The Son in Old Age

[MikeLigalig.com]

THE SON IN OLD AGE by Victor Hugo
     ("Ma Regina, cette noble figure.")

     {LES BURGRAVES, Part II.}
     Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind
     My poor lost little one, my latest born.
     He was a gift from Godâ€"a sign of pardonâ€"
     That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!
     I to his little cradle went, and went,
     And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.
     For when one's very old, one is a child!
     Then took it up and placed it on my knees,
     And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hairâ€"
     Thou wert not born thenâ€"and he would stammer
     Those pretty little sounds that make one smile!
     And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.
     He recognized meâ€"nay, knew me right well,
     And in my face would laughâ€"and that child-laugh,
     Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.
     I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror,
     And named him George. One dayâ€"oh, bitter thought!
     The child played in the fields. When thou art mother,
     Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play!
     The gypsies took him from meâ€"oh, for what?
     Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite.
     I weep!â€"now, after twenty yearsâ€"I weep
     As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so!
     I used to call him "my own little king!"
     I was intoxicated with my joy
     When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands,
     Thrilling me all through.

     Foreign Quarterly Review.

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