Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
Poems of Fancy: II. Fairies: Elves: SpritesThe Djinns
Victor Hugo (1802–1885)T
Shore, deep,
Where lower
Cliffs steep;
Waves gray,
Where play
Winds gay,—
All sleep.
Far and slight,
Breathes around
On the night:
High and higher,
Nigh and nigher,
Like a fire
Roaring bright.
With rattling beat,
Like dwarf imp leaping
In gallop fleet:
He flies, he prances,
In frolic fancies,
On wave-crest dances
With pattering feet.
With each nearer burst
Like the toll of bell
Of a convent cursed;
Like the billowy roar
On a storm-lashed shore,—
Now hushed, now once more
Maddening to its worst.
Of the Djinns’ fearful cry!
Quick, ’neath the spiral round
Of the deep staircase fly!
See, see our lamplight fade!
And of the balustrade
Mounts, mounts the circling shade
Up to the ceiling high!
Whistling in their tempest-flight;
Snap the tall yews ’neath the storm,
Like a pine-flame crackling bright.
Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd
Through the heavens rushing loud,
Like a livid thunder-cloud
With its bolt of fiery night!
Shut tight the shelter where we lie!
With hideous din the monster rout,
Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!
The loosened rafter overhead
Trembles and bends like quivering reed;
Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,
As from its rusty hinge ’t would fly!
The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed—
O Heaven!—descends my lowly roof to seek:
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host.
Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn
From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne,
Up from its deep foundations it were torn
To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!
Save from these foul and hellish things,
A pilgrim at thy shrine I ’ll bow,
Laden with pious offerings.
Bid their hot breath its fiery rain
Stream on my faithful door in vain,
Vainly upon my blackened pane
Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!
Cease to thunder at my door;
Fleeting through night’s rayless region,
Hither they return no more.
Clanking chains and sounds of woe
Fill the forests as they go;
And the tall oaks cower low,
Bent their flaming flight before.
Bears far the fiery fear,
Till scarce the breeze now brings
Dim murmurings to the ear;
Like locusts’ humming hail,
Or thrash of tiny flail
Plied by the pattering hail
On some old roof-tree near.
Fitful mutterings still;
As, when Arab horn
Swells its magic peal,
Shoreward o’er the deep
Fairy voices sweep,
And the infant’s sleep
Golden visions fill.
Dark child of fright,
Of death and sin,
Speeds the wild flight.
Hark, the dull moan,
Like the deep tone
Of ocean’s groan,
Afar, by night!
Fades it now,
As on shore
Ripple’s flow,—
As the plaint
Far and faint
Of a saint
Murmured low.
Around,
I list!
The bounds
Of space
All trace
Efface
Of sound.