Victor Hugo.

    Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead!
    Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand
    A poor pale wreath, the best at my command,
    But all unfit to deck so grand a head.
    It is the outcome of a neighbour land
    Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years.
    It is the token of a nation's tears
    Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again.
    Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain, -
    These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse.
    We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse;
    We call thee friend; we ratify thy reign.
    Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone,
    But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne!

Eric Mackay

Eric Mackay, born on June 1, 1851, was a noted English poet whose work gained recognition in the late 19th century. He is best known for his sonnets and lyrical poetry, which were celebrated for their emotional depth and technical mastery. His most famous work, 'Love Letters of a Violinist,' was well-received during his lifetime. Mackay's contributions to English literature have been acknowledged for their artistic merit. He passed away on June 8, 1898.

Eric Mackay

The Daisy.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

A Rhapsody Of Death.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

In Tuscany.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

I Miei Saluti. (Italian Poems)

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

My Napoleon.

("Toujours lui! lui partout!")

[XL., December, 1828.]


Above all others, everywhere I see
His image cold or burning!
My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free
The thoughts within me yearning.
My quivering lips pour forth the words
That cluster in his name of glory -
The star gigantic with its rays of swords
Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.

I see his finger pointing where the shell
Should fall to slay most rabble,
And save foul regicides; or strike the knell
Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.
A Consul then, o'er young but proud,
With midnight poring thinned, and sallow,
But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,
And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.

And soon the Caesar, with an eye ...

Victor-Marie Hugo

The Giant In Glee.

("Ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des Gaules.")

[V., March 11, 1825.]


Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls;
O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls
Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed
Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.

Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow, -
A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow.
He is weak, very old - he can scarcely uptear
A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;

But here's to replace him! - I can toy with his axe;
As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax,
And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees.
How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!

I was still but a springald when, cleav...

Victor-Marie Hugo

King Louis XVII.

("En ce temps-là du ciel les portes.")

[Bk. I. v., December, 1822.]


The golden gates were opened wide that day,
All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play
Out of the Holiest of Holy, light;
And the elect beheld, crowd immortal,
A young soul, led up by young angels bright,
Stand in the starry portal.

A fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate,
In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate,
His golden hair hung all dishevelled down,
On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story,
And angels twined him with the innocent's crown,
The martyr's palm of glory.

The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near,
Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear,
God hath prepared a glory for thy brow,
Rest in his arms, and...

Victor-Marie Hugo

To Victor Hugo

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance,
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears,
French of the French, and Lord of human tears;
Child-lover; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance,
Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers;
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years
As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of France!
Who dost not love our Englandso they say;
I know notEngland, France, all man to be
Will make one people ere mans race be run:
And I, desiring that diviner day,
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy
To younger England in the boy my son.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Tribute To The Vanquished.

("Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.")

[I. v.]


Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past,
By exile given, by exile claimed once more,
Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast.
Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore
These relics of the monarchy of yore;
And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid
War's honors by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed!

Fraser's Magazine

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