Poems. Victor Hugo

           Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!

             Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when

           We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,

           Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find

             Ourselves alone again.

           Then, through the distant future's boundless space,

             We seek the lost companion of our days:

           "Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace

           Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place

             Of that we mourn always.

           I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,

             Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone!

           Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,

           Lost Happiness hath left regret – but thou

      Leavest remorse, alone."

           Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,

             O friends, that in your revelry appears!

           With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire,

           And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre

             When it is wet with tears.

           Each in his secret heart perchance doth own

             Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed; —

           Sufferers alike together and alone

           Are we; with many a grief to others known,

             How many unrevealed!

           Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,

             For tender recollections, cherished long,

           For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,

           We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains

             Only for sport and song!

           Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:

             In vain I strove their parting to delay;

           Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,

           Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face

             Lightens, and fades away.

           The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,

             Old towers gleam white in the ray,

           And already the glory so joyously seeks

             The lark that's saluting the day.

           Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair,

             Though, were you swept hence in the night,

           From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare

             At the sun rising newly as bright.

           But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown

             Where glitters Eternity's stream,

           And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown,

             As sunshine disperses a dream.

           The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light,

             The latest murmur of departing day,

           Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight,

           The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,

             The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay, —

           The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow

             As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun;

           The thrilling accent of a voice we know,

           The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow,

             An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run, —

           The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh,

             Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame, —

           The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die, —

           The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie,

             Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!

           Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine,

             Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound;

           Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine,

           The sacred word which at some hidden shrine,

             The selfsame voice forever makes resound!

           O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame,

             My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide,

           With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim,

           Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name,

           Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide, —

           Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,

             Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear;

           To solemn harmonies attuned the string,

           As, music show'ring from his viewless wing,

             On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.

           That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,

             Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:

             A heavenly spirit guards her ways,

           From whom she stole that mixture rare.

             Through all her features shining mild,

           The poet sees an angel there,

             The father sees a child.

           And by their flame so pure and bright,

             We see how lately those sweet eyes