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 ("Toujours lui! lui partout!") 
 {XL., December, 1828.} 

 Above all others, everywhere I see 
 His image cold or burning! 
 My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free 
 The thoughts within me yearning. 
 My quivering lips pour forth the words 
 That cluster in his name of glory— 
 The star gigantic with its rays of swords 
 Whose gleams irradiate all modern story. 
 I see his finger pointing where the shell 
 Should fall to slay most rabble, 
 And save foul regicides; or strike the knell 
 Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble. 
 A Consul then, o'er young but proud, 
 With midnight poring thinned, and sallow, 
 But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud, 
 And round pale face and lank locks form the halo. 
 And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame 
 Whole nations' contact urging 
 To gain his soldiers gold and fame 
 Oh, Sun on high emerging, 
 Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells 
 Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose 
 To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells, 
 Into his host of half-a-million heroes! 
 What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart. 
 No weight of arms enfolded 
 Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart 
 Which Nature—not her journeymen—self-moulded. 
 Let sordid jailers vex their prize; 
 But only bends that brow to lightning, 
 As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs 
 Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning. 
 Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true! 
 Yet lingers still some power— 
 In tears of woe man's metal may renew 
 The temper of high hour; 
 For, bating breath, e'er list the kings 
 The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle 
 May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings 
 And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle! 
 And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here 
 Eternal brightness coming! 
 The eye so weary's freshened with a tear 
 As rises distant drumming, 
 And wailing cheer—they pass the pale 
 His army mourns though still's the end hid; 
 And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!" 
 And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid! 


Poem by Victor Hugo
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