them one evening while looking at a beautiful i sunset. But if he was looking at a sunset, he should have originated Occidenlales. Passing this by, we believe that his youth, spent in Spain and familiar with the architectural remnants, literary notices and traditions of the Moorish occupation, left on his mind impressions which afterwards revealed themselves. The Orientates, in fact, only refer to European scenes and characters—in Spain and part of Turkey. When we consider that they were published before he was twenty-five years old, we must hold a high opinion of Victor Hugo's poetical genius. The sentiment of these lyrics is generally true to the scene and character of their subjects, and there is a warm glow of mingled romance and orientalism in them, which took the public after the manner of Byron's and Scott's splendid poetic fragments and narratives, in English-speaking land. But with a difference. The latter possess an irregular p0wer—a fluent energy contrasting with the sentimental polish and point of the French lyrics. It is curious that, under a general view, this poetry of the Anglo-Saxon temperament should exhibit itself in narrative and movement, while the lively, subtle Gauls should diffuse themselves in the psychological and moral affections:—one would have inferred the very contrary. At all events, Victor Hugo has set forth the sentiment of his Orientalet, in a very graceful and attractive manner—" painted and chiselled" as he says himself—making them very difficult of rendering. There is truth and simplicity in the following:—

Puisque rien ne t'arre'te en cet heureux pays, etc.

Since nought in our fair clime can woo thy stay—

Nor tho ripe yollow maize, nor palmy abodes,
Nor plenty, nor repose, nor to survey

The loving bosoms of our gentle maids
Beat at thy voice, at evening, as they go
In dancing swarm about the brown plateau-
Adieu, white man I my hands have girt for thee,

Lest he should cast thee on the stony track,
My fire-eyed desert courser, proud to see,

Pawing the ground impatient, while his back
Shines in its glossy symmetry, and seems
A dark rock polished in the rush of streams.

Still thou wilt roam :—why art thou not of thoso

Who calmly rest, to travel never won,
Beneath a roof of tiles or emerald boughs?

Who list recitals, dreamy, making none,
And from their doors, at evening, gazing far,
Long to float upward to the vesper star.

Perhaps, if it had pleased thy wandering thoughts,
One maid, young man, had called hor portion blest,

To kneel and serve tbee in our open huts,
And chanting a soft song to soothe thy rest,

Weave a light fan of greenest leaves to keep

The wayward insects from thy cherished sleep.

But thou wilt go, lone journeying night and day,
With ever watchful glance; thy horse's hoof

Striking the sparkles from the rocky way,
While on thy lance, extended high aloof,

The demons of the night will blindly hit

Their ghastly wings and rend them as they flit.

If thou return, come o'er yon far dark hill,
That seems a camel's back, and turn once more

To find my faithful hut;—remember still
Its round roof like a bee-hive, and the door,

Its only door, still opened to the sky,
Whence from afar the early swallows fly.

But shouldst thou not—ah! sometimes think upon
Our desert maids, our soft-voiced sisters gay

Who dance on the plateau at set of sun;
0, young white man, upon thy rapid way,

Pair passage-bird, remember, more than one

May hold thy memory dear, when thou art gone.

Adieu! thy path lies straight; avoid the sun That gilds the brown, but burns the white man's brow,

And our wide wastes impassable, and shun

The old and withered beldame, bending low; And those that with their white mysterious wands In tjhe dim eve make circles on the sands.

Coming back to the Morisco ground of Spain, Victor Hugo finds himself at home in a Gothic ballad.


Don Rodrigue est a la chasse, etc.

Rodrigo to the chase is gone.

But sword or corslet bears he none;

The summer's day to noon has rolled, And now, beneath the greenwood tree, On shady sward reposes he—

Reposes Don Rodrigo bold.

His heart with hate is burning sore;
He thinks upon the bastard Moor—

Mudarra bight, his brother's son— Whose brethren seven, of kindred blood, By him had died in deadly feud,

And Lara's line had left but one.

Him to encounter, band to hand,

He would have traversed Spanish land,

From Figuer to Setuval,
And one of them should surely die;—
At that same instant, riding by,

Appeared a stalwart horseman tall.

"Christian or Moor, whate'er thou be, Sir Knight, beneath the greenwood tree,

God keep thee in his hand alway"— "Now Christ bis grace and benison Be thine, Sir Knight, that wendest on—

That wendest on the public way"—

M Christian or Moor, whate'er thou be, Sir Knight, beneath the greenwood tree,

Upon the shady sward at rest, Thy name and cognizance declare; That I may know if thou dost bear

A true knight's or a felon's crest"—

"If it imports thee to be told,
Know, I am Don Rodrigo bold,
Rodrigo of De Lara's race;

My plater Dona Sancha is,
At least the priest asserted this,
When that I got baptismal graoe.

"I rest beneath the greenwood tree,
For I have travelled long to s«

Bastard Mudarra near and far—
Son of the Spanish renegade—
Him who commands a ship to aid

The Moorish king, Aliatar.

"Certes, unless he shuns my wrath,
I soon should cross the caitiff's path;

He carries with him everywhere,
The dagger of my house, and on
The pommel shines an agate stone,

While sheathless hangs tho blade and bare.

"Yes, by my Christian soul and faith,
No other hand shall to the death

His miscreant body doom but mine;
This is the dearest hope I hold"—
"They call thee Don Rodrigo bold—

Rodrigo of Do Lara's line?

"Then listen, lord!—The youth who now
Speaks, names thee, gazes on thy brow,

He is Mudarra and thy fate!
The judge and the avenger see!
Now to what refuge canst thou flee?"

Rodrigo aaid: "thou comest late!"

"I. son of the bold renegade
Who doth command a ship to aid

The royal Moorish potentate—
I, and my dagger, and my wrong—
We three are here, we three are strong!"—

Rodrigo said: "thou comest late!"

"For thee, Rodrigo, far too soon,
Unless thou deem thy life a boon

Of which thon'rt weary—Dost thou quake 1
Thy face is white; wretch, yield to me
Thy life, so may thy spirit be

Thy angel's in the burning lake!

"Now, with my true Toledo blade,
And the good help of Ood to aid—

Look on my eyes—they burn and start!—
Thy master and thy lord I stand,
And I will tear with red right hand,

Thy life from out thy beating heart!

"Yes, Dona Sancha's nephew here
Shall in thy ruddy heart's blood dear

Slake all this long-devouring thirst
My uncle, die! no more for thee
Days, hours, or fleeting moments be!"—

"Nephew, Mudarra, hear me first!

"Wait thee a moment, till I stand
With my good falchion in my band!"

"Delay, good uncle, shall bo none
Than that from thee my brothers found;
Follow them down into the ground

Where thou didst send them first, begone!

"If to this moment, everywhere,
I've worn my thirsty dagger bare,

'Tis that I thought, and hugged the thought,
That, to avenge the renegade,
Thus, should my agate-hilted blade

Find its red scabbard in thy throat!"

It should have found it four or five stanzas back;—though the harangue is bloody and

bitter enough; and anything in the way of prolixity has had excellent epic precedent in Homer.

Victor Hugo's sentiment is very often injured by very great extravagancies and exaggerations. He has a genius for gorgeous enumerations and graphic details. He gets a heap of grand and luxuriant images, and he "glides o'er them like a golden fish." He exhibits all the French taste for dramatio effect, and his movement sometimes, compared with Byron's— for instance—or Cowper's, is that stage carriage of which Mrs. ('rummies's gait, walking up the aisle, in Nicholas Nickleby, is the caricature—a pausing, pronounced advance on a measured stride. Every stanza has its pointed rounding—and this, to an American taste, may, in some instances, be thought amusing enough. In his Cheek Child—a boy lying amidst the ruins of Scio, which the Turks had desolated, is addressed, and asked what he looks for or mourns for; and all the beautiful and poetical attractives of childhood are poured interrogatively out, till they are completely exhausted, and then the child—"the child of the blue eyes"—a high-stomached young rogue!—cries out—no, none of these—

Jt veux de la poudre ti da bdUes.

"I want powder and ball!" In another lyric, a dervish witnesses the grief of a Pacha, and in nine stanzas sums up the probable, picturesque causes of his awful and ominous look, and you think it must be one of the finest and weightest of them, till you come to end, and find it is only

Son tigre de Nubie est mart!

His Nubian tiger is dead! In another, called Mazeppa, the poet desires to say that a fated bard is like the Ukraine chief, carried in painful transit amidst perils and discomforts, till he sinks and then becomes a king—posthumously—as it were :—

11 court, U vole, C tombe Et se releve roil

This the poet says, in twenty-three stanzas— about one hundred and forty lines. He does not leave out a bound of the animal—a rood of the long way, or a pang of the victim— making all up into stanzas with a good point —a palpable hit, at the end of each. Byron would have put the matter into three rapid lines and a hemistich—Cowper or Moore into a couplet. These exaggerations, so incompatible with an Anglo-Saxon taste, could be easily multiplied. We are apt to smile at them; but our dramatic and sentimental neighbours of the other republic are vividly touched with them. Perhaps they laugh in turn, and deservedly, at some of our own literary complacencies. These things are, however, but the weeds—as we think them—of a rich soil, the exuberances of a glowing mind leaping, in its error^ over climax into anti-climax—making that step which, Tom Paine says, divides, at times, the sublime and the ridiculous. Victor Hugo has a crowd of countervailing beauties. The following Orienlale is picturesque and natural. An Arab is made to remember the French Sultan (Bonaparte) who sent the echoes of his name from the Pyramids and Tabor all through the East:—

Souvent Bounaberdi, Sultan des Franca d'Europe, etc .

Lo, Bounaberdi, the Frank Sultan, oft,
Wrapt in the Simoom for a mantle, standa

A giant, on a giant mount aloft,
Whence, looking o'er the ocean and the sands,

The world's two parts are in his sight, at once,

Stretched far below him in profound expanse.

Thus on the summit stands he, lone and high:
The Desert on his right bows down and playa

Its clouds of dust to charm his wandering eye;
The Ocean known ita guest of other days,

And, on the left sends up a rolling sound,

As bays about its lord a joyous hound.

And the old chieftain, as by turns he aees
The desert cloud, and hears the ocean tossed,

Dreams as a lover dreams, and shapes from these
A host, a numberless and viewless host,

Marching before his shadow—going by

Beneath the horizon's edge, eternally.

O, Bounaberdi, when to yonder height
Thou cornest to dream, look closely down and see,

Upon the howling sands, my tent of white;
I am a Bedouin Arab, poor and free;

My horse, when I shout Allah! flies and rolls

Under hia eyelids fine, two living coals I

The poem called Vocu is considered one of the most graceful of the Orientatet. Here is the wrong side of the tapestry:—


Si j'etaia la feuille que roule, etc.

Were I a leaf, swept to and fro
In the light wind's uncertain sigh,

And borne along the river's flow,
Marked by the dreamer's vacant eye—

I would all freshly flee away
From my green branch without regret,

In the keen breath of opening day,
In the soft sunset rivulet;

Beyond the river's stormy sweep,

Beyond the forest vast and gray,
Beyond the gorge so dim and deep,

My flight should be, away, away.

Beyond the she-wolfs grim retreat,
Beyond the ring-dove's forest haunt,

Beyond the plain where pilgrims meet
Three graceful palm-trees by a fount;

Beyond the rocks whence rudely go
The storms that waste the standing corn,

Beyond the lake where, bending low,
The lonely bushes seem to mourn.;

Beyond the sands where sternly goes,
With ataghan, the chieftain Moor,

And wrinkled forehead swarth, that shows
Like Ocean's in a stormy hour:

O'er Arta's mirror-pond, afar,

Swift as the feathered arrow strays,
And o'er the mount whose summits bar

Corinth's and Mykos' mutual gaze-
As by a charm attracted down,

I'd pause, in morning's early rays,
O'er Mykos, the right-angled town,

With its fair gleaming cupolas;

And to the priest's fair daughter gay,
The dark-eyed maid, I would be driven,

Who at her window sings all day,
And sports before her door at even;

There, fugitive light leaf, would I,
My wanderings done, my wishes crowned,

Alight upon her brow and lie
Mid the fair ringlets clustering round;

There, tho' but for an instant's flight,
Should I far proudlier sit, I trow,

Than all the plumage waving white
That sweeps the Sultan's starry brow.

Five years after his Orientalet, Victor Hugo published his Feuilles (VAutomne. These are of a graver and more subdued tone—treating chiefly of domestic feelings, affections, and remembrances. Some of the best and worthiest sentiments of the poet will be found in this collection. There is a household and pathetic interest in the two following lyrics, which induces us to offer them in American, in preference to others of more profound philosophy and higher pretensions.


When baby comes, tho family circle cries
With great applause: its little sparkling eyes

Brighten all bosoms in that happy place,
And saddest brows, and guiltiest, it may be,
TJnwrinkle on a sudden. but to see
That innocent glad face.

Yes, whether June has greened the sward, or whether
November draws our touching chairs together
Bound a great houaehold fire in quiet talk,
When the child comes, we feel a general cheer—
With calls and laughter, and the mother's fear,
Seeing him try to walk.

Sometimes we apeak, while stirring up the fire,
Of native land, of heaven, the poet's lyre,
Or of a soul that soars in holy trance;
Enter the infant I—Heaven and native land
And sacred hards are gone—the converse bland
Ends in a smile at once!

At night, when man sleeps and his spirit dreams,
When among reeds is heard the flow of streams,

Most like a weeping voice with stifled words;
If like a beacon-blase the dawn streams out,
Up from the plain a tumult runs about
Of early bells and birds.

You arc the dawning, infant I and my mind
The plain, exhaling to the fragrant wind

Odours of flowers whose sweetness comes from you—
A forest, too, whose shadows, softly wild,
Are filled for you alone with murmurs mild,
And rays of golden hue.

For your fine eyes are full of infinite sweetness,

For your small hands, in their soft, round completeness,

As yet have done no wrong; your footsteps white
With our vile pathways have not yet been soiled;—
The fair-haired, sacred head—the angel child—
With halo golden bright!

It looks so fair, the infant with its smile,
Its soft sweet trust, its voice that knows no guile,
And would say all the grief it soon dismisses;
Letting it - pleased and wondering glances roll—
Offering to life, on all sides, its young soul,
And its young mouth to kisses.

And, gracious Lord, to all whom I hold dear,
M . brothers, friends, relations, far or near,

And even unto my foes, this grace be granted;—
Ne'er to see summer without flowers, nor see
The cage or hive without a bird or bee—
Home by no children haunted 1

The next treats of a more melancholy household, and its sentiments are extremely natural and touching.


Grandmamma, wake, if you are sleeping there I
Your mouth moves always in your sleep, and thus

We scarce can tell your slumber from your prayer;

But now you have our stone Madonna's air,
Your lips don't stir—your breath don't come to us.

Your head bends lower than it used to be;

Won't you caress us f—Ah! what have we done ?— The lamp goes out, the fire is smouldering, seel Oh, if you do not speak, the fire and we,

We and the lamp will all be dead and gone I

Near the dark lamp we'll both be dead, and then
What will you do when you awake distressed,
And find us deaf, in turn, while you complain?
Praying your saint to make us live again—
You must embrace us long upon your breast.

We'll chafe yoar hands in ours; sing us the lay
Of the poor troubadour—how the knight of fame

Would win, by favour of the friendly fay,

Trophies as nosegays for his lady gay,
And how his war-cry was a loving name.

Tell us what sign the phantoms ever fled,

What hermit saw Sathanas in the air,
What rubies glitter on the gnome-king's head,
And if the demon holds in greater dread
Good Turpin's psalms or Roland's falehion bare I

Or show us, in your Bible, pictures fine-
Gold skies, blue saints, and Maries dolorous;

The child, the crib, the wise men, and the kine;

And teach us with your finger, line by line,
Those Latin words that speak to God of us.

Mother, look up, the fire is going out,

A wisp is dancing on the embers low, Spirits, perhaps, will come into our hut; 01 stop your prayer,—why are your eyelids shut?

You who would comfort us, why scare us now?

How cold your arms are! you did lately say

There was another world, and Heaven was nigh— The grave and Heaven 1—that life soon flits away, And then death comes!—0 mother, tell us, pray, Who is that deathy—why do you not reply?

Thus mourned they long alone; at morning-tide, Their grandmother still slept; the death-bell tolled;

Through the half-open door, that eve, were spied

Before a Book, the empty bed beside,
Two little children, kneeling unconsoled.



With spirit undismayed she kneels In prayer,
With quivering lip she breathes to heaven her vow,

Her hands are clasped, and her long, shining hair
Waves in luxuriance round her polished brow;

While day's last lingering ray steals faintly by

Revealing in its flight her calm, deep agony.

With none to soothe her wo in that dark cell,
Slowly has passed each sad and dreary hour;

But o'er her spirit Earth can hold no spell,
The world has lost for her its charmed power;

And all her thoughts, imbued with light divine,

Rise like sweet incense to a holler shrine.

In chains she suffers for her country's wrong,
And ever fearless of her own dark doom,

The burning thoughts that round her thickly throng
Bear not a trace of cowardice or gloom;

The matchless prido that lingers on her brow,

Tells of the daring might her soul is gathering now.

No mother with her gentle hand is near,
To soothe her wo and soften her distress,

And to pour forth for her a fervent prayer
That the Eternal One his child will bless,

To cheer her soul with words of holy faith,

And stand untired, soothe and watch the dying breath.

Bnt as the eagle in its fearless flight,
Pursues with tireless wing its viewless way;

And gazes with a fixed, unwavering sight,
Upon the bright and glorious source of day;

So does her noble spirit undismayed

Look upward to that God who ever gives it aid.

'Us well 1 for hark, the fearful hour has come,
And deep and loud the death-bell tolleth now,

Those tones so thrilling call her to her home,
Death's shadow falleth fast upon her brow;

The crowd, the scaffold, one calm look on high,

And the freed spirit soars beyond the dark blue sky.



Ajtd why should I he grave and sad,

And wear a mournful look, When nature teacheth joy to me,

From out her flower-wrought book? When she telleth me to sing aloud,

And singe herself to show How music ought, in sweet spring-time,

From everything to flow.

Hark I how the birds are carolling

From the boughs of every tree;
As if each drop of morning dew

Was a fount of melody.
Hark! how the bees are murmuring

Over the garden bowers,
Bearing upon their game-like wings

Sweet gifts from all the flowers.

Hark! how the ever-restless winds

Are singing all about,
Now whispering low like tales of love,

Then bursting with a shout t
Hark! how glad sounds float everywhere

The stainless ether through— And tell me, when all nature sings,

Why should not I sing too?

Look on the blossoms of those trees,

How the sunshine smileth bright; And how each blade of young, green graas,

Seems laughing in the light; Look, how the newly-opened leaves

Quiver, and gleam, and dance, As if they were in ecstasies,

At the merry spring's first glance.

Look, how the swift breeze springs to meet

The waves upon the bay,
And how they toss their foam on high,

As they wrestle in their play;
Look bow the white and fleecy clouds

Sail smiling o'er the blue;
And tell me, when all nature smiles,

Why should not I smile too?

The spirit of the blessed spring

Bids me look up, and see
How she spreadeth beauty everywhere,

On wave, and lawn, and lea.
And so I look,—obeying quick

Her care-dispelling voice: And as I look, I dearly love,

And as I love, rejoice.



(Concluded from p. 216.)


Tea was over ere Horace came down stairs, notwithstanding the repeated summons of the housekeeper—and to his credit be it said, his appearance was now much more becoming the sooiety of suoh charming young ladies, than the negligent attire in which he paid his first devoirs.

As he drew near the open door of the parlour, a skilful hand swept over the keys of the piano, as if to test its tone and finish, and then, above the music of gay voices arose the enlivening air of a waltz, and by the time Horace entered the room, the whole bevy of fair girls were tripping it like so many fays to the lively musie,—all, except the charming musician, Qabriella, who, with her head bent archly over one shoulder, while her fingers swiftly swept the keys, nodded gaily to the dancers as they flew past her in the giddy waltz. Round and round on twinkling feet they airily glide—forms all

lightness—arms entwining, and rosy lips parted with smiles that would vanquish St. Anthony, —gently and lightly round and round they float. For a moment or two the delighted old uncle contents himself with humming the air, and beating time with hand and foot, then skimming into the circle, he throws his arm round little Meggie, and away they twirl with the rest—twirling, whirling, rising, sinking, round and round—and faster Gabriella touches the keys, and faster fly the merry waltzers. Now they take a wider circuit, and nearer— ever nearer to the spot where Horace stands entranced, they come circling on, their floating ringlets mingling with his breath, and bright eyes gazing roguishly into his, as round and round they circle past—while round and round in bewildering maze the brains of Horace are circling too 1 Are these beautiful forms real he sees before him? Do such fair beings indeed exist; and like the maidens of old who enticed the angels from their pure abode, are these

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