The Girl Of Otaheite.

("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")

[Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.]


Forget? Can I forget the scented breath
Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear;
The strange awaking from a dream of death,
The sudden thrill to find thee coming near?
Our huts were desolate, and far away
I heard thee calling me throughout the day,
No one had seen thee pass,
Trembling I came. Alas!
    Can I forget?

Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms
Died with the grief that from my bosom fell.
Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms!
Let there be no regrets and no farewell!
Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow,
Here of thy fatherland we whispered low;
    Here, music, praise, and prayer
    Filled the glad summer air.
    Can I forget?

Forget? My dear old home must I forget?
And wander forth and hear my people weep,
Far from the woods where, when the sun has set,
Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep;
Far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan
I could not live. Here let me rest alone!
    Go! I must follow nigh,
    With thee I'm doomed to die,
    Never forget!

CLEMENT SCOTT

Victor-Marie Hugo

Victor-Marie Hugo was a French poet, novelist, and dramatist of the Romantic movement. He is considered one of the greatest French writers, with works such as "Les Misérables" and "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame." His literary works often explore themes of justice, love, and human rights. In addition to his literary achievements, he was also a politician and human rights activist. Hugo's influence extends beyond literature into politics and society.

Victor-Marie Hugo

Gastibelza.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

The First Black Flag.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

To Cruel Ocean.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

Cornflowers.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

English

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Early Love Revisited.

("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")

[XXXIV. i., October, 183-.]


I have wished in the grief of my heart to know
If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear,
And to see what this beautiful valley could show
Of all that was once to my soul most dear.
In how short a span doth all Nature change,
How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene -
And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range,
The links that bound our hearts to the scene.

Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste;
The fir is felled that our names once bore;
Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste,
Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er.
The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride,
She so gayly drank, from the wood descending;
In her fairy hand was transformed the...

Victor-Marie Hugo

The Exile's Desire.

("Si je pouvais voir, O patrie!")

[Bk. III. xxxvii.]


Would I could see you, native land,
Where lilacs and the almond stand
Behind fields flowering to the strand -
    But no!

Can I - oh, father, mother, crave
Another final blessing save
To rest my head upon your grave? -
    But no!

In the one pit where ye repose,
Would I could tell of France's woes,
My brethren, who fell facing foes -
    But no!

Would I had - oh, my dove of light,
After whose flight came ceaseless night,
One plume to clasp so purely white. -
    But no!

Far from ye all - oh, dead, bewailed!
The fog-bell deafens me empaled
Upon this rock - I feel enjailed -
    Though free.

Like one who watches at the gate

Victor-Marie Hugo

Regret.

("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")

[Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.]


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, ...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Sweet Memory Of Love.

("Toutes les passions s'éloignent avec l'âge.")

[XXXIV. ii., October, 183-.]


As life wanes on, the passions slow depart,
One with his grinning mask, one with his steel;
Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art,
Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill.
But naught can Love's all charming power efface,
That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er,
In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace,
The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

But when the weight of years bow down the head,
And man feels all his energies decline,
His projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead,
Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine,
When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er,
We count within our hearts so near congealed,
Each grief that'...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Gastibelza.

("Gastibelza, l'homme à la carabine.")

[XXII., March, 1837.]


Gastibelza, with gun the measure beating,
    Would often sing:
"Has one o' ye with sweet Sabine been meeting,
    As, gay, ye bring
Your songs and steps which, by the music,
    Are reconciled -
Oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing
    Will drive me wild!

"You stare as though you hardly knew my lady -
    Sabine's her name!
Her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady,
    A witch of shame,
Who shrieks o' nights upon the Haunted Tower,
    With horrors piled -
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"Sing on and leap - enjoying all the favors
    Good heaven sends;
She, too, was young - her lips had peachy savors
    With honey blends;
Give to that ...

Victor-Marie Hugo

A Lament.

("Sentiers où l'herbe se balance.")

[Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.]


O paths whereon wild grasses wave!
O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar!
Why are ye silent as the grave?
For One, who came, and comes no more!

Why is thy window closed of late?
And why thy garden in its sear?
O house! where doth thy master wait?
I only know he is not here.

Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand
Will feed thee. In the house is none.
Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And
O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.

Where is he gone? Into the dark. -
O sad, and ever-plaining surge!
Whence art thou? From the convict-bark.
And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.

EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.

Victor-Marie Hugo