Poems by Victor Hugo - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Orpheus, through the h.e.l.lward wood Hurried, ere the eve-star glowed, For the fauns' lugubrious hoots Followed, hollow, from crooked roots; Aeschylus, where Aetna smoked, G.o.ds of Sicily evoked With the flute, till sulphur taint Dulled and lulled the echoes faint; Pliny, soon his style mislaid, Dogged Miletus' merry maid, As she showed eburnean limbs All-multiplied by brooklet brims; Plautus, see! like Plutus, hold Bosomfuls of orchard-gold, Learns he why that mystic core Was sweet Venus' meed of yore?
Dante dreamt (while spirits pa.s.s As in wizard's jetty gla.s.s) Each black-bossed Briarian trunk Waved live arms like furies drunk; Winsome Will, 'neath Windsor Oak, Eyed each elf that cracked a joke At poor panting grease-hart fast-- Obese, roguish Jack hara.s.sed; At Versailles, Moliere did court Cues from Pan (in heron port, Half in ooze, half treeward raised), "Words so witty, that Boileau's 'mazed!"
Foliage! fondly you attract!
Dian's faith I keep intact, And declare that thy dryads dance Still, and will, in thy green expanse!
SHOOTING STARS.
[FOR MY LITTLE CHILD ONLY.]
_("Tas de feux tombants.")_
[Bk. III. vii.]
See the scintillating shower!
Like a burst from golden mine-- Incandescent coals that pour From the incense-bowl divine, And around us dewdrops, shaken, Mirror each a twinkling ray 'Twixt the flowers that awaken In this glory great as day.
Mists and fogs all vanish fleetly; And the birds begin to sing, Whilst the rain is murm'ring sweetly As if angels echoing.
And, methinks, to show she's grateful For this seed from heaven come, Earth is holding up a plateful Of the birds and buds a-bloom!
L'ANNeE TERRIBLE.
TO LITTLE JEANNE.
_("Vous eutes donc hier un an.")_
[September, 1870.]
You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild, New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow.
Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand Whose pictures please you--while I trembling stand To see their big leaves tattered by your hand-- Are n.o.ble lines; but nothing half your worth, When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth To welcome me. No work of author wise Can match the thought half springing to your eyes, And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange, Regarding man with all the boundless range Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear That G.o.d's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here.
Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, You're at that hour of life most like to heaven, When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven When man no shadow feels: if fond caress Round parent twines, children the world possess.
Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove; No wider range of view your heart can take Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make; They two alone on this your opening hour Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour: They two--none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I, Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by.
You come--I go: though gloom alone my right, Blest be the destiny which gives you light.
Your fair-haired brother George and you beside Me play--in watching you is all my pride; And all I ask--by countless sorrows tried-- The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow.
Pure new-born wonderer! your infant life Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife.
Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play, And baby smiles have dared a world at bay: Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms To mighty Paris clas.h.i.+ng mighty arms.
Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hear You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near, And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer, I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan, Trembles, and pa.s.ses with half-uttered moan.
For though these hundred towers of Paris bend, Though close as foundering s.h.i.+p her glory's end, Though rocks the universe, which we defend; Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled, G.o.d sends His blessing by a little child.
MARWOOD TUCKER.
TO A SICK CHILD DURING THE SIEGE OF PARIS.
_("Si vous continuez toute pale.")_
[November, 1870.]
If you continue thus so wan and white; If I, one day, behold You pa.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 t.i.tans 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 sh.e.l.ls, At which laughed Punch, and they, and shook his bells.
