Poems by Victor Hugo Part 55

THE REFUGEE'S HAVEN.

_("Vous voila dans la froide Angleterre.")_

[Bk. III. xlvii., Jersey, Sept. 19, 1854.]

You may doubt I find comfort in England But, there, 'tis a refuge from dangers!

Where a Cromwell dictated to Milton, Republicans ne'er can be strangers!

VARIOUS PIECES.

TO THE NAPOLEON COLUMN.

[Oct. 9, 1830.]

When with gigantic hand he placed, For throne, on va.s.sal Europe based, That column's lofty height-- Pillar, in whose dread majesty, In double immortality, Glory and bronze unite!

Aye, when he built it that, some day, Discord or war their course might stay, Or here might break their car; And in our streets to put to shame Pigmies that bear the hero's name Of Greek and Roman war.

It was a glorious sight; the world His hosts had trod, with flags unfurled, In veteran array; Kings fled before him, forced to yield, He, conqueror on each battlefield, Their cannon bore away.

Then, with his victors back he came; All France with booty teemed, her name Was writ on sculptured stone; And Paris cried with joy, as when The parent bird comes home again To th' eaglets left alone.

Into the furnace flame, so fast, Were heaps of war-won metal cast, The future monument!

His thought had formed the giant mould, And piles of bra.s.s in the fire he rolled, From hostile cannon rent.

When to the battlefield he came, He grasped the guns spite tongues of flame, And bore the spoil away.

This bronze to France's Rome he brought, And to the founder said, "Is aught Wanting for our array?"

And when, beneath a radiant sun, That man, his n.o.ble purpose done, With calm and tranquil mien, Disclosed to view this glorious fane, And did with peaceful hand contain The warlike eagle's sheen.

Round _thee_, when hundred thousands placed, As some great Roman's triumph graced, The little Romans all; We boys hung on the procession's flanks, Seeking some father in thy ranks, And loud thy praise did call.

Who that surveyed thee, when that day Thou deemed that future glory ray Would here be ever bright; Feared that, ere long, all France thy grave From pettifoggers vain would crave Beneath that column's height?

_Author of "Critical Essays."_

CHARITY.

_("Je suis la Charite.")_

[February, 1837.]

"Lo! I am Charity," she cries, "Who waketh up before the day; While yet asleep all nature lies, G.o.d bids me rise and go my way."

How fair her glorious features shine, Whereon the hand of G.o.d hath set An angel's attributes divine, With all a woman's sweetness met.

Above the old man's couch of woe She bows her forehead, pure and even.

There's nothing fairer here below, There's nothing grander up in heaven,

Than when caressingly she stands (The cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat), And holds within her holy hands The little children's naked feet.

To every den of want and toil She goes, and leaves the poorest fed; Leaves wine and bread, and genial oil, And hopes that blossom in her tread,

And fire, too, beautiful bright fire, That mocks the glowing dawn begun, Where, having set the blind old sire, He dreams he's sitting in the sun.

Then, over all the earth she runs, And seeks, in the cold mists of life, Those poor forsaken little ones Who droop and weary in the strife.

Ah, most her heart is stirred for them, Whose foreheads, wrapped in mists obscure, Still wear a triple diadem-- The young, the innocent, the poor.

And they are better far than we, And she bestows a worthier meed; For, with the loaf of charity, She gives the kiss that children need.

She gives, and while they wondering eat The tear-steeped bread by love supplied, She stretches round them in the street Her arm that pa.s.sers push aside.

If, with raised head and step alert, She sees the rich man stalking by, She touches his embroidered skirt, And gently shows them where they lie.

She begs for them of careless crowd, Of earnest brows and narrow hearts, That when it hears her cry aloud, Turns like the ebb-tide and departs.

O miserable he who sings Some strain impure, whose numbers fall Along the cruel wind that brings Death to some child beneath his wall.

O strange and sad and fatal thing, When, in the rich man's gorgeous hall, The huge fire on the hearth doth fling A light on some great festival,

To see the drunkard smile in state, In purple wrapt, with myrtle crowned, While Jesus lieth at the gate With only rags to wrap him round.

_Dublin University Magazine_

SWEET SISTER.

_("Vous qui ne savez pas combien l'enfance est belle.")_

Sweet sister, if you knew, like me, The charms of guileless infancy, No more you'd envy riper years, Or smiles, more bitter than your tears.

But childhood pa.s.ses in an hour, As perfume from a faded flower; The joyous voice of early glee Flies, like the Halcyon, o'er the sea.