This poem, which so many hearts must have treasured among their choicest memories for now so many years, has found at length its fellow in the final volume of the book. There is even more savor of the sea in the great lyric landscape called _Les paysans au bord de la mer_ than in the idyllic interior called _Les pauvres gens._ There we felt the sea-wind and saw the sea-mist through the chinks of door and window; but here we feel all the sweep of the west wind's wings, and see all the rush of rain along the stormy shore that the flock of leaping waves has whitened with the shreddings of their fleece. We remember in _Les Voix Intérieures_ the all but matchless music of the song of the sea-wind's trumpet, and in the notes of this new tune we find at last that music matched and deepened and prolonged. In the great lyric book which gives us the third of the four blasts blown from _Les Quatre Vents de l'Esprit_, there are visions as august and melodies as austere as this; but outside the vast pale of the master's work we should look for the likeness of such songs in vain. The key of all its tenderness if not of all its terror is struck in these two first verses. Les pauvres gens de la côte, L'hiver, quand la mer est haute Et qu'il fait nuit, Viennent où finit la terre Voir les flots pleins de mystère Et pleins de bruit. Ils sondent la mer sans bornes; Ils pensent aux écueils mornes Et triomphants; L'orpheline pâle et seule Crie: ô mon père! et l'aïeule Dit: mes enfants! The verses which translate the landscape are as absolutely incomparable in their line as those which render the emotion of the watchers. Witness this:-- Et l'on se met en prières, Pendant que joncs et bruyères Et bois touffus, Vents sans borne et flots sans nombre, Jettent dans toute cette ombre Des cris confus. Here, as usual, it is the more tragic aspect of the waters that would appear to have most deeply impressed the sense or appealed to the spirit of Victor Hugo. He seems to regard the sea with yet more of awe than of love, as he may be said to regard the earth with even more of love than of awe. He has put no song of such sweet and profound exultation, such kind and triumphant motherhood, into the speaking spirit of the sea as into the voice of the embodied earth. He has heard in the waves no word so bountiful and benignant as the message of such verses as these:-- La terre est calme auprès de l'océan grondeur; La terre est belle; elle a la divine pudeur De se cacher sous les feuillages; Le printemps son amant vient en mai la baiser; Elle envoie au tonnerre altier pour l'apaiser La fumée humble des villages. Ne frappe pas, tonnerre. Ils sons petits, ceux-ci. La terre est bonne; elle est grave et sévère aussi; Les roses sont pures comme elle; Quiconque pense, espère et travaille lui plaît; Et l'innocence offerte à tout homme est son lait, Et la justice est sa mamelle.