Scene
A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea
HUGO.
Hugo:Down drops the red sun; through the gloamingThey burst—raging waves of the sea,Foaming out their own shame—ever foamingTheir leprosy up with fierce glee;Flung back from the stone, snowy fountainsOf feathery flakes, scarcely flagWhere, shock after shock, the green mountainsExplode on the iron-grey crag.
The salt spray with ceaseless commotionLeaps round me. I sit on the vergeOf the cliff—‘twixt the earth and the ocean—With feet overhanging the surge.In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge,In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess,Hidden truths that are taught in no college,Hidden songs that no parchments express.
Were they wise in their own generations,Those sages and sagas of old?They have pass’d; o’er their names and their nationsTime’s billows have silently roll’d;They have pass’d, leaving little to their children,Save histories of a truth far from strict;Or theories more vague and bewildering,Since three out of four contradict.
Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat inThe halls of dull pedants who teachStrange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin,The scroll that is god-like and Greek:Have wasted life’s springtide in learningThings long ago learnt all in vain;They are slow, very slow, in discerningThat book lore and wisdom are twain.
Pale shades of a creed that was mythic,By time or by truth overcome,Your Delphian temples and PythicAre ruins deserted and dumb;Your Muses are hush’d, and your GracesAre bruised and defaced; and your gods,Enshrin’d and enthron’d in high placesNo longer, are powerless as clods;
By forest and streamlet, where glisten’dFair feet of the Naiads that skimm’dThe shallows; where the Oreads listen’d,Rose-lipp’d, amber-hair’d, marble-limb’d,No lithe forms disport in the river,No sweet faces peer through the boughs,Elms and beeches wave silent for ever,Ever silent the bright water flows.
(Were they duller or wiser than we are,Those heathens of old? Who shall say?Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O “TheaGlaucopis”, was wise in thy day;And the false gods alluring to evil,That sway’d reckless votaries then,Were slain to no purpose; they revelRe-crowned in the hearts of us men.)
Dead priests of Osiris and Isis,And Apis! that mystical lore,Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisisOf fever, is studied no more;Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spanglesThe arch of yon firmament vastLooks calm, like a host of white angels,On dry dust of votaries past.
On seas unexplored can the ship shunSunk rocks? Can man fathom life’s links,Past or future, unsolved by EgyptianOr Theban, unspoken by Sphinx?The riddle remains still unravell’dBy students consuming night oil.Oh, earth! we have toil’d, we have travail’d,How long shall we travail and toil?
How long? The short life that fools reckonSo sweet, by how much is it higherThan brute life?—the false gods still beckon,And man, through the dust and the mire,Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock,Unreasoning, brutish, and blind,With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and MolochIn front, and Alecto behind.
The wise one of earth, the Chaldean,Serves folly in wisdom’s disguise;And the sensual Epicurean,Though grosser, is hardly less wise;‘Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan,And the latter, half sow and half sloth,We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon,Or sacrifice freely to both.
With our reason that seeks to disparage,Brute instinct it fails to subdue;With our false illegitimate courage,Our sophistry, vain and untrue;Our hopes that ascend so and fall so,Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves,We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also)—Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves.
Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven,Come rarely with rushing of wings;We are conscious at times we have striven,Though seldom, to grasp better things;These pass, leaving hearts that have falter’d,Good angels with faces estranged,And the skin of the Ethiop unalter’d,And the spots of the leopard unchanged.
Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker’dTo gather thy flowers and thy fruits?The roses are wither’d, and canker’dThe lilies, and barren the rootsOf the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive,Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yieldFierce harvest—so WE live, and SO liveThe perishing beasts of the field.
And withal we are conscious of evilAnd good—of the spirit and the clod,Of the power in our hearts of a devil,Of the power in our souls of a God,Whose commandments are graven in no cypher,But clear as His sun—from our youthOne at least we have cherished—“An eye forAn eye, and a tooth for a tooth.”
Oh, man! of thy Maker the image;To passion, to pride, or to wealth,Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age,Thy portion the fire or the filth,Dross seeking, dead pleasure’s death rattleThy memories’ happiest song,And thy highest hope—scarce a drawn battleWith dark desperation. How long?
Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds,And sprinkle your foam on the furze;Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds,To camps of our long ago years,With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords,With the tossing of banners and spears,With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards,With the mingling of trumpets and cheers.
The gale has gone down; yet outlastingThe gale, raging waves of the sea,Casting up their own foam, ever castingTheir leprosy up with wild glee,Still storm; so in rashness and rudenessMan storms through the days of his grace;Yet man cannot fathom God’s goodness,Exceeding God’s infinite space.
And coldly and calmly and purelyGrey rock and green hillock lie whiteIn star-shine dream-laden—so surelyNight cometh—so cometh the nightWhen we, too, at peace with our neighbour,May sleep where God’s hillocks are piled,Thanking HIM for a rest from day’s labour,And a sleep like the sleep of a child!