Oh, shame! despair! to see my Alps their giant shadows fling

Into the very waiting-room of tyrant and of king !

O thou deep heaven, unsullied yet, into thy gulfs sublime,
Up azure tracts of flaming light, let my free spirit climb,
Till from my sight, in that clear light, earth and her crimes

be gone,

The men who act the evil deeds, the caitiffs who look on, Far far, into that space immense, beyond the vast white veil, Where distant stars come out and shine, and the great sun grows pale.

THE POOR.

TRANSLATED FROM VICTOR HUGO.

'Tis night-within the close-shut cabin door,

The room is wrapt in shade, save where there fall Some twilight rays, that creep along the floor, And show the fisher's nets upon the wall.

In the dim corner, from the oaken chest

A few white dishes glimmer; through the shade Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains drest, And a rough mattress at its side is laid.

Five children on the long low mattress lie—
A nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams;
In the high chimney the last embers die,

And redden the dark roof with crimson gleams.

The mother kneels and thinks, and, pale with fear, She prays alone, hearing the billows shout; While to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear, The ominous old ocean sobs without.

Poor wives of fishers! Ah, 'tis sad to say,
Our sons, our husbands, all that we love best,
Our hearts, our souls, are on those waves away,
Those ravening wolves that know not ruth nor rest.

Think how they sport with those beloved forms,

And how the clarion-blowing wind unties Above their heads the tresses of the storms!

Perchance even now the child, the husband dies;

For we can never tell where they may be,
Who, to make head against the tide and gale,
Between them and the starless soundless sea
Have but one bit of plank with one poor sail.
Terrible fear! we seek the pebbly shore,

Cry to the rising billows, "Bring them home."
Alas! what answer gives that troubled roar

To the dark thought that haunts us as we roam ?

Janet is sad her husband is alone,

Wrapp'd in the black shroud of this bitter night; His children are so little, there is none

To give him aid: "Were they but old they might."
Ah, mother, when they too are on the main,
How wilt thou weep, "Would they were young again."

She takes her lantern-'tis his hour at last;
She will go forth and see if the day breaks,
And if his signal-fire be at the mast :

Ah no, not yet! no breath of morning wakes;

No line of light o'er the dark water lies:

It rains, it rains, how black is rain at morn! The day comes trembling, and the young dawn cries, Cries like a baby fearing to be born.

Sudden her human eyes that peer and watch

Through the deep shade a mouldering dwelling find: No light within-the thin door shakes-the thatch O'er the green walls is twisted of the wind,

Yellow and dirty as a swollen rill.

"Ah me!" she saith, "here doth that widow dwell; Few days ago my goodman left her ill,

I will go in and see if all be well."

She strikes the door, she listens; none replies,
And Janet shudders.

"Husbandless, alone,

And with two children, they have scant supplies.

Good neighbour !—she sleeps heavy as a stone."

She calls again, she knocks,-'tis silence still;
No sound, no answer.

Suddenly the door,

As if the senseless creature felt some thrill

Of pity, turn'd, and open lay before.

She enter'd, and her lantern lighted all

The house, so still but for the rude wave's din. Through the thin roof the plashing raindrops fall; But something terrible is couch'd within.

Half-clothed, dark-featured, motionless lay she,
The once strong mother, now devoid of life;
Dishevell❜d picture of dead misery,

All that the poor leaves after his long strife.

The cold and livid arm, already stiff,

Hung o'er the soak'd straw of her wretched bed;

The mouth lay open horribly, as if

The parting soul with a great cry had fled

That cry

of death which startles the dim ear

Of vast eternity. And, all the while,

Two little children in one cradle near

Slept face to face, on each sweet face a smile.

The dying mother o'er them as they lay

Had cast her gown, and wrapp'd her mantle's fold; Feeling chill death creep up, she will'd that they Should yet be warm while she was lying cold.

Rock'd by their own weight sweetly sleep the twain,
With even breath, and foreheads calm and clear,—
So sound that the last trump might call in vain,
For, being innocent, they have no fear.

Still howls the wind, and ever a drop slides
Through the old rafters where the thatch is weak.
On the dead woman's face it falls, and glides,
Like living tears, along her hollow cheek.

And the dull wave sounds ever like a bell :

The dead lies still and listens to the strain; For when the radiant spirit leaves its shell, The poor corpse seems to call it back again.

It seeks the soul thro' the air's dim expanse,
And the pale lip saith to the sunken eye,
"Where is the beauty of thy kindling glance?"
"And where thy balmy breath," it makes reply.

Alas! live, love, find primroses in Spring!
Fate hath one end for festival and tear :
Bid your hearts vibrate, make your glasses ring;
But as dark ocean drinks each streamlet clear,

So, for the kisses that delight the flesh,

For mother's worship, and for children's bloom; For song, for smile, for love so fair and fresh,

For laugh, for dance, there is one goal-the tomb.