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.

February 26, 1802

May 22, 1885

French

Victor-Marie Hugo

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A Fleeting Glimpse Of A Village.

("Tout vit! et se pose avec grâce.")


How graceful the picture! the life, the repose!
The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide;
And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows,
And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side.

Fraser's Magazine.

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

A Love For Winged Things.

[XXXVII., April 12, 1840.]


My love flowed e'er for things with wings.
When boy I sought for forest fowl,
And caged them in rude rushes' mesh,
And fed them with my breakfast roll;
So that, though fragile were the door,
They rarely fled, and even then
Would flutter back at faintest call!

Man-grown, I charm for men.

Victor-Marie Hugo

A Queen Five Summers Old.

("Elle est toute petite.")

[Bk. XXVI.]


She is so little - in her hands a rose:
A stern duenna watches where she goes,
What sees Old Spain's Infanta - the clear shine
Of waters shadowed by the birch and pine.
What lies before? A swan with silver wing,
The wave that murmurs to the branch's swing,
Or the deep garden flowering below?
Fair as an angel frozen into snow,
The royal child looks on, and hardly seems to know.

As in a depth of glory far away,
Down in the green park, a lofty palace lay,
There, drank the deer from many a crystal pond,
And the starred peacock gemmed the shade beyond.
Around that child all nature shone more bright;
Her innocence was as an added light.
Rubies and diamonds strewed the grass she trode,
An...

Victor-Marie Hugo

A Simile.

("Soyez comme l'oiseau.")

[XXXIII. vi.]


Thou art like the bird
That alights and sings
Though the frail spray bends -
For he knows he has wings.

FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER)

Victor-Marie Hugo

A Storm Simile.

("Oh, regardez le ciel!")

[June, 1828.]


See, where on high the moving masses, piled
By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild,
    Present strange shapes to view;
Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds,
As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds
    Sudden his falchion drew.

Victor-Marie Hugo

After The Coup D'Êtat.

("Devant les trahisons.")

[Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.]


Before foul treachery and heads hung down,
I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene.
Oh! faith in fallen things - be thou my crown,
My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean:

Yes, whilst he's there, or struggle some or fall,
O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain.
Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves - my all,
I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again.

I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore,
France, save my duty, I shall all forget;
Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar,
And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set.

O bitter exile, hard, without a term,
Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know
Who have down-truckled 'mid the men...

Victor-Marie Hugo

An Autumnal Simile.

("Les feuilles qui gisaient.")


The leaves that in the lonely walks were spread,
Starting from off the ground beneath the tread,
        Coursed o'er the garden-plain;
Thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings,
Our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings,
        Then, swiftly, falls again.

Victor-Marie Hugo

An Old-Time Lay.

("Jamais elle ne raille.")

[Bk. III. xiii.]


Where your brood seven lie,
Float in calm heavenly,
Life passing evenly,
Waterfowl, waterfowl! often I dream
        For a rest
        Like your nest,
    Skirting the stream.

Shine the sun tearfully
Ere the clouds clear fully,
Still you skim cheerfully,
Swallow, oh! swallow swift! often I sigh
        For a home
        Where you roam
    Nearing the sky!

Guileless of pondering;
Swallow-eyes wandering;
Seeking no fonder ring
Than the rose-garland Love gives thee apart!
        Grant me soon -
        Blessed boon!
    Home in thy heart!

Victor-Marie Hugo

Angel Or Demon.

("Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe!")

[I. vii.]


Angel or demon! thou, - whether of light
The minister, or darkness - still dost sway
This age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight
Bears us, all breathless, after it away.
The eye that from thy presence fain would stray,
Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown
Rests on all pictures of the living day,
And on the threshold of our time alone,
Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!

Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore
The subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be,
Whether he wind along the enchanting shore
To Portici from fair Parthenope,
Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie,
O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray,
Wooed by whose breath...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Apostrophe To Nature.

("O Soleil!")

[Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d'État, 1852.]


O Sun! thou countenance divine!
Wild flowers of the glen,
Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine
Has pierced not, far from men;
Ye sacred hills and antique rocks,
Ye oaks that worsted time,
Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks
Hurl up in storms sublime;
And sky above, unruflfed blue,
Chaste rills that alway ran
From stainless source a course still true,
What think ye of this man?

Victor-Marie Hugo

Baby's Seaside Grave.

("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.")

[XXXVIII., 1840.]


Brown ivy old, green herbage new;
Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle;
An ancient chapel where a crew,
Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle.
A far-off forest's darkling frown,
Which makes the prudent start and tremble,
Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down,
And clouds in demon hordes assemble.

Land birds which twit the mews that scream
Round walls where lolls the languid lizard;
Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream
Past caves fit for an ocean wizard.
Alow, aloft, no lull - all life,
But far aside its whirls are keeping,
As wishfully to let its strife
Spare still the mother vainly weeping
O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.

Victor-Marie Hugo

Battle Of The Norsemen And The Gaels.

("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")

[VII., September, 1825.]


Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey!
Ye wolves of war, make no delay!
For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall
Ere night may veil with purple pall.
The evening psalms are nearly o'er,
And priests who follow in our train
Have promised us the final gain,
And filled with faith our valiant corps.

Let orphans weep, and widows brood!
To-morrow we shall wash the blood
Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent,
So, close the ranks and fire the tent!
And chill yon coward cavalcade
With brazen bugles blaring loud,
E'en though our chargers' neighing proud
Already has the host dismayed.

Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds!
On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds!

Victor-Marie Hugo

Beloved Name.

("Le parfum d'un lis.")

[Bk. V. xiii.]


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 N...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Boaz Asleep.

("Booz s'était couché.")

[Bk. II. vi.]


At work within his barn since very early,
Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,
Upon the small bed where he always lay
Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.

Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well,
Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood
That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud
And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.

His beard was silver, as in April all
A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook.
When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look,
Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."

He walked his way of life straight on and plain,
With justice clothed, like linen white and clean,
And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween,
Like...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Charity.

("Je suis la Charité.")

[February, 1837.]


"Lo! I am Charity," she cries,
"Who waketh up before the day;
While yet asleep all nature lies,
God bids me rise and go my way."

How fair her glorious features shine,
Whereon the hand of God hath set
An angel's attributes divine,
With all a woman's sweetness met.

Above the old man's couch of woe
She bows her forehead, pure and even.
There's nothing fairer here below,
There's nothing grander up in heaven,

Than when caressingly she stands
(The cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat),
And holds within her holy hands
The little children's naked feet.

To every den of want and toil
She goes, and leaves the poorest fed;
Leaves wine and bread, and genial oil,<...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Childhood.

("L'enfant chantait.")

[Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.]


The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed,
With anguish moaned, - fair Form pain should possess not long;
For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head:
I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.

The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye
Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright;
And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day
Carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night.

The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway;
And the blithe little lad began anew to sing...
Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weigh
Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.

N...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Come When I Sleep.

("Oh, quand je dors.")

[XXVII.]


Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place,
As Laura came to bless her poet's heart,
And let thy breath in passing touch my face -
    At once a space
        My lips will part.

And on my brow where too long weighed supreme
A vision - haply spent now - black as night,
Let thy look as a star arise and beam -
    At once my dream
        Will seem of light.

Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss -
A pure and holy love-light - and forsake
The angel for the woman in a kiss -
    At once, I wis,
        My soul will wake!

WM. W. TOMLINSON.

Victor-Marie Hugo

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