Poems - Victor Hugo

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He cries! alas! – What mother could confide

           Her offspring to the wild and watery waste?

             He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide

           Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed,

             He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath,

             Between such helpless innocence and death.

           "Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those

             Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes;

           Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose

             Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes!

           Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes,

             I would I were his mother; but I'll give

             If not his birth, at least the claim to live."

           Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride

             Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh,

           Wandered along the Nile's meandering side;

             And these diminished beauties, standing by

           The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide

             Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood,

             More lovely than the genius of the flood!

           The waters broken by her delicate feet

             Receive the eager wader, as alone

           By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet

             The wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won!

           She holds the weeping burden with a sweet

             And virgin glow of pride upon her brow,

             That knew no flush save modesty's till now.

           Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch,

             She brought the rescued infant slowly out

           Beyond the humid sands; at her approach

             Her curious maidens hurried round about

           To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch;

             Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh

             Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye!

           Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear,

             Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy —

           The loved of heaven! come like a stranger near,

             And clasp young Moses with maternal joy;

           Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear

             Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim,

             For Iphis knows not yet a mother's name!

           With a glad heart, and a triumphal face,

             The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led

           The humble infant of a hated race,

             Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed;

           While loudly pealing round the holy place

             Of Heaven's white Throne, the voice of angel choirs

             Intoned the theme of their undying lyres!

           "No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below —

             O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell

           The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo!

             Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell;

           And Goshen shall behold thy people go

             Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand,

             From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land.

           "The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai,

             Is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven,

           A vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky;

             Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven!

           Attend, be humble! for its power is nigh

             Israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth —

             A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!"

Dublin University Magazine, 1839

      ENVY AND AVARICE

      ("L'Avarice et l'Envie.")

      {LE CONSERVATEUR LITÉRAIRE, 1820.}

           Envy and Avarice, one summer day,

               Sauntering abroad

               In quest of the abode

           Of some poor wretch or fool who lived that way —

           You – or myself, perhaps – I cannot say —

           Along the road, scarce heeding where it tended,

           Their way in sullen, sulky silence wended;

           For, though twin sisters, these two charming creatures,

           Rivals in hideousness of form and features,

           Wasted no love between them as they went.

               Pale Avarice,

               With gloating eyes,

           And back and shoulders almost double bent,

           Was hugging close that fatal box

               For which she's ever on the watch

               Some glance to catch

           Suspiciously directed to its locks;

           And Envy, too, no doubt with silent winking

               At her green, greedy orbs, no single minute

           Withdrawn from it, was hard a-thinking

               Of all the shining dollars in it.

           The only words that Avarice could utter,

           Her constant doom, in a low, frightened mutter,

               "There's not enough, enough, yet in my store!"

           While Envy, as she scanned the glittering sight,

           Groaned as she gnashed her yellow teeth with spite,

               "She's more than me, more, still forever more!"

           Thus, each in her own fashion, as they wandered,

           Upon the coffer's precious contents pondered,

               When suddenly, to their surprise,

               The God Desire stood before their eyes.

           Desire, that

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