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TO HIS MUSE by Victor Hugo
     ("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.")

     {XL, May 19, 1836.}

     Since everything below,
       Doth, in this mortal state,
     Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow
       Communicate;

     Since all that lives and moves
       Upon the earth, bestows
     On what it seeks and what it loves
       Its thorn or rose;

     Since April to the trees
       Gives a bewitching sound,
     And sombre night to grief gives ease,
       And peace profound;

     Since day-spring on the flower
       A fresh'ning drop confers,
     And the fresh air on branch and bower
       Its choristers;

     Since the dark wave bestows
       A soft caress, imprest
     On the green bank to which it goes
       Seeking its rest;

     I give thee at this hour,
       Thus fondly bent o'er thee,
     The best of all the things in dow'r
       That in me be.

     Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true,
       Which grief, not joy, endears,—
     My thoughts, that like a shower of dew,
       Reach thee in tears.

     My vows untold receive,
       All pure before thee laid;
     Receive of all the days I live
       The light or shade!

     My hours with rapture fill'd,
       Which no suspicion wrongs;
     And all the blandishments distill'd
       From all my songs.

     My spirit, whose essay
       Flies fearless, wild, and free,
     And hath, and seeks, to guide its way
       No star but thee.

     No pensive, dreamy Muse,
       Who, though all else should smile,
     Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose,
       To weep the while.

     Oh, sweetest mine! this gift
       Receive;—'tis throe alone;—
     My heart, of which there's nothing left
       When Love is gone!

     Fraser's Magazine.

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