Poems by Victor Hugo Part 24

TO HIS MUSE.

_("Puisqu'ici-bas tout ame.")_

[XL, May 19, 1836.]

Since everything below, Doth, in this mortal state, Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow Communicate;

Since all that lives and moves Upon the earth, bestows On what it seeks and what it loves Its thorn or rose;

Since April to the trees Gives a bewitching sound, And sombre night to grief gives ease, And peace profound;

Since day-spring on the flower A fresh'ning drop confers, And the fresh air on branch and bower Its choristers;

Since the dark wave bestows A soft caress, imprest On the green bank to which it goes Seeking its rest;

I give thee at this hour, Thus fondly bent o'er thee, The best of all the things in dow'r That in me be.

Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true, Which grief, not joy, endears,-- My thoughts, that like a shower of dew, Reach thee in tears.

My vows untold receive, All pure before thee laid; Receive of all the days I live The light or shade!

My hours with rapture fill'd, Which no suspicion wrongs; And all the blandishments distill'd From all my songs.

My spirit, whose essay Flies fearless, wild, and free, And hath, and seeks, to guide its way No star but thee.

No pensive, dreamy Muse, Who, though all else should smile, Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose, To weep the while.

Oh, sweetest mine! this gift Receive;--'tis throe alone;-- My heart, of which there's nothing left When Love is gone!

_Fraser's Magazine._

THE COW.

_("Devant la blanche ferme.")_

[XV., May, 1837.]

Before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoon Wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon, Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests, And the old watchdog slumberously rests, They half-attentive to the clarion of their king, Resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing-- There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light, Superb, enormous, dappled red and white-- Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young, Letting the children swarm until they hung Around her, under--rustics with their teeth Whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath, And bushy hair fresh and more brown Than mossy walls at old gates of a town, Calling to one another with loud cries For younger imps to be in at the prize; Stealing without concern but tremulous with fear They glance around lest Doll the maid appear;-- Their jolly lips--that haply cause some pain, And all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain, The teeming udders whose small, thousand pores Gush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars, While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps, And never moves. Anon there creeps A vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred, As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard.

Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release, And shrinks not while there's one still to appease.

Thus Nature--refuge 'gainst the slings of fate!

Mother of all, indulgent as she's great!

Lets us, the hungered of each age and rank, Shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank; Mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair, The souls retiring and those that dare, Sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned, All creep beneath or cl.u.s.ter close around, And with unending greed and joyous cries, From sources full, draw need's supplies, Quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoon Form blood and mind, in freest boon, Respire at length thy sacred flaming light, From all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight-- Brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod-- Thou undistracted still dost dream of G.o.d.

TORU DUTT.

MOTHERS.

_("Regardez: les enfants.")_

[XX., June, 1884.]

See all the children gathered there, Their mother near; so young, so fair, An eider sister she might be, And yet she hears, amid their games, The shaking of their unknown names In the dark urn of destiny.

She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares, On that pure heart so like to theirs, Her spirit with such life is rife That in its golden rays we see, Touched into graceful poesy, The dull cold commonplace of life.

Still following, watching, whether burn The Christmas log in winter stern, While merry plays go round; Or streamlets laugh to breeze of May That shakes the leaf to break away-- A shadow falling to the ground.

If some poor man with hungry eyes Her baby's coral bauble spies, She marks his look with famine wild, For Christ's dear sake she makes with joy An alms-gift of the silver toy-- A smiling angel of the child.

_Dublin University Magazine_

TO SOME BIRDS FLOWN AWAY.

_("Enfants! Oh! revenez!")_

[XXII, April, 1837]

Children, come back--come back, I say-- You whom my folly chased away A moment since, from this my room, With bristling wrath and words of doom!

What had you done, you bandits small, With lips as red as roses all?

What crime?--what wild and hapless deed?

What porcelain vase by you was split To thousand pieces? Did you need For pastime, as you handled it, Some Gothic missal to enrich With your designs fantastical?

Or did your tearing fingers fall On some old picture? Which, oh, which Your dreadful fault? Not one of these; Only when left yourselves to please This morning but a moment here 'Mid papers tinted by my mind You took some embryo verses near-- Half formed, but fully well designed To open out. Your hearts desire Was but to throw 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 s.p.a.cious park and wished-for gra.s.s; The running stream, where you can throw A blade to watch what comes to pa.s.s; Blue sky, and all the spring can show; Nature, serenely fair to see; The book of birds and spirits free, G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed away, And in the very corner where You played with frolic laughter gay, He sighs and yawns with weary air.