DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
When The War Is Over. A Christmas Lay.
by Margaret J. Preston

I.
Ah! the happy Christmas times!
Times we all remember; - 
Times that flung a ruddy glow
O'er the gray December; - 
Will they never come again,
With their song and story?
Never wear a remnant more
Of their olden glory?
Must the little children miss
Still the festal token?
Must their realm of young romance
All be marred and broken?
Must the mother promise on,
While her smiles dissemble,
And she speaks right quietly,
Lest her voice should tremble: - 
"Darlings! wait till father comes - 
Wait - and we'll discover
Never were such Christmas times,
When the war is over!"
II.
Underneath the midnight sky,
Bright with starry beauty,
Sad, the shivering sentinel
Treads his round of duty:
For his thoughts are far away,
Far from strife and battle,
As he listens dreamingly,
To his baby's prattle; - 
As he clasps his sobbing wife,
Wild with sudden gladness,
Kisses all her tears away - 
Chides her looks of sadness - 
Talks of Christmas nights to come, - 
And his step grows lighter,
Whispering, while his stiffening hand
Grasps his musket tighter: - 
"Patience, love! - keep heart! keep hope!
To your weary rover,
What a home our home will be,
When the war is over!"
III.
By the twilight Christmas fire,
All her senses laden
With a weight of tenderness,
Sits the musing maiden:
From the parlor's cheerful blaze,
Far her visions wander,
To the white tent gleaming bright,
On the hill-side yonder.
Buoyant in her brave, young love,
Flushed with patriot honour,
No misgiving, no fond fear,
Flings its shade upon her.
Though no mortal soul can know
Half the love she bears him,
Proudly, for her country's sake,
From her heart she spares him.
- God be thanked! - she does not dream,
That her gallant lover
Will be in a soldier's grave,
When the war is over!
IV.
'Midst the turmoil and the strife
Of the war-tide's rushing,
Every heart its separate woe
In its depths is hushing.
Who has time for tears, when blood
All the land is steeping?
- In our poverty we grudge
Even the waste of weeping!
But when quiet comes again,
And the bands, long broken,
Gather round the hearth, and breathe
Names now seldom spoken - 
Then we'll miss the precious links - 
Mourn the empty places - 
Read the hopeless "Nevermore,"
In each other's faces!
- Oh! what aching, anguish'd hearts
O'er lone graves will hover,
With a new, fresh sense of pain,
When the war is over!
V.
Stern endurance, bitterer still,
Sharp with self-denial,
Fraught with loftier sacrifice,
Fuller far of trial - 
Strews our flinty path of thorns - 
Marks our bloody story - 
Fits us for the victor's palm - 
Weaves our robe of glory!
Shall we faint with God above,
And His strong arm under - 
And the cold world gazing on,
In a maze of wonder?
No! with more resistless march,
More resolved endeavor,
Press we onward - struggle still,
Fight and win forever!
- Holy peace will heal all ills,
Joy all losses cover,
Raptures rend our Southern skies,
When the war is over!
The Christian Mother's Lament.
by Susanna Moodie

THE FOLLOWING LITTLE POEM WAS SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE IN THE MEMOIRS OF THE LATE MRS. SUSAN HUNTINGTON OF BOSTON, NEW ENGLAND.
Ah! cold at my feet thou art sleeping, my boy,
And I press on thy pale lips, in vain, the fond kiss;
Earth opens her arms to receive thee, my joy!
And all I have suffered was nothing to this:
The day-star of hope 'neath thine eyelids is sleeping,
No more to arise at the voice of my weeping.
Oh, how art thou changed!--since the light breath of morning
Dispelled the soft dew-drops in showers from the tree,
Like a beautiful bud, my lone dwelling adorning,
Thy smiles called up feelings of rapture in me;
I thought not the sunbeams all brightly that shone
On thy waking, at eve would behold me alone.
The joy that flashed out from those death-shrouded eyes,
That laughed in thy dimples and brightened thy cheek,
Is quenched--but the smile on thy pale lip that lies,
Now tells of a joy that no language can speak.
The fountain is sealed, the young spirit at rest,
Ah, why should I mourn thee--my loved one--my blest?
An Acrostic.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply;
Like a dream that's soon ended, so life passes by.
Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each,
How constant our aim is at what we can't reach.
E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view
Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue
Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.
How analagous this to our waking day hours,
Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers;
Betimes in the morning the prize we pursue,
By the pale lamp of midnight we're seeking it too;
At all times and seasons, this same fancied good
Repels our advances, yet still is pursued,
Depriving us oft, of rest needful, and food.
But there's a pearl of great price, whose worth is untold,
It can never he purchased with silver or gold;
Great peace it confers upon all to whom given,
Ever cheering their pathway, and pointing to heaven.
Look not to this world for a prize of such worth,
Or hope that to obtain from this perishing earth
Whose essence is spiritual, and heavenly its birth.
Weston, June 6, 1862.
The Benefactors
by Rudyard Kipling

Ah! What avails the classic bent
And what the cultured word,
Against the undoctored incident
That actually occurred?
And what is Art whereto we press
Through paint and prose and rhyme,
When Nature in her nakedness
Defeats us every time?
It is not learning, grace nor gear,
Nor easy meat and drink,
But bitter pinch of pain and fear
That makes creation think.
When in this world's unpleasing youth
Our godlike race began,
The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,
Gave man control of man;
Till, bruised and bitten to the bone
And taught by pain and fear,
He learned to deal the far-off stone,
And poke the long, safe spear.
So tooth and nail were obsolete
As means against a foe,
Till, bored by uniform defeat,
Some genius built the bow.
Then stone and javelin proved as vain
As old-time tooth and nail;
Till, spurred anew by fear and pain,
Man fashioned coats of mail.
Then was there safety for the rich
And danger for the poor,
Till someone mixed a powder which
Redressed the scale once more.
Helmet and armour disappeared
With sword and bow and pike,
And, when the smoke of battle cleared,
All men were armed alike....
And when ten million such were slain
To please one crazy king,
Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,
Grew weary of the thing;
And, at the very hour designed,
To enslave him past recall,
His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mind
Turned and abolished all.
All Power, each Tyrant, every Mob
Whose head has grown too large,
Ends by destroying its own job
And works its own discharge;
And Man, whose mere necessities
Move all things from his path,
Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,
And deprecates their wrath!
Ah! Did You Ever Hear The Spring
by Richard Le Gallienne

Ah! did you ever hear the Spring
Calling you through the snow,
Or hear the little blackbird sing
Inside its egg - or go
To that green land where grass begins,
Each tiny seed, to grow?
O have you heard what none has heard,
Or seen what none has seen;
O have you been to that strange land
Where no one else has been!
Song. To [Harriet].
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,
And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,
And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,
'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.
But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection,
Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,
Though the time it is past! - yet the dear recollection,
For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.
Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,
Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear,
When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying,
And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear. -
And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever
Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,
He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never
Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.
AUGUST, 1810.
To -----
by Samuel Rogers

Ah! little thought she, when, with wild delight,
By many a torrent's shining track she flew,
When mountain-glens and caverns full of night
O'er her young mind divine enchantment threw,
That in her veins a secret horror slept,
That her light footsteps should be heard no more,
That she should die--nor watch'd, alas, nor wept
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore.
Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew
The kindred, forms her closing eye requir'd.
There didst thou stand--there, with the smile she knew.
She mov'd her lips to bless thee, and expir'd.
And now to thee she comes; still, still the same
As in the hours gone unregarded by!
To thee, how chang'd, comes as she ever came;
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!
Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth,
By the way-side she shed her parting tears--
For ever lovely in the light of Youth?
Adrian's Address To His Soul When Dying.
by George Gordon Byron

Animula! vagula, Blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Qu' nunc abibis in Loca -
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?
Translation. - 
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
Ah! Little Lake
by Helen Leah Reed

Ah! little lake, though fair thou art,
A sapphire flashing to the sky,
Thy charm is only for the eye,
Thy beauty cannot hold my heart.
Green hill-sides bending to thy shore
Gleam clear in the autumnal light,
While far above, Monadnock's height
Keeps rugged guard thy waters o'er.
And yet these very beauties cloy;
As in a prison I am bound,
Though fair the walls that gird me round,
My housemate is no longer joy.
Thy loveliness breeds discontent,
For far my foolish heart would be,
It longs for the unquiet sea,
And with desire is sorely rent.
Hateful the walls that me debar
From happier things that haunt me so,
Even my weary thoughts are slow
To reach the great, great world afar.
I half believe there is no world
Those cruel hill-tops there beyond.
Oh - for the wizard Merlin's wand!
That all these mountain curves uncurled.
I might behold the shore I love,
Might hear the roaring of the tide,
Might see the ocean, reaching wide
And boundless as the sky above.
One hour beside that sea-kissed beach
Quick throbbing to its love's caress,
Would yield to me more happiness
Than a whole life-time here could teach.
Sonnet XX. On Reading A Description Of Pope's Gardens At Twickenham.
by Anna Seward

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade
Mus'us cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh
Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply
Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade,
Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid.
How sweet to watch, with reverential eye,
Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd,
Thine, blue Tham'sis, gently wandering by!
This is the POET's triumph, and it towers
O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers
That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom,
Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours
By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom,
For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come.
Escape Of The Israelites, And Destruction Of Pharaoh.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Ah! short-sighted monarch, dost thou think to pursue
The Israel of God, and recapture them too?
Hast thou so soon forgotten the plagues on thee sent,
Or so hardened thy heart that thou can'st not relent?
Then make ready thy chariots, a long way they'll reach;
Thou hast six hundred chosen, a captain to each.
Now after them hasten, no time's to be lost,
That God worketh for them, thou'st felt to thy cost.
Speed thee then, speed thee, thou'lt soon them o'ertake,
Thou hast so overtasked them they're powerless and weak.
Ah! weak and defenceless they truly appear,
But the Lord is their rock, they're his special care.
See that pillar that's leading them all on their way,
It's a bright cloud by night and a dark cloud by day;
And now by the Red Sea behold they encamp,
But hark! what's that sound, it's the war horse's tramp.
Look up, see thy enemy close by thee now,
The sea lies before thee, ah! what canst thou do?
Moses bids them go forward at God's command,
When the waters divide, and they walk on dry land;
And the cloud that to Egypt is darkness all night,
To the children of Israel, is a bright shining light.
And now have the Hebrews all safely passed through
The Red Sea, which Pharaoh assaying to do
Is destroyed with his host, every one of them drowned,
Not a man saved alive, not a single man found
To return to lone Egypt, the sad news to bear
To the widows and orphans made desolate there.
But list! hear the rescued their glad voices raise,
And to timbrel and dance add the sweet song of praise,
For Pharaoh hath perished beneath the dark sea,
And the long enslaved Hebrews are happy and free.
July 14, 1852.
William Forster.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Ah! know ye not in Israel
A prince is fallen to-day,
A just man, from the ills to come,
In mercy called away!
The Church is clothed in mourning,
Who shall supply her loss?
A standard bearer's quit the field,
A soldier of the cross.
On mission high and holy
He braved the watery main,
And many a faithful heart rejoiced
To welcome him again.
Thrice had the veteran warrior
Nobly forsaken all,
And trod our western wilderness
Obedient to His call,
Whose voice he knew from childhood,
And followed where it led,
For perfect love reigned over him,
And banished fear and dread.
Meekly he journeyed onward,
Unmoved by praise or blame;
The mark was always kept in view,
And steady was his aim.
Unfaltering trust in Jesus
Had ever nerved his arm;
He knew His shield of love was near,
Protecting him from harm.
Like Paul, he "went from house to house,"
And boldly preached the word,
And many souls, accepting it,
Were gathered to the Lord;
While from his heart and from his lips,
As onward he would pass,
Fell gentle benedictions,
As showers upon the grass.
Nor from the galling chains of sin
Alone he sought to free;
However named, the bondsman claimed
His whole-souled sympathy.
Bending beneath a weight of care,
A pilgrimage of years,
Before the rulers of the land
Behold him plead with tears!
For poor down-trodden Africa
He lifts his latest breath,
And, with her name upon his lips,
Sinks in the arms of death.
Thoughts of the distant and the loved
Came thronging to his heart;
He felt 'twere sweet to be with them,
Yet sweeter to depart.
"Better to go and be with Christ,"
Were the blest words he said;
Then, in the midst of bonds and chains,
The enfranchised spirit fled;
And in a far-off stranger land,
Near Holston's billowy wave,
A voice is calling silently
From that lone martyr's grave.
Oppressor, list its meaning!
It is to thee it calls;
Ah! heed the solemn warning voice
Before the judgment falls.
It tells thee that a martyr's prayers
Are heard in highest Heaven,
That soon the shackles of the slave
In mercy shall be riven.
God will avenge his own elect
Who are groaning to be free;
His promises are sure: "He will
Avenge them speedily."
But where will be the oppressor
In that soul-searching day,
When perfect truth and equity
Have undivided sway?
Quailing before the majesty
Of the Omniscient One,
Dealers in slaves and souls of men
Will feel their work is done;
And, bowed beneath that word of God
Which pierces like a sword,
Call on the rocks to hide them
From the presence of the Lord.
But Mercy's voice is whispering,
Immanuel died to save,
And he designs rich fruit shall spring
From that lone martyr's grave.
The Bear In A Boat.
by John Gay

(To a Coxcomb.)
Ah! my dear fellow, write the motto
NOSCE TEIPSUM o'er your grotto;
For he must daily wiser grow,
Determined his own scope to know.
He never launches from the shore
Without the compass, sail, and oar.
He, ere he builds, computes the costs;
And, ere he fights, reviews the hosts.
He safely walks within the fence,
And reason takes from common sense:
Pride and presumption standing checked
Before some palpable defect.
To aid the search for pride's eviction,
A coxcomb claims a high distinction.
Not to one age or sex confined
Are coxcombs, but of rank and kind;
Pervading all ranks, great and small,
Who take and never give the wall.
By ignorance is pride increased;
They who assume most, know the least.
Yet coxcombs do not, all alike,
Our ridicule and laughter strike.
For some are lovers, some are bores,
Some rummage in the useless stores
Of folios ranged upon the shelf,
Another only loves himself.
Such coxcombs are of private station:
Ambition soars to rule the nation.
They flattery swallow: do not fear, - 
No nonsense will offend their ear:
Though you be sycophant professed,
You will not put his soul to test.
If policy should be his care,
Drum MACHIAVELLI in his ear;
If commerce or the naval service,
Potter of Mazarin and Jervis.
Always, with due comparison,
By him let all that 's done be done;
Troops, levies, and ambassadors,
Treaties and taxes, wars and stores;
No blunders or crude schemes are tost,
Each enterprise repays its cost.
He is the pilot at the helm
To succour and to save the realm.
Spare not your Turkey-poult to cram,
He never will suspect you flam.
There was a bear of manners rough,
Who could take bee-hives well enough:
He lived by plundered honey-comb,
And raided the industrial home.
Success had puffed him with conceit;
He boasted daily of some feat.
In arrogance right uncontrolled
He grew pragmatic, busy, bold;
And beasts, with reverential stare,
Thought him a most prodigious bear.
He grew dictator in his mood,
And seized on every spoil was good;
From chickens, rising by degrees,
Until he took the butcher's fees:
Then, in his overweening pride,
Over the hounds he would preside;
And, lastly, visiting the rocks,
He took his province from the fox.
And so it happened on a day
A yawl equipped at anchor lay.
He stopped, and thus expressed his mind:
"What blundering puppies are mankind!
What stupid pedantry in schools,
Their compasses and nautic tools!
I will assume the helm, and show
Vain man a dodge he ought to know."
He gained the vessel, took his stand.
The beasts, astonished, lined the strand;
He weighed the anchor, slacked the sail,
Put her about before the gale,
But shipped no rudder: ill then met her;
He ran ashore, and there upset her.
The roach and gudgeon, native there,
Gathered to quiz the floundering bear.
Not so the watermen: the crew
Gathered around to thrash him too;
And merriment ran on the strand
As Bruin, chained, was dragged to land.
Lines Written Upon A Hill, On Leaving The Country.
by John Carr (Sir)

Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu!
Ere your green fields again I view,
These looks may change their youthful hue.
Dependence sternly bids me part
From all that ye, lov'd scenes! impart,
Far from my treasure and my heart.
Tho' winter shall your bloom invade,
Fancy may visit ev'ry shade,
Each bow'r shall kiss the wand'ring maid.
To busier scenes of life I fly,
Where many smile, where many sigh,
As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die.
The Drowned Lover.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;
Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle,
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
'Stay thy boat on the lake, - dearest Henry, I come.'
2.
High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
'I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.'
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
3.
Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair?
Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.
A Galloway Song
by John Keats

Ah! ken ye what I met the day
Out oure the Mountains
A coming down by craggi[e]s grey
An mossie fountains
A[h] goud hair'd Marie yeve I pray
Ane minute's guessing
For that I met upon the way
Is past expressing.
As I stood where a rocky brig
A torrent crosses
I spied upon a misty rig
A troup o' Horses
And as they trotted down the glen
I sped to meet them
To see if I might know the Men
To stop and greet them.
First Willie on his sleek mare came
At canting gallop
His long hair rustled like a flame
On board a shallop.
Then came his brother Rab and then
Young Peggy's Mither
And Peggy too adown the glen
They went togither
I saw her wrappit in her hood
Fra wind and raining
Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood
'Twixt growth and waning
She turn'd her dazed head full oft
For there her Brithers
Came riding with her Bridegroom soft
And mony ithers.
Young Tam came up an' eyed me quick
With reddened cheek
Braw Tam was daffed like a chick
He coud na speak
Ah Marie they are all gane hame
Through blustering weather
An' every heart is full on flame
Ah! Marie they are all gone hame
Fra happy wedding,
Whilst I Ah is it not a shame?
Sad tears am shedding.
Country Guy
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know
But where is County Guy?
Song.
by John Carr (Sir)

Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,
This fond, this falling, tear
May yet thy dire intent restrain,
May yet dissolve my fear.
Th' unsparing wound that lays thee low
Will bend thy Julia too:
Could she survive the fatal blow
Who only lives in you?
The Turnstile
by William Barnes

Ah! sad wer we as we did peace
the wold church road, wi' downcast feace,
the while the bells, that mwoaned so deep
above our child a-left asleep,
wer now a-zingen all alive
wi' t'other bells to meake the vive.
But up at woone pleace we come by,
t'wer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry
on Stean-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
up where, as vo'k do pass along,
the turnen stile, a-painted white,
do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
to church, thik stile did let us drough,
wi' spreaden arms that wheeled to guide
us each in turn to t'other zide.
An' vu'st ov all the train he took
my wife, wi' winsome gait an' look:
An' then zent on my little maid,
a-skippen onward, overjay'd
to reach agean the pleace o' pride,
her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelen roun', he took
on me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a sheaken wild,
he zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
my downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
an' then my little maid in black,
a-walken softly on her track.
An' after he'd a-turned agean
to let me goo along the leane,
he had noo little bwoy to vill
his last white earms, an' they stood still.
Sonnet, Occasioned By Reading An Inscription On The Tombstone Of Captain Christensen, Of Krajore, In Norway, Who Died In Consequence Of The Bite Of His Dog, When It Was Mad.
by John Carr (Sir)

Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear,
Can this sad record of thy fate survey?
No angry tempest laid thee breathless here,
Nor hostile sword, nor Nature's mild decay.
The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet,
Who watch'd thee in thy sleep, who moan'd if miss'd,
And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet,
Imbu'd with death the hand he oft had kiss'd.
And here, remov'd from Love's lamenting eye,
Far from thy native cat'racts' awful sound,
Far from thy dusky forests' pensive sigh,
Thy poor remains repose on alien ground;
Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone,
And sigh as tho' she mourn'd a brother gone.