To A Sick Child During The Siege Of Paris.

("Si vous continuez toute pâle.")

[November, 1870.]


If you continue thus so wan and white;
    If I, one day, behold
You pass from out our dull air to the light,
    You, infant - I, so old:
If I the thread of our two lives must see
    Thus blent to human view,
I who would fain know death was near to me,
    And far away for you;
If your small hands remain such fragile things;
    If, in your cradle stirred,
You have the mien of waiting there for wings,
    Like to some new-fledged bird;
Not rooted to our earth you seem to be.
    If still, beneath the skies,
You turn, O Jeanne, on our mystery
    Soft, discontented eyes!
If I behold you, gay and strong no more;
    If you mope sadly thus;
If you behind you have not shut the door,
    Through which you came to us;
If you no more like some fair dame I see
    Laugh, walk, be well and gay;
If like a little soul you seem to me
    That fain would fly away -
I'll deem that to this world, where oft are blent
    The pall and swaddling-band,
You came but to depart - an angel sent
    To bear me from the land.

LUCY H. HOOPER.

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

A Lament.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

The Emperor's Return.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

Regret.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

Sweet Sister.

Victor-Marie Hugo, Simple Poetry

English

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L'Année Terrible.

TO LITTLE JEANNE.

("Vous eûtes donc hier un an.")

[September, 1870.]


You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child,
Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild,
New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough,
Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow.
Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand
Whose pictures please you - while I trembling stand
To see their big leaves tattered by your hand -
Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth,
When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth
To welcome me. No work of author wise
Can match the thought half springing to your eyes,
And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange,
Regarding man with all the boundless range
Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear
That God's not f...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Infantile Influence.

("Lorsque l'enfant parait.")

[XIX., May 11, 1830.]


The child comes toddling in, and young and old
With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold,
And artless, babyish joy;
A playful welcome greets it through the room,
The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom,
To greet the happy boy.

If June with flowers has spangled all the ground,
Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around
Draws close the circling seat;
The child still sheds a never-failing light;
We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright
Watches its tottering feet.

Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw,
We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law,
Or politics, or prayer;
The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play,
Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay,<...

Victor-Marie Hugo

To His Orphan Grandchildren.

("O Charles, je te sens près de moi.")

[July, 1871.]


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 Heave...

Victor-Marie Hugo

The Portrait Of A Child.

("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")

[Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.]


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
Have wandered down from Paradise,
And still are lingering in its light.

All earthly things are but a shade
Through which she looks at things above,
And sees the holy Mother-maid,
Athwart her mother's glance of love.

She seems celestial songs to hear,
And virgin souls are whispering near.
Till by her radiant smile deceived,

Victor-Marie Hugo

The Dying Child To Its Mother.

("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.")

[Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.]


Ah, you said too often to your angel
There are other angels in the sky -
There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers,
Sweet it were to enter in on high.

To that dome on marvellous pilasters,
To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars,
That blue garden full of stars like lilies,
And of lilies beautiful as stars.

And you said it was a place most joyous,
All our poor imaginings above,
With the wingèd cherubim for playmates,
And the good God evermore to love.

Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons,
Like a taper burning day and night,
Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin,
In that home so beautiful and bright.

But you should have told him, h...

Victor-Marie Hugo

The Son In Old Age.

("Ma Regina, cette noble figure.")

[LES BURGRAVES, Part II.]


Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind
My poor lost little one, my latest born.
He was a gift from God - a sign of pardon -
That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!
I to his little cradle went, and went,
And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.
For when one's very old, one is a child!
Then took it up and placed it on my knees,
And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair -
Thou wert not born then - and he would stammer
Those pretty little sounds that make one smile!
And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.
He recognized me - nay, knew me right well,
And in my face would laugh - and that child-laugh,
Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.
...

Victor-Marie Hugo