Poems by Victor Hugo Part 27

STILL BE A CHILD.

_("O vous que votre age defende")_

[IX., February, 1840.]

In youthful spirits wild, Smile, for all beams on thee; Sport, sing, be still the child, The flower, the honey-bee.

Bring not the future near, For Joy too soon declines-- What is man's mission here?

Toil, where no sunlight shines!

Our lot is hard, we know; From eyes so gayly beaming, Whence rays of beauty flow, Salt tears most oft are streaming.

Free from emotions past, All joy and hope possessing, With mind in pureness cast, Sweet ignorance confessing.

Plant, safe from winds and showers, Heart with soft visions glowing, In childhood's happy hours A mother's rapture showing.

Loved by each anxious friend, No carking care within-- When summer gambols end, My winter sports begin.

Sweet poesy from heaven Around thy form is placed, A mother's beauty given, By father's thought is graced!

Seize, then, each blissful second, Live, for joy _sinks in night_, And those whose tale is reckoned, Have had their days of light.

Then, oh! before we part, The poet's blessing take, Ere bleeds that aged heart, Or child the woman make.

_Dublin University Magazine_.

THE POOL AND THE SOUL.

_("Comme dans les etangs.")_

[X., May, 1839.]

As in some stagnant pool by forest-side, In human souls two things are oft descried; The sky,--which tints the surface of the pool With all its rays, and all its shadows cool; The basin next,--where gloomy, dark and deep, Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep.

R.F. HODGSON

YE MARINERS WHO SPREAD YOUR SAILS.

_("Matelots, vous deploirez les voiles.")_

[XVI., May 5, 1839.]

Ye mariners! ye mariners! each sail to the breeze unfurled, In joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world; And when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze Upon the sh.o.r.e, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays.

Ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue's base will bite; Ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the sight; The ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall; The church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call.

Ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound, Where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around; Ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend, And back again your mirror'd forms the water's surface send.

Ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny; Embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie; Ye lightning-torches still your streams will cast into the air, Which like a troubled spirit's course float wildly here and there.

Ye thunder-peals will G.o.d proclaim, as doth the ocean wave; Ye violets will nourish still the flower that April gave; Upon your ambient tides will be man's sternest shadow cast; Your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past.

All things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie, Have each its course to follow out, or object to descry; Contributing its little share to that stupendous whole, Where with man's teeming race combined creation's wonders roll.

The poet, too, will contemplate th' Almighty Father's love, Who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from above, Hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty, Whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity.

_Author of "Critical Essays."_

ON A FLEMISH WINDOW-PANE.

_("J'aime le carillon dans tes cites antiques.")_

[XVIII., August, 1837.]

Within thy cities of the olden time Dearly I love to list the ringing chime, Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth, n.o.ble old Flanders! where the rigid North A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel, Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile.

The chime, the clinking chime! To Fancy's eye-- Prompt her affections to personify-- It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed In guise of Andalusian dancing maid, Appealing by a crevice fine and rare, As of a door oped in "th' incorporal air."

She comes! o'er drowsy roofs, inert and dull, Shaking her lap, of silv'ry music full, Rousing without remorse the drones abed, Tripping like joyous bird with tiniest tread, Quiv'ring like dart that trembles in the targe, By a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge Bears her slight footfall, tim'rous half, yet free, In innocent extravagance of glee The graceful elf alights from out the spheres, While the quick spirit--thing of eyes and ears-- As now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon Descends, those delicate degrees upon, Hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on.

_Fraser's Magazine_

THE PRECEPTOR.

_("Homme chauve et noir.")_

[XIX., May, 1839.]

A gruesome man, bald, clad in black, Who kept us youthful drudges in the track, Thinking it good for them to leave home care, And for a while a harsher yoke to bear; Surrender all the careless ease of home, And be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam; For this with blandest smiles he softly asks That they with him will prosecute their tasks; Receives them in his solemn chilly lair, The rigid lot of discipline to share.

At dingy desks they toil by day; at night To gloomy chambers go uncheered by light, Where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail Of heavy hours reveal the weary tale; Where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make Long scribbled lines the price of each mistake.