Poems by Victor Hugo Part 52

I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down In earth, where men decay, I search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb, Burst out pale morning's ray.

Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead, To charm us, live again: Kneeling, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds Two little children's strain.

George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play!

Your father's form recall, Now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt By beams that wandering fall.

Oh, knowledge! what thy use? did we not know Death holds no more the dead; But Heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and star Smile at the grave we dread?

A Heaven, which childhood represents on earth.

Orphans, may G.o.d be nigh!

That G.o.d, who can your bright steps turn aside From darkness, where I sigh.

All joy be yours, though sorrow bows me down!

To each his fitting wage: Children, I've pa.s.sed life's span, and men are plagued By shadows at that stage.

Hath any done--nay, only half performed-- The good he might for others?

Hath any conquered hatred, or had strength To treat his foes like brothers?

E'en he, who's tried his best, hath evil wrought: Pain springs from happiness: My heart has triumphed in defeat, my pulse Ne'er quickened at success.

I seemed the greater when I felt the blow: The p.r.i.c.k gives sense of gain; Since to make others bleed my courage fails, I'd rather bear the pain.

To grow is sad, since evils grow no less; Great height is mark for all: The more I have of branches, more of cl.u.s.tering boughs, The ghastlier shadows fall.

Thence comes my sadness, though I grant your charms: Ye are the outbursting Of the soul in bloom, steeped in the draughts Of nature's boundless spring.

George is the sapling, set in mournful soil; Jeanne's folding petals shroud A mind which trembles at our uproar, yet Half longs to speak aloud.

Give, then, my children--lowly, blus.h.i.+ng plants, Whom sorrow waits to seize-- Free course to instincts, whispering 'mid the flowers, Like hum of murmuring bees.

Some day you'll find that chaos comes, alas!

That angry lightning's hurled, When any cheer the People, Atlas huge, Grim bearer of the world!

You'll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance, Each man, unknowing, great, Should frame life so, that at some future hour Fact and his dreamings meet.

I, too, when death is past, one day shall grasp That end I know not now; And over you will bend me down, all filled With dawn's mysterious glow.

I'll learn what means this exile, what this shroud Enveloping your prime; And why the truth and sweetness of one man Seem to all others crime.

I'll hear--though midst these dismal boughs you sang-- How came it, that for me, Who every pity feel for every woe, So vast a gloom could be.

I'll know why night relentless holds me, why So great a pile of doom: Why endless frost enfolds me, and methinks My nightly bed's a tomb:

Why all these battles, all these tears, regrets, And sorrows were my share; And why G.o.d's will of me a cypress made, When roses bright ye were.

MARWOOD TUCKER.

TO THE CANNON "VICTOR HUGO."

[Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les Chatiments" during the Siege of Paris.]

[1872.]

Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse, Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart, And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart!

L'ART D'eTRE GRANDPeRE.

THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR.

_("Prenez garde a ce pet.i.t etre.")_

[LAUS PUER: POEM V.]

Take heed of this small child of earth; He is great: in him is G.o.d most high.

Children before their fleshly birth Are lights in the blue sky.

In our brief bitter world of wrong They come; G.o.d gives us them awhile.

His speech is in their stammering tongue, And His forgiveness in their smile.

Their sweet light rests upon our eyes: Alas! their right to joy is plain.

If they are hungry, Paradise Weeps, and if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.

The want that saps their sinless flower Speaks judgment on Sin's ministers.

Man holds an angel in his power.

Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs.

When G.o.d seeks out these tender things, Whom in the shadow where we keep, He sends them clothed about with wings, And finds them ragged babes that weep!

_Dublin University Magazine._

THE EPIC OF THE LION.