Music and Other Poems | Page 4

nook,
With outlooks brief and sweet
Across the meadows, and along the
brook,--
A little stream that little knows
Of the great sea towards which it
gladly flows,--
A little field that bears a little wheat
To make a
portion of earth's daily bread.
The vast cloud-armies overhead
Are marshalled, and the wild wind
blows
Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell
Whence the storm comes
nor where it goes.
Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well;
Thy daily task is done,
And though a lowly one,
Thou gavest it of thy best,
And art content to rest
In patience till its slow reward is won.
Not far thou lookest, but thy
sight is clear;
Not much thou knowest, but thy faith is dear;
For life
is love, and love is always near.
Here friendship lights the fire, and
every heart,
Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
Dares to be true,
and gladly takes its part
In open converse, bringing forth its best:

Here is Sweet music, melting every chain
Of lassitude and pain:
And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts,
The tender nurse, who lifts
The soul grown weary of the waking
world,
And lays it, with its thoughts all furled,
Its fears forgotten,
and its passions still,
On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.
August, 1901.
VICTOR HUGO

1802-1902
Heart of France for a hundred years,
Passionate, sensitive, proud, and strong,
Quick to throb with her
hopes and fears,
Fierce to flame with her sense of wrong!
You, who
hailed with a morning song
Dream-light gilding a throne of old:

You, who turned when the dream grew cold,
Singing still, to the light
that shone
Pure from Liberty's ancient throne,
Over the human throng!
You, who dared in the dark eclipse,--

When the pygmy heir of a giant name
Dimmed the face of the land
with shame,--
Speak the truth with indignant lips,
Call him little
whom men called great,
Scoff at him, scorn him, deny him,
Point to the blood on his robe of
state,
Fling back his bribes and defy him!
You, who fronted the waves of fate
As you faced the sea from your
island home,
Exiled, yet with a soul elate,
Sending songs o'er the
rolling foam,
Bidding the heart of man to wait
For the day when all should see
Floods of wrath from the frowning
skies
Fall on an Empire founded in lies,
And France again be free!

You, who came in the Terrible Year
Swiftly back to your broken
land,
Now to your heart a thousand times more dear,--
Prayed for
her, sung to her, fought for her,
Patiently, fervently wrought for her,
Till once again,
After the storm of fear and pain,
High in the
heavens the star of France stood clear!
You, who knew that a man must take
Good and ill with a steadfast
soul,
Holding fast, while the billows roll
Over his head, to the
things that make
Life worth living for great and small,--

Honour and pity and truth,
The heart and the hope of youth,
And
the good God over all!
You, to whom work was rest,
Dauntless Toiler of the Sea,

Following ever the joyful quest
Of beauty on the shores of old
Romance,
Bard of the poor of France,
And warrior-priest of
world-wide charity!
You who loved little children best
Of all the poets that ever sung,
Great heart, golden heart,
Old, and yet ever young,
Minstrel of liberty,
Lover of all free, winged things,
Now at last
you are free,--
Your soul has its wings!
Heart of France for a
hundred years,
Floating far in the light that never fails you,
Over
the turmoil of mortal hopes and fears
Victor, forever victor, the whole
world hails you!
March, 1902.
GOD OF THE OPEN AIR
I
Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair
With flowers beneath, above with starry lights,
And set thine altars
everywhere,--
On mountain heights,
In woodlands dim with many a dream,
In valleys bright with springs,
And on the curving capes of every
stream:
Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings
Of morning, to abide
Upon the secret places of the sea,
And on far
islands, where the tide
Visits the beauty of untrodden shores,

Waiting for worshippers to come to thee

In thy great out-of-doors!
To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer,
God of the open air.
II
Seeking for thee, the heart of man
Lonely and longing ran,
In that first, solitary hour,
When the mysterious power
To know and love the wonder of the
morn
Was breathed within him, and his soul was born;
And thou didst meet thy child,
Not in some hidden shrine,
But in
the freedom of the garden wild,
And take his hand in thine,--
There all day long in Paradise he walked,

And in the