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Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.

Poems of Fancy: II. Fairies: Elves: Sprites

The Djinns

Victor Hugo (1802–1885)

Anonymous translation from the French

TOWN, tower,

Shore, deep,

Where lower

Cliffs steep;

Waves gray,

Where play

Winds gay,—

All sleep.

Hark! a sound,

Far and slight,

Breathes around

On the night:

High and higher,

Nigh and nigher,

Like a fire

Roaring bright.

Now on ’t is sweeping

With rattling beat,

Like dwarf imp leaping

In gallop fleet:

He flies, he prances,

In frolic fancies,

On wave-crest dances

With pattering feet.

Hark, the rising swell,

With each nearer burst

Like the toll of bell

Of a convent cursed;

Like the billowy roar

On a storm-lashed shore,—

Now hushed, now once more

Maddening to its worst.

O God! the deadly sound

Of the Djinns’ fearful cry!

Quick, ’neath the spiral round

Of the deep staircase fly!

See, see our lamplight fade!

And of the balustrade

Mounts, mounts the circling shade

Up to the ceiling high!

’T is the Djinns’ wild streaming swarm

Whistling in their tempest-flight;

Snap the tall yews ’neath the storm,

Like a pine-flame crackling bright.

Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd

Through the heavens rushing loud,

Like a livid thunder-cloud

With its bolt of fiery night!

Ha! they are on us, close without!

Shut tight the shelter where we lie!

With hideous din the monster rout,

Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!

The loosened rafter overhead

Trembles and bends like quivering reed;

Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,

As from its rusty hinge ’t would fly!

Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek!

The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed—

O Heaven!—descends my lowly roof to seek:

Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host.

Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn

From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne,

Up from its deep foundations it were torn

To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!

O Prophet! if thy hand but now

Save from these foul and hellish things,

A pilgrim at thy shrine I ’ll bow,

Laden with pious offerings.

Bid their hot breath its fiery rain

Stream on my faithful door in vain,

Vainly upon my blackened pane

Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!

They have passed!—and their wild legion

Cease to thunder at my door;

Fleeting through night’s rayless region,

Hither they return no more.

Clanking chains and sounds of woe

Fill the forests as they go;

And the tall oaks cower low,

Bent their flaming flight before.

On! on! the storm of wings

Bears far the fiery fear,

Till scarce the breeze now brings

Dim murmurings to the ear;

Like locusts’ humming hail,

Or thrash of tiny flail

Plied by the pattering hail

On some old roof-tree near.

Fainter now are borne

Fitful mutterings still;

As, when Arab horn

Swells its magic peal,

Shoreward o’er the deep

Fairy voices sweep,

And the infant’s sleep

Golden visions fill.

Each deadly Djinn,

Dark child of fright,

Of death and sin,

Speeds the wild flight.

Hark, the dull moan,

Like the deep tone

Of ocean’s groan,

Afar, by night!

More and more

Fades it now,

As on shore

Ripple’s flow,—

As the plaint

Far and faint

Of a saint

Murmured low.

Hark! hist!

Around,

I list!

The bounds

Of space

All trace

Efface

Of sound.