Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE GIANT, by VICTOR MARIE HUGO



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE GIANT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Brave chiefs! In the land of the giants I was born
Last Line: What mountain my tomb is may wondering seek!
Subject(s): Giants


Brave Chiefs! in the land of the Giants I was born,
My ancestors leapt o'er the Rhine stream in scorn;
I was only a babe, when my mother, fond soul!
Used to bathe me each morn in the snows of the pole;
While my father, whose shoulders ensured him respect,
With three shaggy bear skins my cradle bedecked.

My Father, O Chiefs! was astoundingly strong,
Now, alas! he is weak, for his life has been long;
His hair is like snow, and deep wrinkles appear
On his brow, telling plainly his end draweth near.
When he wants a new staff his frail steps to sustain
He can scarcely uproot a young oak from the plain!

But I will replace him; I scoff at all fear,
I am heir to his steel bow, his axe and his spear,
I alone can succeed the old man at his death,
Who am able the poplars to bend with my breath,
And can dangle my feet in the valley at will,
While I carelessly sit on the top of a hill.

I was merely a boy, when I opened a road
O'er the snow peaks that form Winter's Alpine abode;
My head, like a mountain that vapour enshrouds,
Arrested the course of the galloping clouds,
And, often, uplifting my hands to the sky,
I seized the proud eagles far sailing on high.

I fought with the storm, and my breath, as it streamed,
Extinguished each flash of the lightning that gleamed,
Or, bent upon sport, I would eagerly chase
The wallowing kings of Leviathan's race,
While I troubled far more than the hurricane's blast
The ocean, that opened its plain as I passed.

From my grasp, which was merciless, nothing could save
The hawk in the sky, or the shark in the wave;
The bear, whose huge body my arms were thrown round.
Breathed his last in my grip without visible wound,
And ofttimes, while tracking wild beasts in the snow,
I have crushed the white teeth of the lynx with a blow.

These pastimes were only the frolics of youth,
For manhood's ambition too trivial, forsooth;
War now is my passion. I gloat o'er the fears
And curses of multitudes, mingled with tears,
I love the fierce soldiery, bounding in arms,
Who gladden my soul with their shouts and alarms.

When the onset is glowing 'mid powder and blood,
And the rage of the fight, like a turbulent flood,
Sweeps hurriedly onward the warrior and horse,
I rise in my might, and, directing its course,
I fearlessly plunge in the ranks of the brave,
Like a sea-bird that swoops on the dark-rolling wave.

Like a reaper alone 'mid the ripe waving corn,
I stand, while the squadrons in battle are torn,
When the roar of my voice is but heard to resound,
Their yells in the echoing thunder are drowned,
And my hand, like some rigid, hard-knotted, old oak,
Unarmed batters armour with death-dealing stroke.

Stark naked I fight, for so dauntless I feel,
That I scorn the protection of iron or steel;
I laugh at your warriors, and void of all fear,
Carry nought to the fray but my tough ashen spear,
And this helmet so tight that ten bulls, stout and strong,
If well yoked together, might drag it along!

No ladders I need, when besieging a fort—
To shiver the chains of a drawbridge is sport—
Like a catapult formed of invincible brass
I crumble high towers in one ruinous mass,
And I wrestle, as 'twere, with the walls of a town,
Till its moats are filled up with the ramparts pulled down.

But, Warriors! the day will arrive, when at length
I must follow my victims, despoiled of my strength,
Oh! leave not my corpse as a banquet for crows,
Let my sepulchre be the Alps' loftiest snows,
That strangers, who gaze on each far-soaring peak,
What mountain my tomb is may wondering seek!





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