Poems by Victor Hugo Part 17

[XX., November, 1831.]

In the dusky nook, Near the altar laid, Sleeps the child in shadow Of his mother's bed: Softly he reposes, And his lid of roses, Closed to earth, uncloses On the heaven o'erhead.

Many a dream is with him, Fresh from fairyland, Spangled o'er with diamonds Seems the ocean sand; Suns are flaming there, Troops of ladies fair Souls of infants bear In each charming hand.

Oh, enchanting vision!

Lo, a rill upsprings, And from out its bosom Comes a voice that sings Lovelier there appear Sire and sisters dear, While his mother near Plumes her new-born wings.

But a brighter vision Yet his eyes behold; Roses pied and lilies Every path enfold; Lakes delicious sleeping, Silver fishes leaping, Through the wavelets creeping Up to reeds of gold.

Slumber on, sweet infant, Slumber peacefully Thy young soul yet knows not What thy lot may be.

Like dead weeds that sweep O'er the dol'rous deep, Thou art borne in sleep.

What is all to thee?

Thou canst slumber by the way; Thou hast learnt to borrow Naught from study, naught from care; The cold hand of sorrow On thy brow unwrinkled yet, Where young truth and candor sit, Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ That sad word, "To-morrow!"

Innocent! thou sleepest-- See the angelic band, Who foreknow the trials That for man are planned; Seeing him unarmed, Unfearing, unalarmed, With their tears have warmed This unconscious hand.

Still they, hovering o'er him, Kiss him where he lies, Hark, he sees them weeping, "Gabriel!" he cries; "Hus.h.!.+" the angel says, On his lip he lays One finger, one displays His native skies.

_Foreign Quarterly Review_

SUNSET.

_("Le soleil s'est couche")_

[x.x.xV. vi., April, 1829.]

The sun set this evening in ma.s.ses of cloud, The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night, Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud, Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight.

The days shall pa.s.s rapid as swifts on the wing.

O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas, O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring With a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze; The face of the waters, the brow of the mounts Deep scarred but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green, Their youth shall renew; and the rocks to the founts Shall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen.

But day by day bending still lower my head, Still chilled in the sunlight, soon I shall have cast, At height of the banquet, my lot with the dead, Unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast.

TORU DUTT.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

_("Ma fille, va prier!")_

[x.x.xVII., June, 1830.]

I.

Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done, A golden star gleams through the dusk of night; The hills are trembling in the rising mist, The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight; All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.

The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze, As twilight open flings the doors of night; The fringe of carmine narrows in the west, The rippling waves are tipped with silver light; The bush, the path--all blend in one dull gray; The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way.

Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife; Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet, The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower, The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat-- All nature groans opprest with toil and care, And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer.

At eve the babes with angels converse hold, While we to our strange pleasures wend our way, Each with its little face upraised to heaven, With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray, At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call On G.o.d, the common Father of them all.

And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon, Born as the busy day's last murmurs die, In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom Their breathing lips and golden locks descry.

And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam, Around their curtained cradles cl.u.s.tering come.

Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent; Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light; Oh, happy wors.h.i.+p! ever gay with smiles, Meet prelude to the harmonies of night; As birds beneath the wing enfold their head, Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.

HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.

II.

To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayer For her who, many nights, with anxious care, Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul From heaven and gave it to the world; then rife With love, still drank herself the gall of life, And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl.

And then--I need it more--then pray for me!

For she is gentle, artless, true like thee;-- She has a guileless heart, brow placid still; Pity she has for all, envy for none; Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on; And she endures, nor knows who does the ill.

In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'er Touched e'en the outer rind of vice; no snare With smiling show has lured her steps aside: On her the past has left no staining mark; Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark Like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide.

She knows not--nor mayest thou--the miseries In which our spirits mingle: vanities, Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, Pleasure's false show: Pa.s.sions which float upon the heart like foam, Bitter remembrances which o'er us come, And Shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow.

I know life better! when thou'rt older grown I'll tell thee--it is needful to be known-- Of the pursuit of wealth--art, power; the cost.

That it is folly, nothingness: that shame For glory is oft thrown us in the game Of Fortune; chances where the soul is lost.

The soul will change. Although of everything The cause and end be clear, yet wildering We roam through life (of vice and error full).

We wander as we go; we feel the load Of doubt; and to the briars upon the road Man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool.

Then go, go pray for me! And as the prayer Gushes in words, be this the form they bear:-- "Lord, Lord, our Father! G.o.d, my prayer attend; Pardon! Thou art good! Pardon--Thou art great!"

Let them go freely forth, fear not their fate!

Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend.

There's nothing here below which does not find Its tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind, And reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven, Finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle flies To seek the sun; the vulture where death lies; The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven!

And when thy voice is raised to G.o.d for me, I'm like the slave whom in the vale we see Seated to rest, his heavy load laid by; I feel refreshed--the load of faults and woe Which, groaning, I drag with me as I go, Thy winged prayer bears off rejoicingly!