DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Song Of The Church. No. 1. Leave Me Alone. A Pastoral Ballad.
by Thomas Moore

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, 'leave us alone.' The Established Church is part and parcel of the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this constitution. We ask of you nothing more:--let us alone."
--Letter in The Times, Nov. 1838.
Come, list to my pastoral tones,
In clover my shepherds I keep;
My stalls are well furnisht with drones,
Whose preaching invites one to sleep.
At my spirit let infidels scoff,
So they leave but the substance my own;
For in sooth I'm extremely well off
If the world will but let me alone.
Dissenters are grumblers, we know;--
Tho' excellent men in their way,
They never like things to be so,
Let things be however they may.
But dissenting's a trick I detest;
And besides 'tis an axiom well known,
The creed that's best paid is the best,
If the unpaid would let it alone.
To me, I own, very surprising
Your Newmans and Puseys all seem,
Who start first with rationalizing,
Then jump to the other extreme.
Far better, 'twixt nonsense and sense,
A nice half-way concern, like our own,
Where piety's mixt up with pence,
And the latter are ne'er left alone.
Of all our tormentors, the Press is
The one that most tears us to bits;
And now, Mrs. Woolfrey's "excesses"
Have thrown all its imps into fits.
The devils have been at us, for weeks,
And there's no saying when they'll have done;--
Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks
Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone!
If any need pray for the dead,
'Tis those to whom post-obits fall;
Since wisely hath Solomon said,
'Tis "money that answereth all."
But ours be the patrons who live;-
For, once in their glebe they are thrown,
The dead have no living to give,
And therefore we leave them alone.
Tho' in morals we may not excel,
Such perfection is rare to be had;
A good life is, of course, very well,
But good living is also-not bad.
And when, to feed earth-worms, I go.
Let this epitaph stare from my stone,
"Here lies the Right Rev. so and so;
"Pass, stranger, and--leave him alone."
Saturday Night. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

Come, let us, ere we go to bed,
O'er the decaying embers chat,
Though little Mary hangs her head,
And strokes no more the purring cat.
And let us tell how prisoners pine
In silent dungeons dark and drear;
Whilst on each face the embers shine,
And all is calm and peaceful here.
The English cot is free from cares;
But, see, the brand is wasted quite;
Come, little Mary, say your prayers;
Kiss, mother, kiss! good night, good night!
To Phyllis I
by Eugene Field

Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine
That fairly reeks with precious juices,
And in your tresses you shall twine
The loveliest flowers this vale produces.
My cottage wears a gracious smile;
The altar, decked in floral glory,
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while
As though it pined for honors gory.
Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,
The boys agog, the maidens snickering;
And savory smells possess the air,
As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.
You ask what means this grand display,
This festive throng and goodly diet?
Well, since you're bound to have your way,
I don't mind telling, on the quiet.
'T is April 13, as you know,
A day and month devote to Venus,
Whereon was born, some years ago,
My very worthy friend, M'cenas.
Nay, pay no heed to Telephus;
Your friends agree he doesn't love you.
The way he flirts convinces us
He really is not worthy of you.
Aurora's son, unhappy lad!
You know the fate that overtook him?
And Pegasus a rider had,--
I say he had, before he shook him!
Hoc docet (as you must agree)
'T is meet that Phyllis should discover
A wisdom in preferring me,
And mittening every other lover.
So come, O Phyllis, last and best
Of loves with which this heart's been smitten,
Come, sing my jealous fears to rest,
And let your songs be those I've written.
Ode To Himself Upon The Censure Of His New Inn
by Ben Jonson

Come, leave the loathed stage,
And the more loathsome age;
Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,
Usurp the chair of wit!
Indicting and arraigning every day
Something they call a play.
Let their fastidious, vain
Commission of the brain
Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn;
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.
Say that thou pour'st them wheat,
And they will acorns eat;
'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread
Whose appetites are dead!
No, give them grains their fill,
Husks, draff to drink and swill:
If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not, their palate's with the swine.
No doubt some mouldy tale,
Like Pericles, and stale
As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish,
Scraps out of every dish
Thrown forth, and rak'd into the common tub,
May keep up the Play-club:
There, sweepings do as well
As the best-order'd meal;
For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit.
And much good do't you then:
Brave plush-and-velvet-men
Can feed on orts; and, safe in your stage-clothes,
Dare quit, upon your oaths,
The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers)
Of larding your large ears
With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks;
Which if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd enough,
The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff.
Leave things so prostitute,
And take the Alcaic lute;
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar's fire:
And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold,
Ere years have made thee old,
Strike that disdainful heat
Throughout, to their defeat,
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May blushing swear, no palsy's in thy brain.
But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy king,
His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men:
They may, blood-shaken then,
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers,
As they shall cry: "Like ours
In sound of peace or wars,
No harp e'er hit the stars,
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign,
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his Wain."
To ------.
by Thomas Gent

Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew
That on those coral lips doth play,
One kiss would every care subdue,
And bid my weary soul be gay.
For surely thou wert form'd by love
To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh;
In pity then my griefs remove,
And on that bosom let me die!
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XXXIV
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Come, let me write. And to what end? To ease
A burthen'd heart. How can words ease, which are
The glasses of thy dayly-vexing care?
Oft cruel fights well pictur'd-forth do please.
Art not asham'd to publish thy disease?
Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare.
But will not wise men thinke thy words fond ware?
Then be they close, and so none shall displease.
What idler thing then speake and not be hard?
What harder thing then smart and not to speake?
Peace, foolish wit! with wit my wit is mard.
Thus write I, while I doubt to write, and wreake
My harmes in inks poor losse. Perhaps some find
Stellas great pow'rs, that so confuse my mind.
Elegy On A Rhinoceros (Recently Deceased)
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead.
Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave
The busy marge, he lies unvisited,
Unsung; above no cypress branches wave,
Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave;
Only would these poor numbers advertise
His copious charms, and mourn for his demise.
Blithesome was he and beautiful; the Zoo
Hath nought to match with Begum. He was one
Of infinite humour; well indeed he knew
To catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bun
Tossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son,
Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to note
The dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat.
Whilom he pensive stood, infoliate
Of comfortable mud, and idly stirred
His tiny caudal, disproportionate
But not ungraceful, while a wanton herd
Of revellers the mystic lens preferred;
Whereof the focus rightly they addrest;
And, Phoebus being kind, the button prest.
Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught,
Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery verge
And sink, nor rise again. But when, untaught
In craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge,
Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emerge
Incontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears;
And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers.
Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guile
Was limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance,
The genial port, the comprehensive smile: - 
The very sunbeams shimmering loved to dance
Within that honest, open countenance; - 
And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grin
Was pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein.
Yet he is dead! Whether the froward cates
Some lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released:
Or if adown those hospitable gates
Drave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East,
And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast,
We nothing know; only the news is cried,
Begum is dead: we know not how he died.
Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymn
Thy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent,
The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limn
Thy spacious visage, kindly hands are bent
E'en now to stuff thy frail integument.
Then sleep in peace, Belov'd; blest Sult'n
Of some Rhinokeraunian Devach'n.
Come, My Celia
by Richard Le Gallienne

Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, how wise is love - 
Love grown old and grey with years,
Love whose blood is thinned with tears.
Philosophic lover I,
Broke my heart, its love run dry,
And I warble passion's words
But to hear them sing like birds.
When the lightning struck my side,
Love shrieked and for ever died,
Leaving nought of him behind
But these playthings of the mind.
Now the real play is over
I can only act a lover,
Now the mimic play begins
With its puppet joys and sins.
When the heart no longer feels,
And the blood with caution steals,
Then, ah! then - my heart, forgive! - 
Then we dare begin to live.
Dipped in Stygian waves of pain,
We can never feel again;
Time may hurl his deadliest darts,
Love may practise all his arts;
Like some Balder, lo! we stand
Safe 'mid hurtling spear and brand,
Only Death - ah! sweet Death, throw! - 
Holds the fatal mistletoe.
Let the young unconquered soul
Love the unit as the whole,
Let the young uncheated eye
Love the face fore-doomed to die:
But, my Celia, not for us
Pleasures half so hazardous;
Let us set our hearts on play,
'Tis, alas! the only way - 
Make of life the jest it is,
Laugh and fool and (maybe!) kiss,
Never for a moment, dear,
Love so well to risk a fear.
Is not this, my Celia, say,
The only wise - and weary - way?
To Autumn.
by John Clare

Come, pensive Autumn, with thy clouds, and storms,
And falling leaves, and pastures lost to flowers;
A luscious charm hangs on thy faded forms,
More sweet than Summer in her loveliest hours,
Who, in her blooming uniform of green,
Delights with samely and continued joy:
But give me, Autumn, where thy hand hath been,
For there is wildness that can never cloy, -
The russet hue of fields left bare, and all
The tints of leaves and blossoms ere they fall.
In thy dull days of clouds a pleasure comes,
Wild music softens in thy hollow winds;
And in thy fading woods a beauty blooms,
That's more than dear to melancholy minds.
The Child And The Hind
by Thomas Campbell

Come, maids and matrons, to caress
Wiesbaden's gentle hind;
And, smiling, deck its glossy neck
With forest flowers entwined.
'Twas after church, on Ascension day,
When organs ceased to sound,
Wiesbaden's people crowded gay
The deer park's pleasant ground.
Here came a twelve years' married pair,
And with them wander'd free
Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair,
A gladsome sight to see!
Their Wilhelm, little innocent,
The youngest of the seven,
Was beautiful as painters' paint,
The cherubim of heaven.
By turns he gave his hand, so dear,
To parent, sister, brother,
And each, that he was safe and near,
Confided in the other.
But Wilhelm loved the field-flowers bright,
With love beyond all measure;
And cull'd them with as keen delight
As misers gather treasure.
Unnoticed, he contrived to glide
Adown a greenwood alley,
By lilies lured, that grew beside
A streamlet in the valley;
And there, where under beech and birch
The rivulet meander'd,
He stray'd, till neither shout nor search,
Could track where he had wander'd.
Still louder, with increasing dread,
They call'd his darling name:
But 'twas like speaking to the dead,
An echo only came.
Hours pass'd till evening's beetle roams,
And blackbird's songs begin;
Then all went back to happy homes,
Save Wilhelm's kith and kin.
The night came on, all others slept
Their cares away till morn;
But sleepless, all night watch'd and wept
That family forlorn.
Betimes the town-crier had been sent
With loud bell up and down;
And told th' afflicting accident
Throughout Wiesbaden's town.
The news reach'd Nassau's Duke, ere earth
Was gladden'd by the lark,
He sent a hundred solders forth
To ransack all his park.
But though they roused up beast and bird
From many a nest and den,
No signal of success was heard
From all the hundred men.
A second morning's light expands,
Unfound the infant fair;
And Wilhelm's household wring their hands,
Abandon'd to despair.
But, haply, a poor artizan
Search'd ceaselessly, till he
Found safe asleep the little one,
Beneath a birchen tree.
His hand still grasp'd a bunch of flowers;
And, true, though wondrous, near,
To sentry his reposing hours,
There stood a female deer,
Who dipp'd her horns at all that pass'd
The spot where Wilhelm lay;
Till force was had to hold her fast,
And bear the boy away.
Hail! sacred love of childhood, hail!
How sweet it is to trace
Thine instinct in Creation's scale,
Even 'neath the human race.
To this poor wanderer of the wild
Speech, reason were unknown,
And yet she watch'd a sleeping child,
As if it were her own!
Come, Poet, Come!
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Come, Poet, come!
A thousand labourers ply their task,
And what it tends to scarcely ask,
And trembling thinkers on the brink
Shiver, and know not how to think.
To tell the purport of their pain,
And what our silly joys contain;
In lasting lineaments pourtray
The substance of the shadowy day;
Our real and inner deeds rehearse,
And make our meaning clear in verse:
Come, Poet, come! for but in vain
We do the work or feel the pain,
And gather up the seeming gain,
Unless before the end thou come
To take, ere they are lost, their sum.
Come, Poet, come!
To give an utterance to the dumb,
And make vain babblers silent, come;
A thousand dupes point here and there,
Bewildered by the show and glare;
And wise men half have learned to doubt
Whether we are not best without.
Come, Poet; both but wait to see
Their error proved to them in thee.
Come, Poet, come!
In vain I seem to call. And yet
Think not the living times forget.
Ages of heroes fought and fell
That Homer in the end might tell;
O'er grovelling generations past
Upstood the Doric fane at last;
And countless hearts on countless years
Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,
Rude laughter and unmeaning tears;
Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome
The pure perfection of her dome.
Others, I doubt not, if not we,
The issue of our toils shall see;
Young children gather as their own
The harvest that the dead had sown,
The dead forgotten and unknown.
A Parthian Glance.
by Thomas Hood

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail." - ROGERS.
Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,
And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;
Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,
Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.
Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,
Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,
That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.
Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,
Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!
And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"
What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nursery make!
I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song
That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.
Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,
When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin - 
Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes,
Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!
Infant sorrows are strong - infant pleasures as weak - 
But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note;
Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,"
Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?
Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?
Did you ever come down to the floor with the same?
Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce
"Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!
Then an urchin - I see myself urchin indeed - 
With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight;
Why should weeks have an end? - I am sure there was need
Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night.
Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub?
Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand?
Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub,
And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?
Then a school-boy - my tailor was nothing in fault,
For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees, - 
But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt"
That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!
What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke!
With a lanky right leg duly planted before;
Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke,
And extended my arms as "the arms that he wore!"
Next a Lover - Oh! say, were you ever in love?
With a lady too cold - and your bosom too hot?
Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove,
Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot?
With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue,
Did you walk up the aisle - the genteelest of men?
When I think of that beautiful vision anew,
Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then!
I am withered and worn by a premature care,
And wrinkles confess the decline of my days;
Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair,
And I'm seeking to hide it - by writing for bays!
Presentiment
by Abram Joseph Ryan

"My Sister"
Cometh a voice from a far-land!
Beautiful, sad, and low;
Shineth a light from the star-land!
Down on the night of my woe;
And a white hand, with a garland,
Biddeth my spirit to go.
Away and afar from the night-land,
Where sorrow o'ershadows my way,
To the splendors and skies of the light-land,
Where reigneth eternity's day;
To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land,
Whose sun never passeth away.
And I knew the voice; not a sweeter
On earth or in Heaven can be;
And never did shadow pass fleeter
Than it and its strange melody;
And I know I must hasten to meet her,
"Yea, ~Sister!~ thou callest to me!"
And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming,
It flashed from the crown that she wore,
And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming,
My lips had kissed often of yore!
And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming,
Had smiled on me sweetly before.
And I saw the hand with the garland,
Ethel's hand -- holy and fair;
Who went long ago to the far-land
To weave me the wreath I shall wear;
And to-night I look up to the star-land,
And pray that I soon may be there.
The Broken-Down Squatter
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(Air: 'It's a fine hunting day.')
Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;
All our mates in the paddock are dead.
Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dells
And the hills where your lordship was bred;
Together to roam from our drought-stricken home'
It seems hard that such things have to be,
And its hard on a 'hogs' when he's nought for a boss
But a broken-down squatter like me!
Chorus
For the banks are all broken, they say,
And the merchants are all up a tree.
When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,
What chance for a squatter like me.
No more shall we muster the river for fats,
Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,
Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,
Or see the old stockyard again.
Leave the slip-panels down, it won't matter much now,
There are none but the crows left to see,
Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine
On a broken-down squatter like me.
Chorus: For the banks, &c.
When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,
And the cattle were dying in scores,
Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,
Thinking justice might temper the laws.
But the farce has been played, and the Government aid
Ain't extended to squatters, old son;
When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,
And resumed the best half of the run.
Chorus: For the banks, &c.
'Twas done without reason, for leaving the season
No squatter could stand such a rub;
For it's useless to squat when the rents are so hot
That one can't save the price of one's grub;
And there's not much to choose 'twixt the banks and the Jews
Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
No odds what I feel, there's no court of appeal
For a broken-down squatter like me.
Chorus: For the banks, &c.
The Wonder.
by Thomas Moore

Come, tell me where the maid is found.
Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around,
To sigh one moment at her feet.
Oh! tell me where's her sainted home,
What air receives her blessed sigh,
A pilgrimage of years I'll roam
To catch one sparkle of her eye!
And if her cheek be smooth and bright,
While truth within her bosom lies,
I'll gaze upon her morn and night,
Till my heart leave me through my eyes.
Show me on earth a thing so rare,
I'll own all miracles are true;
To make one maid sincere and fair,
Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!
Horace, Ode Xi. Lib. Ii. Freely Translated By The Prince Regent.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains,
About what your old crony,
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;
Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:
Should there come famine,
Still plenty to cram in
You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.
Brisk let us revel, while revel we may;
For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,
And then people get fat,
And infirm, and--all that,
And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,
That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;
Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!--alas, even they,
Tho' so rosy they burn,
Too quickly must turn
(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.
Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget
Your mind about matters you don't understand?
Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,
Because "you," forsooth, "have the pen in your hand!"
Think, think how much better
Than scribbling a letter,
(Which both you and I
Should avoid by the by,)
How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust
Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one;
While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just
As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.
To Crown us, Lord Warden,
In Cumberland's garden
Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs:
While Otto of Roses
Refreshing all noses
Shall sweetly exhale from our
whiskers and wigs.
What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau
In that streamlet delicious,
That down midst the dishes,
All full of gold fishes,
Romantic doth flow?--
Or who will repair
Unto Manchester Square,
And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?
Go--bid her haste hither,
And let her bring with her
The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going--
Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of--Ackerman's Dresses for May!
Unrest
by George MacDonald

Comes there, O Earth, no breathing time for thee,
No pause upon thy many-chequered lands?
Now resting on my bed with listless hands
I mourn thee resting not. Continually
Hear I the plashing borders of the sea
Answer each other from the rocks and sands!
Troop all the rivers seawards; nothing stands,
But with strange noises hasteth terribly!
Loam-eared hyenas go a moaning by;
Howls to each other all the bloody crew
Of Afric's tigers! but, O men, from you
Comes this perpetual sound more loud and high
Than aught that vexes air! I hear the cry
Of infant generations rising too!