life. From the sublime daring, the self-confidence born of self-devotion, which finds lyrical utterance in the majestic verses headed _Ibo_, through the humble and haughty earnestness of remonstrance and appeal--"humble to God, haughty to man"--which pervades the next three poems, the meditative and studious imagination of the poet passes into the fuller light and larger air of thought which imbues and informs with immortal life every line of the great religious poem called _Pleurs dans la nuit._ In this he touches the highest point of poetic meditation, as in the epilogue to the _Châtiments_, written four months earlier, he had touched the highest point of poetic rapture possible to the most ardent of believers in his faith and the most unapproachable master of his art. Where all is so lofty in its coherence of construction, so perfect in its harmony of composition, it seems presumptuous to indicate any special miracle of inspired workmanship: yet, as Hugo in his various notes on mediaeval architecture was wont to select for exceptional attention and peculiar eloquence of praise this or that part or point of some superb and harmonious building, so am I tempted to dwell for a moment on the sublime imagination, the pathetic passion, of the verses which render into music the idea of a terrene and material purgatory, with its dungeons of flint and cells of clay wherein the spirit imprisoned and imbedded may envy the life and covet the suffering of the meanest animal that toils on earth; and to set beside this wonderful passage that other which even in a poem so thoroughly imbued with hope and faith finds place and voice for expression of the old mysterious and fantastic horror of the grave, more perfect than ever any mediæval painter or sculptor could achieve. Le soir vient; l'horizon s'emplit d'inquiétude; L'herbe tremble et bruit comme une multitude; Le fleuve blanc reluit; Le paysage obscur prend les veines des marbres; Ces hydres que, le jour, on appelle des arbres, Se tordent dans la nuit. Le mort est seul. Il sent la nuit qui le dévore. Quand naît le doux matin, tout l'azur de l'aurore, Tous ses rayons si beaux, Tout l'amour des oiseaux et leurs chansons sans nombre, Vont aux berceaux dorés; et, la nuit, toute l'ombre Aboutit aux tombeaux. Il entend des soupirs dans les fosses voisines; Il sent la chevelure affreuse des racines Entrer dans son cercueil; Il est l'être vaincu dont s'empare la chose; Il sent un doigt obscur, sous sa paupière close, Lui retirer son œil. Il a froid; car le soir qui mêle à son haleine Les ténèbres, l'horreur, le spectre et le phalène, Glace ces durs grabats; Le cadavre, lié de bandelettes blanches, Grelotte, et dans sa bière entend les quatre planches Qui lui parlent tout bas.