From Teopedia library
Jump to navigation Jump to search
vol. 3, p. 53
H. P. Blavatsky Scrapbooks
from Adyar arhives of the International Theosophical Society
vol. 3 (1875-1878)

Legend There are some special styles used in text.<br> Move over the names to get more information<br>or click DT to see all design templates

  • HPB note
  • HPB underlined
  • HPB crossed out
  • <Editors note>
  • <Archivist note>
  • Lost or unclear
<<     >>

Spirit Photography
<continued from page 3-53>


Hugo's "Art of Being a Grandfather"

< >


Dieu me dounerait-il sa plus belle etoile,
J’aime miens l’enfant qu’il m’a donne,


Enfants, voici des bcenfs qui passent;
Cachez vos rouges tabliers,


Lorsquo I'entant parait le cerole qui ratlmire.


Oh! j’ai vu de si pres les foules miserablos.
I have looked so closely on the miserable crowd;
Its license and its insolence, its clamors coarse and loud;
Wretches by civil war to greatness who increased;
On the judge who should himself he tried; the impure priest.
Serving and smirching God, preaching Yes and proving No—
Seen so closely all the vileness man’s beauty hides below;
In good the ill, in truth the lie; in glory’s stately march
Proud empty Nothings strutting on ’neath the triumphal arch:
I've seen so much that bends, that bites, that runs away,
That feeble, now, and old, and worn, it is my choice to stray
Hereafter to the end alone in forest wilds untrod.
There may I bleed and meditate. And even should a god
Once more to bribe me hack to cities offer me
Glory, and youth, and love, and strength, and victory,
It might prove well that I my woodland cave had kept,
For I am not too sure that I might not accept!


'Tween us and Heaven as veils and bars,
A peace profound all lit with stars ;
’Tis this God thinks of as He keeps
The poet where the baby sleeps!

“Lætitia Rerum”

L’aragne sur l’eaii fait des ronds;
O.' ciel bleu ! l'ombre est sous la treille
Le jour tremble, et les mousherons
Yiennent vous parler a l'oreille.

Wanders about the hungry bee,
The yellow wasp bestirs him more,
For all the perfume-drinkers, see,
The spring sets out her lavish store.

Behold the bees to banquet pass,
Prinked out with proper etiquette.
The rosebud is a brimming glass;
The lily is a table set.

From flowers as yet that scarce unclose
The gnat quaffs gold in ecstacy,
And in his tavern of a rose
Dead-drunken lies the butterfly !


Sans doute il est tard, car voici
Qne vient tout près de moi chanter mon rouge-garget
Yacarme de inarteaux lointains dans une forge.
L’eau clapote. On entend haleter un steamer.
One mouche entre. Souffle immense de la men


Towards noon
Jean has an amiable habit of sleeping.
Her mother a moment may breathe and repose
For there’s labor in serving if only a rose ;
We watch her, we smile, and our cares vanish all,
She’s a star with the further advantage she’s small.
Tho shadow in love with her seems to adore her.
And the breeze holds its breath as it light passes o’er her.
But, soft! the lids open, out goes one plump arm,
One foot, then the other, and then with such charm
That the angels must bend from the blue heavens to hear
She babbles and coos. Then the mother draws near.
Her accents are music ; she bends o’er the nest.
Seeks what term of endearment will fit it the best.
Her joy, her bud-angel, her “ nightmare !” The mother
Says, “ Oho! you’re awake again, then, Little Bother ! ”


<From “The Moon”, orig: “La Lune”, part II “Choses du soir”>

The fog is cold and the copse is gray ;
The steers as they move to the water, low ;
The moon from the black clouds taking way,
A light affright seems to come and go.
Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

The traveller trudges, the earth is brown.
A shadow chases, a shade leads on.
Light where the sun climbs, white where it goes down.
Moonlight yonder, and hither the dawn.

The sitting sorceress mutters her spell,
To the roof the spider his web binds up;
Glow sprites flash and shake in the fires of the dell
Like pistils of gold in a tulip’s cup.

Up over the sea come the night-fogs white;
Shipwreck is dogging a shivering mast.
Says the wind, “ To-morrow ” the wave, “'To-night ;”
Despairing voices flutter past.

The coach sets out from Avranche for Fougère ;
Its whip in the dusk makes a lightning-flash.
This is the moment when floating in air,
The gloom gathers vast round the murmurs that clash.

In each forest-vista a tire glows.
A graveyard is seen on the mountain-height;
Where does God find all the gloom that He throws
O’er the broken heart and the falling night ?

Silver flakes tremble along the sands ;
The chalky cliff with gold is lined ;
The shepherd the flight of monstrous bands
Of devils follows athwart, the wind.

Each chimney dons a hodden plume ;
With his faggot the woodman hastes to house ;
You hear o'er the rush of the rivulet’s flume
The shiver and moan of the wind-swayed, boughs.

Gaunt wolves, morose, howl in hungry dreams ;
The river races, the clouds have fled ;
Behind the pane the lamp-light gleams
On a little child with a flaxen head.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

Peut-être, là-haut, il est, dans l’Ignoré,
Un dieu supérieur aux dieux que nous rêvâmes,
Capable de donner des astres à des âmes.

Le poeme du Jardin des Plantes
Le comte de Buffon fut bonhomme, il créa
Ce jardin imité d’Évandre et de Rhéa
Et plein d’ours plus savants que ceux de la Sorbonne,
Afin que Jeanne y puisse aller avec sa bonne ;

Le bon goût, ce ruisseau, par Nisard, ce concierge,
Livre au singe excessif la forêt, cette vierge,
Et permet à Dupin de ressembler aux chiens.
(Pauvres chiens !)[1]



< >


  1. <The rest of original verses in French could be found in Wikisource>