Poems by Victor Hugo Part 57

HENRY F. CHORLEY.

AN AUTUMNAL SIMILE.

_("Les feuilles qui gisaient.")_

The leaves that in the lonely walks were spread, Starting from off the ground beneath the tread, Coursed o'er the garden-plain; Thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings, Our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings, Then, swiftly, falls again.

TO CRUEL OCEAN.

Where are the hapless shipmen?--disappeared, Gone down, where witness none, save Night, hath been, Ye deep, deep waves, of kneeling mothers feared, What dismal tales know ye of things unseen?

Tales that ye tell your whispering selves between The while in clouds to the flood-tide ye pour; And this it is that gives you, as I ween, Those mournful voices, mournful evermore, When ye come in at eve to us who dwell on sh.o.r.e.

ESMERALDA IN PRISON.

_("Phoebus, n'est-il sur la terre?")_

[OPERA OF "ESMERALDA," ACT IV., 1836.]

Phoebus, is there not this side the grave, Power to save Those who're loving? Magic balm That will restore to me my former calm?

Is there nothing tearful eye Can e'er dry, or hush the sigh?

I pray Heaven day and night, As I lay me down in fright, To retake my life, or give All again for which I'd live!

Phoebus, hasten from the shining sphere To me here!

Hither hasten, bring me Death; then Love May let our spirits rise, ever-linked, above!

LOVER'S SONG.

_("Mon ame a ton coeur s'est donnee.")_

[ANGELO, Act II., May, 1835.]

My soul unto thy heart is given, In mystic fold do they entwine, So bound in one that, were they riven, Apart my soul would life resign.

Thou art my song and I the lyre; Thou art the breeze and I the brier; The altar I, and thou the fire; Mine the deep love, the beauty thine!

As fleets away the rapid hour While weeping--may My sorrowing lay Touch thee, sweet flower.

ERNEST OSWALD COE.

A FLEETING GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE.

_("Tout vit! et se pose avec grace.")_

How graceful the picture! the life, the repose!

The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide; And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows, And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side.

_Fraser's Magazine_.

LORD ROCHESTER'S SONG.

_("Un soldat au dur visage.")_

[CROMWELL, ACT I.]

"Hold, little blue-eyed page!"

So cried the watchers surly, Stern to his pretty rage And golden hair so curly-- "Methinks your satin cloak Masks something bulky under; I take this as no joke-- Oh, thief with stolen plunder!"

"I am of high repute, And famed among the truthful: This silver-handled lute Is meet for one still youthful Who goes to keep a tryst With her who is his dearest.

I charge you to desist; My cause is of the clearest."

But guardsmen are so sharp, Their eyes are as the lynx's: "That's neither lute nor harp-- Your mark is not the minxes.

Your loving we dispute-- That string of steel so cruel For music does not suit-- You go to fight a duel!"

THE BEGGAR'S QUATRAIN.

_("Aveugle comme Homere.")_

[Improvised at the Cafe de Paris.]