free-verse249 lines

To Some Birds Flown Away.

by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Enfants! Oh! revenez!")

[XXII, April, 1837]

Children, come back - come back, I say -

You whom my folly chased away

A moment since, from this my room,

With bristling wrath and words of doom!

What had you done, you bandits small,

With lips as red as roses all?

What crime? - what wild and hapless deed?

What porcelain vase by you was split

To thousand pieces? Did you need

For pastime, as you handled it,

Some Gothic missal to enrich

With your designs fantastical?

Or did your tearing fingers fall

On some old picture? Which, oh, which

Your dreadful fault? Not one of these;

Only when left yourselves to please

This morning but a moment here

'Mid papers tinted by my mind

You took some embryo verses near -

Half formed, but fully well designed

To open out. Your hearts desire

Was but to throw them on the fire,

Then watch the tinder, for the sight

Of shining sparks that twinkle bright

As little boats that sail at night,

Or like the window lights that spring

From out the dark at evening.

'Twas all, and you were well content.

Fine loss was this for anger's vent -

A strophe ill made midst your play,

Sweet sound that chased the words away

In stormy flight. An ode quite new,

With rhymes inflated - stanzas, too,

That panted, moving lazily,

And heavy Alexandrine lines

That seemed to jostle bodily,

Like children full of play designs

That spring at once from schoolroom's form.

Instead of all this angry storm,

Another might have thanked you well

For saving prey from that grim cell,

That hollowed den 'neath journals great,

Where editors who poets flout

With their demoniac laughter shout.

And I have scolded you! What fate

For charming dwarfs who never meant

To anger Hercules! And I

Have frightened you! - My chair I sent

Back to the wall, and then let fly

A shower of words the envious use -

"Get out," I said, with hard abuse,

"Leave me alone - alone I say."

Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day,

What fine result - what triumph rare!

As one turns from the coffin'd dead

So left you me: - I could but stare

Upon the door through which you fled -

I proud and grave - but punished quite.

And what care you for this my plight! -

You have recovered liberty,

Fresh air and lovely scenery,

The spacious park and wished-for grass;

The running stream, where you can throw

A blade to watch what comes to pass;

Blue sky, and all the spring can show;

Nature, serenely fair to see;

The book of birds and spirits free,

God's poem, worth much more than mine,

Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine -

Flowers that a child may pluck in play,

No harsh voice frightening it away.

And I'm alone - all pleasure o'er -

Alone with pedant called "Ennui,"

For since the morning at my door

Ennui has waited patiently.

That docto-r-London born, you mark,

One Sunday in December dark,

Poor little ones - he loved you not,

And waited till the chance he got

To enter as you passed away,

And in the very corner where

You played with frolic laughter gay,

He sighs and yawns with weary air.

What can I do? Shall I read books,

Or write more verse - or turn fond looks

Upon enamels blue, sea-green,

And white - on insects rare as seen

Upon my Dresden china ware?

Or shall I touch the globe, and care

To make the heavens turn upon

Its axis? No, not one - not one

Of all these things care I to do;

All wearies me - I think of you.

In truth with you my sunshine fled,

And gayety with your light tread -

Glad noise that set me dreaming still.

'Twas my delight to watch your will,

And mark you point with finger-tips

To help your spelling out a word;

To see the pearls between your lips

When I your joyous laughter heard;

Your honest brows that looked so true,

And said "Oh, yes!" to each intent;

Your great bright eyes, that loved to view

With admiration innocent

My fine old S'vres; the eager thought

That every kind of knowledge sought;

The elbow push with "Come and see!"

Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be,

And fays the wind blows often here;

The gnomes that squat the ceiling near,

In corners made by old books dim;

The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim

That seem at home 'mong vases rare,

And chat to them with friendly air -

Oh, how the joyous demon throng

Must all have laughed with laughter long

To see you on my rough drafts fall,

My bald hexameters, and all

The mournful, miserable band,

And drag them with relentless hand

From out their box, with true delight

To set them each and all a-light,

And then with clapping hands to lean

Above the stove and watch the scene,

How to the mass deformed there came

A soul that showed itself in flame!

Bright tricksy children - oh, I pray

Come back and sing and dance away,

And chatter too - sometimes you may,

A giddy group, a big book seize -

Or sometimes, if it so you please,

With nimble step you'll run to me

And push the arm that holds the pen,

Till on my finished verse will be

A stroke that's like a steeple when

Seen suddenly upon a plain.

My soul longs for your breath again

To warm it. Oh, return - come here

With laugh and babble - and no fear

When with your shadow you obscure

The book I read, for I am sure,

Oh, madcaps terrible and dear,

That you were right and I was wrong.

But who has ne'er with scolding tongue

Blamed out of season. Pardon me!

You must forgive - for sad are we.

The young should not be hard and cold

And unforgiving to the old.

Children each morn your souls ope out

Like windows to the shining day,

Oh, miracle that comes about,

The miracle that children gay

Have happiness and goodness too,

Caressed by destiny are you,

Charming you are, if you but play.

But we with living overwrought,

And full of grave and sombre thought,

Are snappish oft: dear little men,

We have ill-tempered days, and then,

Are quite unjust and full of care;

It rained this morning and the air

Was chill; but clouds that dimm'd the sky

Have passed. Things spited me, and why?

But now my heart repents. Behold

What 'twas that made me cross, and scold!

All by-and-by you'll understand,

When brows are mark'd by Time's stern hand;

Then you will comprehend, be sure,

When older - that's to say, less pure.

The fault I freely own was mine.

But oh, for pardon now I pine!

Enough my punishment to meet,

You must forgive, I do entreat

With clasped hands praying - oh, come back,

Make peace, and you shall nothing lack.

See now my pencils - paper - here,

And pointless compasses, and dear

Old lacquer-work; and stoneware clear

Through glass protecting; all man's toys

So coveted by girls and boys.

Great China monsters - bodies much

Like cucumbers - you all shall touch.

I yield up all! my picture rare

Found beneath antique rubbish heap,

My great and tapestried oak chair

I will from you no longer keep.

You shall about my table climb,

And dance, or drag, without a cry

From me as if it were a crime.

Even I'll look on patiently

If you your jagged toys all throw

Upon my carved bench, till it show

The wood is torn; and freely too,

I'll leave in your own hands to view,

My pictured Bible - oft desired -

But which to touch your fear inspired -

With God in emperor's robes attired.

Then if to see my verses burn,

Should seem to you a pleasant turn,

Take them to freely tear away

Or burn. But, oh! not so I'd say,

If this were M'ry's room to-day.

That noble poet! Happy town,

Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own!

Daughter of Homer, fair to see,

Of Virgil's son the mother she.

To you I'd say, Hold, children all,

Let but your eyes on his work fall;

These papers are the sacred nest

In which his crooning fancies rest;

To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar,

For new-born verse imprisoned still

In manuscript may suffer sore

At your small hands and childish will,

Without a thought of bad intent,

Of cruelty quite innocent.

You wound their feet, and bruise their wings,

And make them suffer those ill things

That children's play to young birds brings.

But mine! no matter what you do,

My poetry is all in you;

You are my inspiration bright

That gives my verse its purest light.

Children whose life is made of hope,

Whose joy, within its mystic scope,

Owes all to ignorance of ill,

You have not suffered, and you still

Know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down

The poet-writer weary grown.

What warmth is shed by your sweet smile!

How much he needs to gaze awhile

Upon your shining placid brow,

When his own brow its ache doth know;

With what delight he loves to hear

Your frolic play 'neath tree that's near,

Your joyous voices mixing well

With his own song's all-mournful swell!

Come back then, children! come to me,

If you wish not that I should be

As lonely now that you're afar

As fisherman of Etr'tat,

Who listless on his elbow leans

Through all the weary winter scenes,

As tired of thought - as on Time flies -

And watching only rainy skies!

MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.