Poems by Victor Hugo - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Ye, liberated lands, we hail!
Your sails are whole despite the gale!
Your masts are firm, and will not fail-- The triumph follows pain!
Hear forges roar! the hammer clanks-- It beats the time to nations' thanks-- At last, a _peaceful_ strain!
'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns, And shattered sh.e.l.ls are but the runs Where warring insects cope; And all the headsman's racks and blades And pincers, tools of tyrants' aids, Are buried with the rope.
Upon the sky-line glows i' the dark The Sun that now is but a spark; But soon will be unfurled-- The glorious banner of us all, The flag that rises ne'er to fall, Republic of the World!
LES CONTEMPLATIONS.--1830-56.
THE VALE TO YOU, TO ME THE HEIGHTS.
A FABLE.
[Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.]
A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird Of Jove to drink: When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd, The moistened brink, Beneath the palm--_they_ always tempt pugnacious hands-- Both travel-sore; But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands Straight to each core; As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call Of Eagle shrill: "Yon crowned couple, who supposed the world too small, Now one grave fill!
Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleached sapless bone Becomes a pipe Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone By quail and snipe.
Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid, And mortal feud?
I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo--none afraid-- In solitude: At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood.
Kings, he and I; For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood, And he to me the sky."
H.L.W.
CHILDHOOD.
_("L'enfant chantait.")_
[Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.]
The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed, With anguish moaned,--fair Form pain should possess not long; For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head: I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.
The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright; And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day Carolling joyously, coughed hoa.r.s.ely all the night.
The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway; And the blithe little lad began anew to sing...
Sorrow is like a fruit: G.o.d doth not therewith weigh Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.
NELSON R. TYERMAN.
SATIRE ON THE EARTH.
_("Une terre au flanc maigre.")_
[Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.]
A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face, Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race; And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil, Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil; Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands, And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands, Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends, And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends!
Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor; Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two!
Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new, That only melt to send down waters for the liquid h.e.l.l, In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell!
No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high, Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry.
At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot; Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot; Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the b.l.o.o.d.y land, Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand.
And this to those who, luckily, abide afar-- This is, ha! ha! _a star_!
HOW b.u.t.tERFLIES ARE BORN.
_("Comme le matin rit sur les roses.")_
[Bk. I. xii.]
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses--lo, the little lovers-- That kiss the buds and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings That go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide With m.u.f.fled music, murmured far and wide!
Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays, Of the proud hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that men wound, The messages of love that mortals write, Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April, and before the Maytime Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime.
We dream that all white b.u.t.terflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress to despair, To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to b.u.t.terflies.
A. LANG.
HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?
_("Si vous n'avez rien a me dire.")_
[Bk. II. iv., May, 18--.]
