Poems - Victor Hugo (10 ebook reader TXT) 📗

them on the fire, Then watch the tinder, for the sight Of shining sparks that twinkle bright As little boats that sail at night, Or like the window lights that spring From out the dark at evening.

‘Twas all, and you were well content. Fine loss was this for anger’s vent— A strophe ill made midst your play, Sweet sound that chased the words away In stormy flight. An ode quite new, With rhymes inflated—stanzas, too, That panted, moving lazily,

And heavy Alexandrine lines That seemed to jostle bodily,

Like children full of play designs That spring at once from schoolroom’s form. Instead of all this angry storm, Another might have thanked you well For saving prey from that grim cell, That hollowed den ‘neath journals great,

Where editors who poets flout

With their demoniac laughter shout. And I have scolded you! What fate For charming dwarfs who never meant

To anger Hercules! And I Have frightened you!—My chair I sent

Back to the wall, and then let fly A shower of words the envious use— “Get out,” I said, with hard abuse, “Leave me alone—alone I say.” Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day, What fine result—what triumph rare!

As one turns from the coffin’d dead So left you me:—I could but stare

Upon the door through which you fled— I proud and grave—but punished quite. And what care you for this my plight!— You have recovered liberty, Fresh air and lovely scenery, The spacious park and wished-for grass;

The running stream, where you can throw A blade to watch what comes to pass;

Blue sky, and all the spring can show; Nature, serenely fair to see; The book of birds and spirits free, God’s poem, worth much more than mine, Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine— Flowers that a child may pluck in play, No harsh voice frightening it away. And I’m alone—all pleasure o’er—

Alone with pedant called “Ennui,” For since the morning at my door

Ennui has waited patiently. That docto-r-London born, you mark, One Sunday in December dark, Poor little ones—he loved you not, And waited till the chance he got To enter as you passed away,

And in the very corner where You played with frolic laughter gay,

He sighs and yawns with weary air.

What can I do? Shall I read books, Or write more verse—or turn fond looks Upon enamels blue, sea-green, And white—on insects rare as seen Upon my Dresden china ware? Or shall I touch the globe, and care To make the heavens turn upon Its axis? No, not one—not one Of all these things care I to do; All wearies me—I think of you. In truth with you my sunshine fled, And gayety with your light tread— Glad noise that set me dreaming still. ‘Twas my delight to watch your will, And mark you point with finger-tips

To help your spelling out a word; To see the pearls between your lips

When I your joyous laughter heard; Your honest brows that looked so true,

And said “Oh, yes!” to each intent; Your great bright eyes, that loved to view

With admiration innocent My fine old Sèvres; the eager thought That every kind of knowledge sought; The elbow push with “Come and see!”

Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be, And fays the wind blows often here; The gnomes that squat the ceiling near, In corners made by old books dim; The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim That seem at home ‘mong vases rare, And chat to them with friendly air— Oh, how the joyous demon throng Must all have laughed with laughter long To see you on my rough drafts fall, My bald hexameters, and all The mournful, miserable band, And drag them with relentless hand From out their box, with true delight To set them each and all a-light, And then with clapping hands to lean Above the stove and watch the scene, How to the mass deformed there came A soul that showed itself in flame!

Bright tricksy children—oh, I pray Come back and sing and dance away, And chatter too—sometimes you may, A giddy group, a big book seize— Or sometimes, if it so you please, With nimble step you’ll run to me

And push the arm that holds the pen, Till on my finished verse will be

A stroke that’s like a steeple when Seen suddenly upon a plain. My soul longs for your breath again To warm it. Oh, return—come here With laugh and babble—and no fear

When with your shadow you obscure

The book I read, for I am sure, Oh, madcaps terrible and dear, That you were right and I was wrong. But who has ne’er with scolding tongue Blamed out of season. Pardon me! You must forgive—for sad are we.

The young should not be hard and cold And unforgiving to the old. Children each morn your souls ope out

Like windows to the shining day, Oh, miracle that comes about,

The miracle that children gay Have happiness and goodness too, Caressed by destiny are you,

Charming you are, if you but play. But we with living overwrought, And full of grave and sombre thought, Are snappish oft: dear little men, We have ill-tempered days, and then, Are quite unjust and full of care; It rained this morning and the air Was chill; but clouds that dimm’d the sky Have passed. Things spited me, and why? But now my heart repents. Behold What ‘twas that made me cross, and scold! All by-and-by you’ll understand, When brows are mark’d by Time’s stern hand; Then you will comprehend, be sure, When older—that’s to say, less pure.

The fault I freely own was mine. But oh, for pardon now I pine! Enough my punishment to meet, You must forgive, I do entreat With clasped hands praying—oh, come back, Make peace, and you shall nothing lack. See now my pencils—paper—here, And pointless compasses, and dear Old lacquer-work; and stoneware clear Through glass protecting; all man’s toys So coveted by girls and boys. Great China monsters—bodies much Like cucumbers—you all shall touch. I yield up all! my picture rare

Found beneath antique rubbish heap, My great and tapestried oak chair

I will from you no longer keep. You shall about my table climb,

And dance, or drag, without a cry From me as if it were a crime.

Even I’ll look on patiently If you your jagged toys all throw Upon my carved bench, till it show The wood is torn; and freely too, I’ll leave in your own hands to view, My pictured Bible—oft desired— But which to touch your fear inspired— With God in emperor’s robes attired.

Then if to see my verses burn, Should seem to you a pleasant turn, Take them to freely tear away Or burn. But, oh! not so I’d say, If this were Méry’s room to-day. That noble poet! Happy town, Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own! Daughter of Homer, fair to see, Of Virgil’s son the mother she. To you I’d say, Hold, children all, Let but your eyes on his work fall; These papers are the sacred nest In which his crooning fancies rest; To-morrow winged to Heaven they’ll soar,

For new-born verse imprisoned still In manuscript may suffer sore

At your small hands and childish will, Without a thought of bad intent, Of cruelty quite innocent. You wound their feet, and bruise their wings, And make them suffer those ill things That children’s play to young birds brings.

But mine! no matter what you do, My poetry is all in you; You are my inspiration bright That gives my verse its purest light. Children whose life is made of hope, Whose joy, within its mystic scope, Owes all to ignorance of ill, You have not suffered, and you still Know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down The poet-writer weary grown. What warmth is shed by your sweet smile! How much he needs to gaze awhile Upon your shining placid brow, When his own brow its ache doth know; With what delight he loves to hear Your frolic play ‘neath tree that’s near, Your joyous voices mixing well With his own song’s all-mournful swell! Come back then, children! come to me, If you wish not that I should be As lonely now that you’re afar As fisherman of Etrétat, Who listless on his elbow leans Through all the weary winter scenes, As tired of thought—as on Time flies— And watching only rainy skies!

MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.

 

MY THOUGHTS OF YE.

(“À quoi je songe?”)

[XXIIL, July, 1836.]

 

What do I dream of? Far from the low roof, Where now ye are, children, I dream of you; Of your young heads that are the hope and crown Of my full summer, ripening to its fall. Branches whose shadow grows along my wall, Sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day, Still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn. I dream of those two little ones at play, Making the threshold vocal with their cries, Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife, Like two flowers knocked together by the wind. Or of the elder two—more anxious thought— Breasting already broader waves of life, A conscious innocence on either face, My pensive daughter and my curious boy. Thus do I dream, while the light sailors sing, At even moored beneath some steepy shore, While the waves opening all their nostrils breathe A thousand sea-scents to the wandering wind, And the whole air is full of wondrous sounds, From sea to strand, from land to sea, given back Alone and sad, thus do I dream of you. Children, and house and home, the table set, The glowing hearth, and all the pious care Of tender mother, and of grandsire kind; And while before me, spotted with white sails, The limpid ocean mirrors all the stars, And while the pilot, from the infinite main, Looks with calm eye into the infinite heaven, I dreaming of you only, seek to scan And fathom all my soul’s deep love for you— Love sweet, and powerful, and everlasting— And find that the great sea is small beside it.

Dublin University Magazine.

 

THE BEACON IN THE STORM.

(“Quels sont ces bruits sourds?”)

[XXIV., July 17, 1836.]

 

Hark to that solemn sound!

It steals towards the strand.— Whose is that voice profound

Which mourns the swallowed land,

With moans,

Or groans,

New threats of ruin close at hand? It is Triton—the storm to scorn Who doth wind his sonorous horn.

How thick the rain tonight!

And all along the coast The sky shows naught of light

Is it a storm, my host?

Too soon

The boon

Of pleasant weather will be lost Yes, ‘tis Triton, etc.

Are seamen on that speck

Afar in deepening dark? Is that a splitting deck

Of some ill-fated bark?

Fend harm!

Send calm!

O Venus! show thy starry spark! Though ‘tis Triton, etc.

The thousand-toothèd gale,— Adventurers too bold!— Rips up your toughest sail And tears your anchor-hold.

You forge

Through surge, To be in rending breakers rolled. While old Triton, etc.

Do sailors stare this way, Cramped on the Needle’s sheaf, To hail the sudden ray Which promises relief?

Then, bright;

Shine, light! Of hope upon the beacon reef! Though ‘tis Triton, etc.

 

LOVE’S TREACHEROUS POOL

(“Jeune fille, l’amour c’est un miroir.”)

[XXVI., February, 1835.]

 

Young maiden, true love is a pool all mirroring clear,

Where coquettish girls come to linger in long delight, For it banishes afar from the face all the clouds that besmear

The soul truly bright; But tempts you to ruffle its surface; drawing your foot

To subtilest sinking! and farther and farther the brink That vainly you snatch—for repentance, ‘tis weed without root,—

And struggling, you sink!

 

THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE.

(“La tombe dit à la rose.”)

[XXXI., June 3, 1837]

 

The Grave said to the rose

“What