Page 65.
Ni Haine ni Amour. Compare this poem with page 310 by Félix Arvers.
'Pour elle, quoique Dieu l'ait faite douce et tendre,
Elle suit son chemin, distraite et sans entendre
Ce murmure d'amour élevé sur ses pas;
A l'austère devoir pieusement fidèle,
Elle dira, lisant ces vers tout remplis d'elle:
"Quelle est donc cette femme?" et ne comprendra pas.'
Page 68.
The Slaver. It would have been far better to have kept the measure of the original in this piece, but we found it impossible to do so. There is a scathing bitterness of sarcasm in some of Heine's pieces, this, among the rest, that appals and verges on the sublime.
Page 73.
My Normandy. This song of F. Bérat has long been popular.
Page 77.
Morning Serenade. It would be absurd to make any comment on Victor Hugo in a short note at the end of a book. His name is among the great ones of the earth. With Shakspeare, Milton, Byron, Goethe, Schiller, and the rest, his place has long been marked in the Valhalla of the poets. Sings England's latest poet,—a poet indeed, spite of his many serious aberrations—
'Thou art chief of us, and lord;
Thy song is as a sword
Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers;
Thou art lord and king, but we
Lift younger eyes and see
Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours;
Hours that have borne men down so long,
Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong.'
Page 79.
The Grandmother. This is one of the earlier productions of Victor Hugo.
Page 81.
Soleil Couchant. It is impossible to do justice in translations to Victor Hugo's beautiful pieces, but it is next to impossible to abstain from an attempt every now and then.
