DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Address. For the benefit of James Sheridan Knowles.
by George Pope Morris

(Spoken by Mrs. Chapman.)
Nay, Mr. Simpson!--'Tis not kind--polite--
To shut me out, sir?--I'm in such a fright!--
I can not speak the lines, I'm sure!--Oh, fie!
To say I must!--but if I must--I'll try!
From him I turn to these more generous souls
The drama's patrons and the friends of KNOWLES.
Why, what a brilliant galaxy is here!
What stars adorn this mimic hemisphere!
Names that shine brightest on our country's page!
The props of science--literature--the stage!
Above--below--around me--woman smiles,
The fairest floweret of these western wilds--
All come to pay the tribute of their praise
To the first dramatist of modern days:
And welcome, to the green home of the free,
With heart and hand, the bard of liberty!
His is a wizard-wand.    Its potent spell
Broke the deep slumber of the patriot Tell,
And placed him on his native hills again,
The pride and glory of his fellow-men!
The poet speaks--for Rome Virginia bleeds!
Bold Caius Gracclius in the forum pleads!
Alfred--the Great, because the good and wise,
Bids prostrate England burst her bonds and rise!
Sweet Bess, the Beggar's Daughter, beauty's queen,
Walks forth the joy and wonder of the scene!
The Hunchback enters--kindly--fond--severe--
And last, behold the glorious Wife appear!
These are the bright creations of a mind
Glowing with genius, chastened and refined.
In all he's written, be this praise his lot:
"Not one word, dying, would he wish to blot!"
Upon my life 'tis no such easy thing
To land the bard, unless an eagle's wing
My muse would take; and, fixing on the sun
Her burning eye, soar as his own has done!
Did you speak, sir?--What, madam, did he say?
Wrangling!--for shame!--before your wedding-day!
Nay, gentle lady, by thine eyes of blue,
And vermeil blushes, I did not mean you!
Bless me, what friends at every glance I see!
Artists and authors--men of high degree;
Grave politicians, who have weighed each chance,
The next election, and the war with France;
Doctors, just come from curing half a score--
And belles, from killing twice as many more;
Judges, recorders, aldermen, and mayors,
Seated, like true republicans, down stairs!
All wear a glow of sunshine in their faces
Might well become Apollo and the graces,
Except one yonder, with a look infernal,
Like a blurred page from Fanny Kemble's Journal!
But to my task.    The muse, when I began,
Spoke of the writer--welcome ye the man.
Genius, at best, acts but an humble part,
Unless obedient to an honest heart.
And such a one is his, for whom, to-night,
These walls are crowded with this cheering sight
Ye love the poet--oft have conned him o'er,
Knew ye the man, ye'd love him ten times more.
Ye critics, spare him from your tongue and quill,
Ye gods, applaud him; and ye fops--be still!
I Will Not Let Thee Go.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Nay, I will not let thee go,
Though the midnight glideth slow, - 
Though the darkness deep and long
Dim the sight and hush the song,
On thy tender, faithful breast,
Find I still my perfect rest - 
Soothing sweet for keenest woe - 
And I will not let thee go!
Nay, I will not let thee go,
Though the morn's enkindling glow
Flame along the mountain-height.
Flooding all the hills with light;
What can morning bring to me,
Tender Shepherd, wanting thee?
What its songs but sobs of woe?
Nay, I will not let thee go!
Nay, I will not let thee go,
Though the day no shadows know;
Though, the sky's serene to dim,
Lower no storm-cloud dark and grim;
Whom have I in Heaven but thee? - 
What beside hath earth for me? - 
Thou, the only trust I know, - 
Nay, I will not let thee go!
Let thee go? - my Saviour, nay
Thou my night's unfailing day,
Thou my dawning's tenderest gleam,
Thou my noonday's richest beam, - 
Night is day if thou art near,
Day without thee, joyless, drear, - 
Wanting thee, all bliss were woe, - 
Nay, I will not let thee go!
Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.
by John Hartley

Nay surelee tha's made a mistak;
Tha'rt aght o' thi element here;
Tha may weel goa an peark up o'th' thack,
Thi bonny wings shakin wi' fear.
Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms
Saand queer sooart o' music to thee;
An tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes
O' miln-greease, - what th' quality be.
Maybe tha'rt disgusted wi' us,
An thinks we're a low offald set,
But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does,
For ther's hooap an ther's pride in us yet.
Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen,
An as humble as humble could be;
An tho we nah are like tha wor then,
We may yet be as nobby as thee.
Tha'd to see thi own livin when young,
An when tha grew up tha'd to spin;
An if labor like that wornt wrong,
Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'
But tha longs to be off aw con tell:
For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content;
Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window - farewell
Off tha goas, bonny fly! - An it went.
A Defence For Women.
by Robert Herrick

Naught are all women: I say no,
Since for one bad, one good I know:
For Clytemnestra most unkind,
Loving Alcestis there we find:
For one Medea that was bad,
A good Penelope was had:
For wanton Lais, then we have
Chaste Lucrece, a wife as grave:
And thus through womankind we see
A good and bad. Sirs, credit me.
Sonnet CXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

N' cos' bello il sol giammai levarsi.
THE CHARMS OF LAURA WHEN SHE FIRST MET HIS SIGHT.
Ne'er can the sun such radiance soft display,
Piercing some cloud that would its light impair;
Ne'er tinged some showery arch the humid air,
With variegated lustre half so gay,
As when, sweet-smiling my fond heart away,
All-beauteous shone my captivating fair;
For charms what mortal can with her compare!
But truth, impartial truth! much more might say.
I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyes
With such bewitching, am'rous sweetness roll,
That every human glance I since despise.
Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy;
Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul;
Yet, ah! once more I'd view the dang'rous joy.
ANON. 1777.
Sun never rose so beautiful and bright
When skies above most clear and cloudless show'd,
Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glow'd
With tints so varied, delicate, and light,
As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight,
The day I first took up this am'rous load,
That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode--
Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!
Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bend
So sweetly, every other face obscure
Has from that hour till now appear'd to me.
The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,
From whom life since has never been secure,
Whom still I madly yearn again to see.
MACGREGOR.
Gracia.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Nay, nay, Antonio! nay, thou shalt not blame her,
My Gracia, who hath so deserted me.
Thou art my friend, but if thou dost defame her
I shall not hesitate to challenge thee.
"Curse and forget her?" So I might another,
One not so bounteous-natured or so fair;
But she, Antonio, she was like no other - 
I curse her not, because she was so rare.
She was made out of laughter and sweet kisses;
Not blood, but sunshine, through her blue veins ran
Her soul spilled over with its wealth of blisses;
She was too great for loving but a man.
None but a god could keep so rare a creature:
I blame her not for her inconstancy;
When I recall each radiant smile and feature,
I wonder she so long was true to me.
Call her not false or fickle. I, who love her,
Do hold her not unlike the royal sun,
That, all unmated, roams the wide world over
And lights all worlds, but lingers not with one.
If she were less a goddess, more a woman,
And so had dallied for a time with me,
And then had left me, I, who am but human,
Would slay her and her newer love, maybe.
But since she seeks Apollo, or another
Of those lost gods (and seeks him all in vain)
And has loved me as well as any other
Of her men loves, why, I do not complain.
The Dying of Pere Pierre
by John Alexander McCrae

". . . with two other priests; the same night he died,
and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name."
Chronicle.
"Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give
To these poor bones that presently must be
But carrion; since I have sought to live
Upon God's earth, as He hath guided me,
I shall not lack!    Where would ye have me lie?
High heaven is higher than cathedral nave:
Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky?"
Beside the darkened lake they made his grave,
Below the altar of the hills; and night
Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines
That twisted through the tree-trunks, where the light
Groped through the arches of the silent pines:
And he, beside the lonely path he trod,
Lay, tombed in splendour, in the House of God.
Romney
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Nay, Romney, nay - I will not hear you say
Those words again:    "I love you, love you sweet!"
You are profane - blasphemous.    I repeat,
You are no actor for so grand a play.
You love with all your heart?    Well, that may be;
Some cups are fashioned shallow.    Should I try
To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry - 
I who have had a full bowl proffered me - 
A new bowl brimming with a draught divine,
One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips?
Think you I even care to bathe my lips
With this poor sweetened water you call wine?
And though I spilled the nectar ere 'twas quaffed,
And broke the bowl in wanton folly, yet
I would die of my thirst ere I would wet
My burning lips with any meaner draught.
So leave me, Romney.    One who has seen a play
Enacted by a star cannot endure
To see it rendered by an amateur.
You know not what Love is - now go away!
Left Upon A Seat In A Yew-tree
by William Wordsworth

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if the bee love not these barren boughs?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
First covered, and here taught this aged Tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember. He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth
A favoured Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude. Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper:
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene, how lovely 'tis
Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself,
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and human life, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died, this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself
In lowliness of heart.
The Learned Workman.
by Friedrich Schiller

Ne'er does he taste the fruit of the tree that he raised with such trouble;
Nothing but taste e'er enjoys that which by learning is reared.
Nay, not To-night
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Nay, not to-night; - the slow, sad rain is falling
Sorrowful tears, beneath a grieving sky,
Far off a famished jackal, faintly calling,
Renders the dusk more lonely with its cry.
The mighty river rushes, sobbing, seawards,
The shadows shelter faint mysterious fears,
I turn mine eyes for consolation theewards,
And find thy lashes tremulous with tears.
If some new soul, asearch for incarnation,
Should, through our kisses, enter Life again,
It would inherit all our desolation,
All the soft sorrow of the slanting rain.
When thou desirest Love's supreme surrender,
Come while the morning revels in the light,
Bulbuls around us, passionately tender,
Singing among the roses red and white.
Thus, if it be my sweet and sacred duty,
Subservient to the Gods' divine decree,
To give the world again thy vivid beauty,
I should transmit it with my joy in thee.
I could not if I would, Beloved, deceive thee.
Wouldst thou not feel at once a feigned caress?
Yet, do not rise, I would not have thee leave me,
My soul needs thine to share its loneliness.
Let the dim starlight, when the low clouds sunder,
Silver the perfect outline of thy face.
Such faces had the saints; I only wonder
That thine has sought my heart for resting-place.
The Were-Wolf
by Madison Julius Cawein

SHE.
Nay; still amort, my love? Why dost thou lag?
HE.
The strix-owl cried.
SHE.
Nay! yon wild stream that leaps
Hoarse from the black pines of the Hakel steeps,
A moon-tipped water, down a glittering crag. - 
Why so aghast, sweetheart? Why dost thou stop?
HE.
The demon-huntsman passed with hooting horn!
SHE.
Nay! 't was the blind wind sweeping through the thorn
Around the ruins of the Dumburg's top.
HE.
My limbs are cold.
SHE.
Come! warm thee in mine arms.
HE.
Mine eyes are weary.
SHE.
Rest them, love, on mine.
HE.
I am athirst.
SHE.
Quench on my lips thy thirst. - 
O dear belov'd, how thy last kiss warms
My blood again!
HE.
Off!... How thy eyeballs shine!
Thy face!... thy form!... So do I die accursed!
Ne'er Talk Of Wisdom's Gloomy Schools. (Mahratta Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools;
Give me the sage who's able
To draw his moral thoughts and rules
From the study of the table;--
Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass
This world and all that's in it.
From the bumper that but crowns his glass,
And is gone again next minute!
The diamond sleeps within the mine,
The pearl beneath the water;
While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine.
The grape's own rosy daughter.
And none can prize her charms like him,
Oh, none like him obtain her,
Who thus can, like Leander, swim
Thro' sparkling floods to gain her!
To An Astrologer
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Nay, seer, I do not doubt thy mystic lore,
Nor question that the tenor of my life,
Past, present, and the future, is revealed
There in my horoscope.    I do believe
That yon dead moon compels the haughty seas
To ebb and flow, and that my natal star
Stands like a stern-browed sentinel in space
And challenges events; nor lets one grief,
Or joy, or failure, or success, pass on
To mar or bless my earthly lot, until
It proves its Karmic right to come to me.
All this I grant, but more than this I KNOW!
Before the solar systems were conceived,
When nothing was but the unnamable,
My spirit lived, an atom of the Cause.
Through countless ages and in many forms
It has existed, ere it entered in
This human frame to serve its little day
Upon the earth.    The deathless Me of me.
The spark from that great all-creative fire,
Is part of that eternal source called God,
And mightier than the universe.
Why, he
Who knows, and knowing, never once forgets
The pedigree divine of his own soul,
Can conquer, shape, and govern destiny,
And use vast space as 'twere a board for chess
With stars for pawns; can change his horoscope
To suit his will; turn failure to success,
And from preordained sorrows, harvest joy.
There is no puny planet, sun, or moon,
Or zodiacal sign which can control
The God in us!    If we bring THAT to bear
Upon events, we mould them to our wish;
'Tis when the infinite 'neath the finite gropes
That men are governed by their horoscopes.
Nature A Moral Power
by George MacDonald

Nature, to him no message dost thou bear
Who in thy beauty findeth not the power
To gird himself more strongly for the hour
Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare
The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear
To him who knows thy secret, and, in shower,
And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower
Where he may rest until the heavens are fair!
Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance
Of onward movement steady and serene,
Where oft, in struggle and in contest keen,
His eyes will opened be, and all the dance
Of life break on him, and a wide expanse
Roll upward through the void, sunny and green.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

N' mai pietosa madre al caro figlio.
HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF.
Ne'er did fond mother to her darling son,
Or zealous spouse to her belov'd mate,
Sage counsel give, in perilous estate,
With such kind caution, in such tender tone,
As gives that fair one, who, oft looking down
On my hard exile from her heavenly seat,
With wonted kindness bends upon my fate
Her brow, as friend or parent would have done:
Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear,
Instructive speech, that points what several ways
To seek or shun, while journeying here below;
Then all the ills of life she counts, and prays
My soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere:
And by her words alone I'm soothed and freed from woe.
NOTT.
Ne'er to the son, in whom her age is blest,
The anxious mother--nor to her loved lord
The wedded dame, impending ill to ward,
With careful sighs so faithful counsel press'd,
As she, who, from her high eternal rest,
Bending--as though my exile she deplored--
With all her wonted tenderness restored,
And softer pity on her brow impress'd!
Now with a mother's fears, and now as one
Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech
She points what to pursue and what to shun!
Our years retracing of long, various grief,
Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,
And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!
DACRE.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Millennium.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Non piaccia a Dio.
Nay, God forbid that mid these tragic throes
To idle comedy my thought should bend,
When torments dire and warning woes portend
Of this our world the instantaneous close!
The day approaches which shall discompose
All earthly sects, the elements shall blend
In utter ruin, and with joy shall send
Just spirits to their spheres in heaven's repose.
The Highest comes in Holy Land to hold
His sovran court and synod sanctified,
As all the psalms and prophets have foretold:
The riches of his grace He will spread wide
Through his own realm, that seat and chosen fold
Of worship and free mercies multiplied.
Winter In Canada.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Nay tell me not that, with shivering fear,
You shrink from the thought of wintering here;
That the cold intense of our winter-time
Is severe as that of Siberian clime,
And, if wishes could waft you across the sea,
You, to-night, in your English home would be.
Remember, no hedges there now are bright
With verdure, or blossoms of hawthorn white;
In damp, sodden fields or bare garden beds
No daisies or cowslips show their heads;
Whilst chill winds and skies of gloomy hue
Tell in England, as elsewhere, 'tis winter too.
Away with dull thoughts! Raise your brooding eyes
To yonder unclouded azure skies;
Look round on the earth, robed in bridal white,
All glittering and flashing with diamonds bright,
While o'er head, her lover and lord, the sun,
Shines brightly as e'er in summer he's done.
In a graceful sleigh, drawn by spirited steed,
You glide o'er the snow with lightning speed,
Whilst from harness, decked with silvery bells,
sweet showers the sound on the clear air swells;
And the keen bracing breeze, with vigor rife,
Sends quick through your veins warm streams of life.
Or, on with your snow-shoes, so strong and light,
Thick blanket-coat, sash of scarlet bright,
And, away o'er the deep and untrodden snow,
Through wood, o'er mountain, untrammelled to go
Through lone, narrow paths, where in years long fled,
The Indian passed with light active tread.
What! dare to rail at our snow-storms, why
Not view them with poet's or artist's eye?
Watch each pearly flake as it falls from above,
Like snowy plumes from some spotless dove,
Clothing all objects in ermine rare,
More sure than the bright robes which monarchs wear.
Have you not witnessed our glorious nights,
So brilliant with gleaming Northern lights,
Quick flashing and darting across the sky
While far in the starry heavens on high
The shining moon pours streams of light
O'er the silent earth, robed in dazzling white.
There are times, too, our woods show wond'rous sights
Such as are read of in "Arabian Nights,"
When branch and bough are all laden with gems
Bright as those that deck Eastern diadems;
And the sun sheds a blaze of dazzling light
On ruby and opal and diamond bright.
Only tarry till Spring on Canadian shore,
And you'll rail at our Tenters, then, no more;
New health and fresh life through your veins shall glow,
Spite of piercing winds - spite of ice and snow,
And I'd venture to promise, in truth, my friend,
'Twill not be the last that with us you'll spend.
Bookseller's Announcement.
by Friedrich Schiller

Naught is for man so important as rightly to know his own purpose;
For but twelve groschen hard cash 'tis to be bought at my shop!
Song
by Robert Browning

I.
Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught, speak truth, above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
II.
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over;
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught, speak truth, above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!
Fragment - October 22, 1838.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Neglected record of a mind neglected,
Unto what "lets and stops" art thou subjected!
The day with all its toils and occupations,
The night with its reflections and sensations,
The future, and the present, and the past,--
All I remember, feel, and hope at last,
All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass,--
Find but a dusty image in this glass.
Sanctuary
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

Neighbour! for pity a hound cries on your steps
With pleading eyes, with sore and weary feet.
Neighbour! your pity a poor beast doth implore;
Hunger and cold are busy in the street.
Then, neighbour! pause; 'tis no good work you do.
'Off from my door!    I have no place for you.'
Neighbour, your mercy!    A heart of love is here,
Within this weary body-love is rare,
And seldom comes to cry before our door.
Then open wide, and take your little share.
Love pleads to be your servant, leal and true.
'Off from my step!    I have no place for you.'
From step to step abused, from door to door,
Whipped by the wind, and beaten by the rain,
With hunger at his throat, he passes on;
Yet one who follows shares the creature's pain.
One follows.    Neighbour, stop! unless you rue.
'Off from my step!    I have no place for you.'
The gentle Christ had heard His crying hound,
And left His throne to track the weary feet.
He follows, though unseen, with bleeding heart,
Refused from door to door, from street to street.
Yes, one who follows had refusal too.
'Off from my door!    I have no place for you.'