DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Cases - Dashwood V. Jermyn
by James Williams

(12 Chancery Division, 776)
Captain Dashwood, who had been
In the service of the Queen,
Sick of "Eyes front" and "Attention,"
Came to London on his pension.
At the "Portland" as he stayed,
Firm the friendship that he made
With one William Richards, who
Put up at the "Portland" too.
Passed six years, then he was wrapped in
Love's embraces, vanquished captain!
"Yes," he cried, "I will; no bar shall
Stop my wedding Edith Marshall."
But there was a bar, 'twas that
He was poorer than a rat;
Indian pensions do not run
More than just enough for one.
Edith, too, had not a cent,
Who would pay the rates and rent?
Two more years, and Richards moved
(He perchance had sometime loved),
Promised them an income clear,
'Twas five hundred pounds a year
For his life; when he was dead,
Then ten thousand pounds instead.
This to Dashwood in a letter
Wrote he, deeming it was better
They should marry soon while he
Lived their happiness to see.
'Twas a modest sum, but marriage
May be blest without a carriage,
Forty pounds a month and more
Keep the wolf from near the door.
So they wed for worse or better,
On the faith of Richards' letter.
Scarcely was a quarter's payment
Due when mourning was their raiment.
Richards died. Alas! no cash would
Find its way to Captain Dashwood.
Dashwood's head began to swim--
Not a shilling left to him!
"Ha, I'll have it still," cried he;
"Justice dwells in Chancery."
So the case was straightway taken
To the court of V.-C. Bacon.
Vainly Dashwood cash expended
The executors defended,
Claiming that what Richards wrote
Was not worth a five-pound note;
First because the dead testator
Well, not wisely, loved the "cratur,"
More than that, had often been
In delirium tremens seen;
Secondly, because he signed
When he did not know his mind;
Third, because pollicitation
Is not good consideration.
Law, of justice independent,
Gave its judgment for defendant.
Poorer than he was at first,
That unhappy plaintiff cursed,
With a special satisfaction
Cursed the day he brought his action.
Would that he'd in India tarried!
Would that he had never married!
He, alas, is tied for life
Pauper to a pauper wife,
Scarce consoled that on his name
Equity reports shower fame,
Bearing down to endless ages
Dashwood's story on their pages.
Lines To Annette.
by John Carr (Sir)

Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?
His trembling love unfolded hear?
And mark the while th' impassion'd tear,
Th' impassion'd tear of agony?
Adown his anxious features steal,
Nor then one burst of pity feel?
But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense,
Look on with cold indifference.
Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms,
Go bless some gayer, happier, arms;
Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er,
These eyes shall follow thee no more;
And never shall these lips impart
One thought of all that rends my heart.
Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh,
And since the tear will ever fall,
From thee and from the world I'll fly;
Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all.
Election. (Prose)
by John Hartley

Candidates at an election allus reminds me ov a lot o' bees turned aat, for they fly abaat th' country buzzin' an' hummin', wol yor fair capt what a din they con mak; but as sooin as they pop into th' hive o' St. Stephen's yo niver hear a muff - they're as quite as waxwark. Aw varrily believe 'at one hauf on 'em niver oppen the maath throo th' yaar end to year end, nobbut when they're sleepy, then they may gape a bit, but they do it as quiet as they can. As for them chaps 'at tawk soa mich befoor they goa, abaat passin' laws to give iverybody a paand a wick whether they work or laik, an' reducin' th' workin haars to three haars a day an' three days a wick: Why, its just gammon!
The Dance Of Death
by Charles Baudelaire

Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
And the extravagant courtesan's thin face.
Was slimmer waist e'er in a ball-room wooed?
Her floating robe, in royal amplitude,
Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod
With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.
The swarms that hum about her collar-bones
As the lascivious streams caress the stones,
Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,
Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes
Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays
Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,
Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae.
O charm of nothing decked in folly! they
Who laugh and name you a Caricature,
They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure,
The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone,
That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!
Come you to trouble with your potent sneer
The feast of Life! or are you driven here,
To Pleasure's Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir
And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?
Or do you hope, when sing the violins,
And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,
To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,
And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?
Fathomless well of fault and foolishness!
Eternal alembic of antique distress!
Still o'er the curved, white trellis of your sides
The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.
And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find,
Among us here, no lover to your mind;
Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?
The charms of horror please none but the brave.
Your eyes' black gulf, where awful broodings stir,
Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller
Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath,
The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.
For he who has not folded in his arms
A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,
Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,
When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.
O irresistible, with fleshless face,
Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:
"Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,
Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!
Withered Antino's, dandies with plump faces,
Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,
Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,
Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.
From Seine's cold quays to Ganges' burning stream,
The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream;
They do not see, within the opened sky,
The Angel's sinister trumpet raised on high.
In every clime and under every sun,
Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;
And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye
And mingles with your madness, irony!"
Nursery Rhyme. DXXIII. Natural History.
by Unknown

Catch him, crow! carry him, kite!
Take him away till the apples are ripe;
When they are ripe and ready to fall,
Home comes [Johnny,] apples and all.
Pipe Song
by Herman Melville

Care is all stuff:--
Puff! Puff!
To puff is enough:--
Puff! Puff
More musky than snuff,
And warm is a puff:--
Puff! Puff
Here we sit mid our puffs,
Like old lords in their ruffs,
Snug as bears in their muffs:--
Puff! Puff
Then puff, puff, puff,
For care is all stuff,
Puffed off in a puff--
Puff! Puff!
Sonnets. VIII
by John Milton

Captain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless dores may sease,
If ever deed of honour did thee please,
Guard them, and him within protect from harms,
He can requite thee, for he knows the charms
That call Fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spred thy Name o're Lands and Seas,
What ever clime the Suns bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses Bowre,
The great Emathian Conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when Temple and Towre
Went to the ground: And the repeated air
Of sad Electra's Poet had the power
To save th' Athenian Walls from ruine bare.
The Traveller And The Farm~Maiden.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

HE.
Canst thou give, oh fair and matchless maiden,
'Neath the shadow of the lindens yonder, 
Where I'd fain one moment cease to wander, 
Food and drink to one so heavy laden?
SHE.
Wouldst thou find refreshment, traveller weary,
Bread, ripe fruit and cream to meet thy wishes, 
None but Nature's plain and homely dishes, 
Near the spring may soothe thy wanderings dreary.
HE.
Dreams of old acquaintance now pass through me,
Ne'er-forgotten queen of hours of blisses.
Likenesses I've often found, but this is
One that quite a marvel seemeth to me!
SHE.
Travellers often wonder beyond measure,
But their wonder soon see cause to smother;
Fair and dark are often like each other,
Both inspire the mind with equal pleasure.
HE.
Not now for the first time I surrender
To this form, in humble adoration;
It was brightest midst the constellation
In the hail adorn'd with festal splendour.
SHE.
Be thou joyful that 'tis in my power
To complete thy strange and merry story!
Silks behind her, full of purple glory,
Floated, when thou saw'st her in that hour.
HE.
No, in truth, thou hast not sung it rightly!
Spirits may have told thee all about it;
Pearls and gems they spoke of, do not doubt it, 
By her gaze eclipsed, it gleam'd so brightly!
SHE.
This one thing I certainly collected:
That the fair one (say nought, I entreat thee!)
Fondly hoping once again to meet thee,
Many a castle in the air erected.
HE.
By each wind I ceaselessly was driven,
Seeking gold and honour, too, to capture!
When my wand'rings end, then oh, what rapture,
If to find that form again 'tis given!
SHE.
'Tis the daughter of the race now banish'd
That thou seest, not her likeness only;
Helen and her brother, glad though lonely,
Till this farm of their estate now vanish'd.
HE.
But the owner surely is not wanting
Of these plains, with ev'ry beauty teeming?
Verdant fields, broad meads, and pastures gleaming,
Gushing springs, all heav'nly and enchanting.
SHE.
Thou must hunt the world through, wouldst thou find him! 
We have wealth enough in our possession,
And intend to purchase the succession,
When the good man leaves the world behind him.
HE.
I have learnt the owner's own condition,
And, fair maiden, thou indeed canst buy it;
But the cost is great, I won't deny it, 
Helen is the price, with thy permission!
SHE.
Did then fate and rank keep us asunder,
And must Love take this road, and no other?
Yonder comes my dear and trusty brother;
What will he say to it all, I wonder?
Epigram On Wood'S Brass Money
by Jonathan Swift

Carteret was welcomed to the shore
First with the brazen cannon's roar;
To meet him next the soldier comes,
With brazen trumps and brazen drums;
Approaching near the town he hears
The brazen bells salute his ears:
But when Wood's brass began to sound,
Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd.
The Captives
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

Psalm 137.
Captives by Babel's limpid streams,
We hung our harps on willows there;
Wept over Zion; and our dreams,
Waking or sleeping, she did share.
Our victors, with their battle arms,
Derided, jeered, and scorned our tears;
Required mirth, diversion's charms,
To thus allay their guilty fears.
"Sing us a song" is their demand,
"Yea, sing us one of Zion's songs!"
How can our voices thus expand
To what to us and God belongs?
How can we on this heathen shore,
Surrounded by idolatry,
Sing songs that unto us are more
Than all their glittering pageantry?
Jerusalem, should we forget,
We pray our hearts and tongues be still!
Jerusalem! Oh, may we yet
Worship upon thy holy hill.
Babylon, thou art to be destroyed!
Thy doom's foretold in prophecy;
And happy be the means employed
To hurl thee to thy destiny.
Canst Thou Leave Me Thus.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Roy's Wife."
I.
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know'st my aching heart - 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
In this thy plighted, fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward - 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy!
II.
Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy!
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear - 
But not a love like mine, my Katy!
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know'st my aching heart - 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
The Poet Care
by Victor James Daley

Care is a Poet fine:
He works in shade or shine,
And leaves, you know his sign!
No day without its line.
He writes with iron pen
Upon the brows of men;
Faint lines at first, and then
He scores them in again.
His touch at first is light
On Beauty's brow of white;
The old churl loves to write
On foreheads broad and bright.
A line for young love crossed,
A line for fair hopes lost
In an untimely frost,
A line that means Thou Wast.
Then deeper script appears:
The furrows of dim fears,
The traces of old tears,
The tide-marks of the years.
To him with sight made strong
By suffering and wrong,
The brows of all the throng
Are eloquent with song.
Upon Case.
by Robert Herrick

Case is a lawyer, that ne'er pleads alone,
But when he hears the like confusion,
As when the disagreeing Commons throw
About their House, their clamorous Aye or No:
Then Case, as loud as any serjeant there,
Cries out: My lord, my lord, the case is clear.
But when all's hush'd, Case, than a fish more mute,
Bestirs his hand, but starves in hand the suit.
An Exhortation.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame:
If in this wide world of care
Poets could but find the same
With as little toil as they,
Would they ever change their hue
As the light chameleons do,
Suiting it to every ray
Twenty times a day?
Poets are on this cold earth,
As chameleons might be,
Hidden from their early birth
in a cave beneath the sea;
Where light is, chameleons change:
Where love is not, poets do:
Fame is love disguised: if few
Find either, never think it strange
That poets range.
Yet dare not stain with wealth or power
A poet's free and heavenly mind:
If bright chameleons should devour
Any food but beams and wind,
They would grow as earthly soon
As their brother lizards are.
Children of a sunnier star,
Spirits from beyond the moon,
Oh, refuse the boon!
Exit Anima
by Bliss Carman (William)

"Hospes comesque corporis,
Quae nunc abitis in loca?"
Cease, Wind, to blow
And drive the peopled snow,
And move the haunted arras to and fro,
And moan of things I fear to know
Yet would rend from thee, Wind, before I go
On the blind pilgrimage.
Cease, Wind, to blow.
Thy brother too,
I leave no print of shoe
In all these vasty rooms I rummage through,
No word at threshold, and no clue
Of whence I come and whither I pursue
The search of treasures lost
When time was new.
Thou janitor
Of the dim curtained door,
Stir thy old bones along the dusty floor
Of this unlighted corridor.
Open! I have been this dark way before;
Thy hollow face shall peer
In mine no more. . . . .
Sky, the dear sky!
Ah, ghostly house, good-by!
I leave thee as the gauzy dragon-fly
Leaves the green pool to try
His vast ambition on the vaster sky,--
Such valor against death
Is deity.
What, thou too here,
Thou haunting whisperer?
Spirit of beauty immanent and sheer,
Art thou that crooked servitor,
Done with disguise, from whose malignant leer
Out of the ghostly house
I fled in fear?
O Beauty, how
I do repent me now,
Of all the doubt I ever could allow
To shake me like the aspen bough;
Nor once imagine that unsullied brow
Could wear the evil mask
And still be thou!
Bone of thy bone,
Breath of thy breath alone,
I dare resume the silence of a stone,
Or explore still the vast unknown,
Like a bright sea-bird through the morning blown,
With all his heart one joy,
From zone to zone.
Translations of the Italian Poems IV To Charles Diodati.
by John Milton

Charles and I say it wond'ring thou must know
That I who once assum'd a scornful air,
And scoff'd at love, am fallen in his snare
(Full many an upright man has fallen so)
Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow
Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare
The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair;
A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one,
And song, whose fascinating pow'r might bind,
And from her sphere draw down the lab'ring Moon,
With such fire-darting eyes, that should I fill
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.
Eden in Winter
by Vachel Lindsay

[Supposed to be chanted to some rude instrument at a modern fireplace]
Chant we the story now
Tho' in a house we sleep;
Tho' by a hearth of coals
Vigil to-night we keep.
Chant we the story now,
Of the vague love we knew
When I from out the sea
Rose to the feet of you.
Bird from the cliffs you came,
Flew thro' the snow to me,
Facing the icy blast
There by the icy sea.
How did I reach your feet?
Why should I - at the end
Hold out half-frozen hands
Dumbly to you my friend?
Ne'er had I woman seen,
Ne'er had I seen a flame.
There you piled fagots on,
Heat rose - the blast to tame.
There by the cave-door dark,
Comforting me you cried - 
Wailed o'er my wounded knee,
Wept for my rock-torn side.
Up from the South I trailed - 
Left regions fierce and fair!
Left all the jungle-trees,
Left the red tiger's lair.
Dream led, I scarce knew why,
Into your North I trod - 
Ne'er had I known the snow,
Or the frost-blasted sod.
O how the flakes came down!
O how the fire burned high!
Strange thing to see he was,
Thro' his dry twigs would fly,
Creep there awhile and sleep - 
Then wake and bark for fight - 
Biting if I too near
Came to his eye so bright.
Then with a will you fed
Wood to his hungry tongue.
Then he did leap and sing - 
Dancing the clouds among,
Turning the night to noon,
Stinging my eyes with light,
Making the snow retreat,
Making the cave-house bright.
There were dry fagots piled,
Nuts and dry leaves and roots,
Stores there of furs and hides,
Sweet-barks and grains and fruits.
There wrapped in fur we lay,
Half-burned, half-frozen still - 
Ne'er will my soul forget
All the night's bitter chill.
We had not learned to speak,
I was to you a strange
Wolfling or wounded fawn,
Lost from his forest-range.
Thirsting for bloody meat,
Out at the dawn we went.
Weighed with our prey at eve,
Home-came we all forespent.
Comrades and hunters tried
Ere we were maid and man - 
Not till the spring awoke
Laughter and speech began.
Whining like forest dogs,
Rustling like budding trees,
Bubbling like thawing springs,
Humming like little bees,
Crooning like Maytime tides,
Chattering parrot words,
Crying the panther's cry,
Chirping like mating birds - 
Thus, thus, we learned to speak,
Who mid the snows were dumb,
Nor did we learn to kiss
Until the Spring had come.
Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook - III - The Spot Where Cook Landed
by Henry Kendall

Chaotic crags are huddled east and west
Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea
That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest
Of voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest,
With noise 'like thunder everlasting.'
But here, behold a silent space of sand!
Oh, pilgrim, halt! it even seems to be
Asleep in other years. How still! How grand!
How awful in its wild solemnity!
This is the spot on which the Chief did land,
And there, perchance, he stood what time a band
Of yelling strangers scoured the savage lea.
Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round
By all the sacred Past 'tis sacred ground.
Mourning.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Charle! ' mon fils!")
[March, 1871.]
Charles, Charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me?
Must all fade, naught endure?
Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee,
But still for us obscure?
My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines!
Sweet mutual love we've known;
For man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines
With others' souls his own.
He cries, "This has no end!" pursues his way:
He soon is downward bound:
He lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day
Mere dust and ashes found.
I've wandered twenty years, in distant lands,
With sore heart forced to stay:
Why fell the blow Fate only understands!
God took my home away.
To-day one daughter and one son remain
Of all my goodly show:
Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane;
God takes my children now.
Linger, ye two still left me! though decays
Our nest, our hearts remain;
In gloom of death your mother silent prays,
I in this life of pain.
Martyr of Sion! holding Thee in sight,
I'll drain this cup of gall,
And scale with step resolved that dangerous height,
Which rather seems a fall.
Truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs
Than end so nobly shown.
Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads,
I seek the vast unknown.
MARWOOD TUCKER.
Deja! (French)
by Charles Baudelaire

Cent fois d'j' le soleil avait jailli, radieux ou attrist', de cette
cuve immense de la mer dont les bords ne se laissent qu'' peine
apercevoir; cent fois il s''tait replong', 'tincelant ou morose, dans
son immense bain du soir. Depuis nombre de jours, nous pouvions
contempler l'autre c't' du firmament et d'chiffrer l'alphabet c'leste
des antipodes. Et chacun des passagers g'missait et grognait. On e't
dit que l'approche de la terre exasp'rait leur souffrance. 'Quand
donc', disaient-ils, 'cesserons-nous de dormir un sommeil secou' par
la lame, troubl' par un vent qui ronfle plus fort que nous? Quand
pourrons-nous manger de la viande qui ne soit pas sal'e comme
l''l'ment inf'me qui nous porte? Quand pourrons-nous dig'rer dans un
fauteuil immobile?'
Il y en avait qui pensaient ' leur foyer, qui regrettaient leurs
femmes infid'les et maussades, et leur prog'niture criarde. Tous
'taient si affol's par l'image de la terre absente, qu'ils auraient,
je crois, mang' de l'herbe avec plus d'enthousiasme que les b'tes.
Enfin un rivage fut signal'; et nous v'mes, en approchant, que c''tait
une terre magnifique, 'blouissante. Il semblait que les musiques de la
vie s'en d'tachaient en un vague murmure, et que de ces c'tes, riches
en verdures de toute sorte, s'exhalait, jusqu'' plusieurs lieues, une
d'licieuse odeur de fleurs et de fruits.
Aussit't chacun fut joyeux, chacun abdiqua sa mauvaise humeur. Toutes
les querelles furent oubli'es, tous les torts r'ciproques pardonn's;
les duels convenus furent ray's de la m'moire, et les rancunes
s'envol'rent comme des fum'es.
Moi seul j''tais triste, inconcevablement triste. Semblable ' un
pr'tre ' qui on arracherait sa divinit', je ne pouvais, sans une
navrante amertume, me d'tacher de cette mer si infiniment vari'e dans
son effrayante simplicit', et qui semble contenir en elle et
repr'senter par ses jeux, ses allures, ses col'res et ses sourires,
les humeurs, les agonies et les extases de toutes les 'mes qui ont
v'cu, qui vivent et qui vivront!
En disant adieu ' cette incomparable beaut', je me sentais abattu
jusqu'' la mort; et c'est pourquoi, quand chacun de mes compagnons
dit: 'Enfin!' je ne pus crier que: 'D'j'!'.
Cependant c''tait la terre, la terre avec ses bruits, ses passions,
ses commodit's, ses f'tes; c''tait une terre riche et magnifique,
pleine de promesses, qui nous envoyait un myst'rieux parfum de rose et
de musc, et d'o' les musiques de la vie nous arrivaient en un amoureux murmure.