TO VICTOR HUGO.

N the fair days when God

IN

By man as godlike trod,

And each alike was Greek, alike was free,

God's lightning spared, they said,

Alone the happier head

Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee,
To whom the high gods gave of right
Their thunders and their laurels and their light.

Sunbeams and bays before

Our master's servants wore,
For these Apollo left in all men's lands;

But far from these ere now

And watched with jealous brow

Lay the blind lightnings shut between God's hands,
And only loosed on slaves and kings
The terror of the tempest of their wings.

Born in those younger years

That shone with storms of spears

And shook in the wind blown from a dead world's pyre,

When by her back-blown hair
Napoleon caught the fair

And fierce Republic with her feet of fire,

And stayed with iron words and hands. Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands:

Thou sawest the tides of things

Close over heads of kings,

And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee
Laurels and lightnings were

As sunbeams and soft air

Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea
Mixed, or as memory with desire,
Or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre.

For thee man's spirit stood

Disrobed of flesh and blood,

And bare the heart of the most secret hours;
And to thine hand more tame

Than birds in winter came

High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers,
And from thy table fed, and sang

Till with the tune men's ears took fire and rang.

Even all men's eyes and ears

With fiery sound and tears

Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelids light,

At those high songs of thine

That stung the sense like wine,

Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night,
Or wailed as in some flooded cave
Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave.

But we, our master, we

Whose hearts, uplift to thee,

Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song,
We ask not nor await

From the clenched hands of fate,

As thou, remission of the world's old wrong;
Respite we ask not, nor release;
Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace.

Though thy most fiery hope

Storm heaven, to set wide ope

The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars

All feet of men, all eyes—

The old night resumes her skies,

Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars,

Where nought save these is sure in sight;

And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night.

One thing we can; to be

Awhile, as men may, free;

But not by hope or pleasure the most stern

Goddess, most awful-eyed,

Sits, but on either side

Sits sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn,

Sad faith that cannot hope or fear,

And memory grey with many a flowerless year.

Not that in stranger's wise

I lift not loving eyes

To the fair foster-mother France, that gave

Beyond the pale fleet foam

Help to my sires and home,

Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save
Whom from her nursing breasts and hands
Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands.

Not without thoughts that ache

For theirs and for thy sake,

I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head;
I whose young song took flight
Toward the great heat and light

On me a child from thy far splendour shed,
From thine high place of soul and song,
Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong.

Ah, not with lessening love

For memories born hereof,

I look to that sweet mother-land, and see
The old fields and fair full streams,

And skies, but fled like dreams

The feet of freedom and the thought of thee;
And all between the skies and graves

The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves.

She, killed with noisome air,

Even she! and still so fair,

Who said "Let there be freedom," and there was

Freedom; and as a lance

The fiery eyes of France

Touched the world's sleep and as a sleep made pass
Forth of men's heavier ears and eyes
Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies.

Are they men's friends indeed

Who watch them weep and bleed?

Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee?

Thou, first of men and friend,

Seest thou, even thou, the end?

Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be?

Evils may pass and hopes endure; But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure.

O nursed in airs apart,

O poet highest of heart,

Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things?

Are not the years more wise,

More sad than keenest eyes,

The years with soundless feet and sounding wings?
Passing we hear them not, but past

The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast.