This is a translation of an opening poem in Victor Hugo’s lengthy epic cycle La Legende des Siecles. I translated it sometime in 1997-98 (see intro, and more of this translation, here).
I
THE EARTH
A HYMN
She is the earth, she is the plain, she is the field,
she is dear to all who seed while on the march.
. She offers a bed of moss to fathers,
chilly, she is warmed by an eternal sun,
she laughs, and circles with heaven’s planets turning
. like sisters around the hearth.
.
She loves the ray auspicious for moving wounds,
and the formidable cleansing of the winds,
. and the breaths that blow through lyres,
and the clear and vibrant brow that, when it shines and flies,
it both reassures and terrifies the night
. by force of its frightful smiles.
.
Glory to the earth! Glory to dawn where God appears!
To opened eyes flittering through the forest,
. to flowers and nests the day engoldens.
Glory to nocturnal whitening of summits!
Glory to heaven, blue and able, without exhaustion,
. to afford the expenses of aurora!
.
The earth loves the tranquil sky, equal for all,
whose serenity does not depend on us,
. who mixes in with our foul disasters,
with our toils, with bursts of mocking effrontery,
with our acts of malice, our rapidities,
. the honeysweet profundity of stars.
.
The earth is calm beside the ocean’s groaning.
The earth is comely with her godly shame
. concealed below the foliage.
Springtime, her lover, comes in May to kiss her.
She sends him, to appease his haughty thunder,
. the humble smoke of villages.
.
Don’t strike them, thunder! They’re so small, them there.
The earth is good. She is grave, as well, severe.
. The roses are pure as she is.
May hope and labor please whoever thinks,
and innocence, her milk, she offers all to drink,
. from her breast of justice.
.
The earth hides gold, and makes the harvests show;
she lays upon the flanks of fleeting seasons
. the seed of seasons coming,
through the blue, the eyes that whisper, “Let’s be lovers!”
and shadow’s deeper sources, and on the mountains
. the oak trees’ mighty trembling.
.
Under heaven her august deed is harmony.
She orders the reeds to bow to, joyously
. and satisfied, the tree superb.
Balance the chariot, the low loving the high,
so that the mighty cedar may gain, by right,
. the consent of a sprig of herb.
.
With the grave she equalizes all, and confounds
with dead cowherds the ash that was, compounded,
. the Caesars and Alexanders.
She sends to heaven souls and guards the animal;
she ignores, in her vast effacement of evil,
. the difference between two cinders.
.
She pays to each her debt: to day the night,
to night the day, the plant to rocks, to flowers fruit;
. whatever she creates, she nurtures.
The tree is confident while man is uncertain.
O confrontation that puts our fate to shame,
. o great and sacred nature!
.
She was the cradle of Adam and of Japhet,
and then she was their tomb; and it is her who makes-
. in Tyre that, today, we do not see,
in Sparta and Rome in toil, in Memphis cast down,
in all the places man has spoken, then your town-
. the sonorous cicada sing.
.
Why? To pacify the sleeping tombs.
Why? Because there’s need, upon collapse and doom,
. of apotheoses to succeed
the voices of dissent, the voices of assent,
the vanishings of evanescent man,
. the mysterious song of things.
.
The earth is friendly with the harvesters; at dusk,
she’ll chase from the horizon, vast and black,
. the voracious swarm of rasping crows,
at the hour the bull tells them, “Let’s turn in now,”
when the brown laborers wind their ways back, drawing,
. like armor, their scythes and plows.
.
She does not cease to birth flowers that don’t endure;
the flowers never found to reproach their Lord;
. from virgin lilies, from vines mature,
from myrtles trembling in the wind, never a cry
rises to the venerable sky, who’s softened by
. the innocence of murmurs.
.
Underneath dense boughs she writes her secret leaves.
She does whatever’s possible, and lavishes peace
. on stones, on trees, on plants,
to enlighten us, we children of Shem and Hermes,
who are condemned to never read, except
. by trembling luminescence.
.
Her aim is nativity, it is not death,
it is the mouth that speaks, not biting teeth.
. When wars, defaming streets, hollow
out of man a vile furrow of bloodshed,
fierce, she turns her gaze away indignant
. from this sinister plow.
.
Mutilated, she demands of man: “For what
this devastation? What fruit swells in a desert?
. Why kill the plain so green?”
She finds no use in our malicious wills,
and mourns the virginal beauty of the fields
. dishonored by pure ruin.
.
Of old the earth was Ceres, Alma Ceres,
blue-eyed mother of meadows, of corn and forests;
. and I would have her say still more:
“Children, I am Demeter, goddess of the gods,
and you will build for me a splendid temple
. on the hill called Callicore.”
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