My God! I love,
Except myself,
All that's here—
The air which passes,
And which chases
Away care;
And the swallow
Who is faithful
To the old roof;
The chapels high
O'ershadowed by
The Holy Cross;
Every rose
That grows;
Every sight
Of delight!
Sad creature, I—
Uncouth, ill-made!
None envies me!
This is life
As it is!
Darkest night,
Bluest sky,
What matters it?
Every door
Leads to God.
Ignoble scabbard,
Noble blade;
Fair my soul
God has made.
Ring, bells small and great—
Ring on, ring on!
Mix well your voices,
Gruff and sweet!
In the turrets,
In the tower,
Sing your song!
How they ring!
With all their might,
Let them hum
Day and night!
Our festival shall be
Magnificent, I swear!
Assail it fiercer yet,
The palpitating air!
The stupid peasants run,
And o'er the bridges tear!
Let them ring,
Let them hum,
Day and night!
Every feast
Is increased
By their might!
[He turns toward the front of the church.
I saw black hangings in the chapel.
Are they dragging some misery here?
God! a presentiment! I'll not believe it!
[Enter Claude Frollo and Clopin without perceiving Quasimodo.
[He hides himself in an obscure angle of the porch.