Poems by Victor Hugo - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Pray for thy father! that his dreams be bright With visitings of angel forms of light, And his soul burn as incense flaming wide, Let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface, So that his heart be like that holy place, An altar pavement each eve purified!
C., _Tait's Magazine_
LES CHANTS DU CRePUSCULE.--1849.
PRELUDE TO "THE SONGS OF TWILIGHT."
_("De quel non te nommer?")_
[PRELUDE, a, Oct. 20, 1835.]
How shall I note thee, line of troubled years, Which mark existence in our little span?
One constant twilight in the heaven appears-- One constant twilight in the mind of man!
Creed, hope, antic.i.p.ation and despair, Are but a mingling, as of day and night; The globe, surrounded by deceptive air, Is all enveloped in the same half-light.
And voice is deadened by the evening breeze, The shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bower, Mix with the rustling of the neighboring trees, Within whose foliage is lulled the power.
Yet all unites! The winding path that leads Thro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye.
The river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds, The m.u.f.fled anthem, echoing to the sky!
The ivy smothering the armed tower; The dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear; The lordly equipage at midnight hour, Draws into danger in a fog the peer;
The votaries of Satan or of Jove; The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe; The din of mult.i.tudes that onward move; The voice of conscience in the heart below;
The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still; Th' elastic air; the streamlet on its way; And all that man projects, or sovereigns will; Or things inanimate might seem to say;
The strain of gondolier slow streaming by; The lively barks that o'er the waters bound; The trees that shake their foliage to the sky; The wailing voice that fills the cots around;
And man, who studies with an aching heart-- For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere, In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart-- Those doubts at length will arguments appear!
Hence, reader, know the subject of my song-- A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom, Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along, With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE LAND OF FABLE.
_("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poetes?")_
[PRELUDE, b.]
Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes, Unto the East, and say what there appears!
"Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies, "Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!"
"Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven-- Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill; Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven, When the far thunder seems as it were still!
"But who can tell if that uncertain glare Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest; Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air, Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?
"Haply the sunset has deceived the sight-- Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning; Bewildered in the mazes of twilight, That lucid sunset may _appear_ a dawning!"
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS.
_("Freres, vous avez vos journees.")_
[I., July, 1830.]
Youth of France, sons of the bold, Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold!
Our civic-laurels--honored dead!
So bright your triumphs in life's morn, Your maiden-standards hacked and torn, On Austerlitz might l.u.s.tre shed.
All that your fathers did re-done-- A people's rights all n.o.bly won-- Ye tore them living from the shroud!
Three glorious days bright July's gift, The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift!
Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!
Of patriot sires ye lineage claim, Their souls shone in your eye of flame; Commencing the great work was theirs; On you the task to finish laid Your fruitful mother, France, who bade Flow in one day a hundred years.
E'en chilly Albion admires, The grand example Europe fires; America shall clap her hands, When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave, Fame sounds the news of how the brave, In three bright days, have burst their bands!
With tyrant dead your fathers traced A circle wide, with battles graced; Victorious garland, red and vast!
Which blooming out from home did go To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow, From Jemappes to Montmirail pa.s.sed!
Of warlike Lyceums[1] ye are The favored sons; there, deeds of war Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook The battle-flags in air aloft!
Pa.s.sing your lines, Napoleon oft Electrified you with a look!
Eagle of France! whose vivid wing Did in a hundred places fling A b.l.o.o.d.y feather, till one night The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave!
Look up--rejoice--for now thy brave And worthy eaglets dare the light.
