Siege of Paris.]

[1872.]

 

Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse, Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart, And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart!

 

L’ART D’ÊTRE GRANDPÊRE.

 

THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR.

(“Prenez garde à ce petit être.”)

[LAUS PUER: POEM V.]

 

Take heed of this small child of earth;

He is great: in him is God most high. Children before their fleshly birth

Are lights in the blue sky.

In our brief bitter world of wrong

They come; God gives us them awhile. His speech is in their stammering tongue,

And His forgiveness in their smile.

Their sweet light rests upon our eyes:

Alas! their right to joy is plain. If they are hungry, Paradise

Weeps, and if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.

The want that saps their sinless flower

Speaks judgment on Sin’s ministers. Man holds an angel in his power.

Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs.

When God seeks out these tender things,

Whom in the shadow where we keep, He sends them clothed about with wings,

And finds them ragged babes that weep!

Dublin University Magazine.

 

THE EPIC OF THE LION.

(“Un lion avait pris un enfant.”)

[XIII.]

 

A Lion in his jaws caught up a