DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Delphic Hymn to Apollo
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

(B.C. 280)
Done into English
I
Thee, the son of God most high,
Famed for harping song, will I
Proclaim, and the deathless oracular word
From the snow-topped rock that we gaze on heard,
Counsels of thy glorious giving
Manifest for all men living,
How thou madest the tripod of prophecy thine
Which the wrath of the dragon kept guard on, a shrine
Voiceless till thy shafts could smite
All his live coiled glittering might.
II
Ye that hold of right alone
All deep woods on Helicon,
Fair daughters of thunder-girt God, with your bright
White arms uplift as to lighten the light,
Come to chant your brother's praise,
Gold-haired Ph'bus, loud in lays,
Even his, who afar up the twin-topped seat
Of the rock Parnassian whereon we meet
Risen with glorious Delphic maids
Seeks the soft spring-sweetened shades
Castalian, fain of the Delphian peak
Prophetic, sublime as the feet that seek.
Glorious Athens, highest of state,
Come, with praise and prayer elate,
O thou that art queen of the plain unscarred
That the warrior Tritonid hath alway in guard,
Where on many a sacred shrine
Young bulls' thigh-bones burn and shine
As the god that is fire overtakes them, and fast
The smoke of Arabia to heavenward is cast,
Scattering wide its balm: and shrill
Now with nimble notes that thrill
The flute strikes up for the song, and the harp of gold
Strikes up to the song sweet answer: and all behold,
All, aswarm as bees, give ear,
Who by birth hold Athens dear.
Liberty. - A Fragment.
by Robert Burns

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing!
The Chiefs of the Air
by George William Russell

Their wise little heads with scorning
They laid the covers between:
"Do they think we stay here till morning?"
Said Rory and Aileen.
When out their bright eyes came peeping
The room was no longer there,
And they fled from the dark world creeping
Up a twilight cave of air.
They wore each one a gay dress,
In sleep, if you understand,
When earth puts off its grey dress
To robe it in faeryland.
Then loud o'erhead was a humming
As clear as the wood wind rings;
And here were the air-boats coming
And here the airy kings.
The magic barks were gleaming
And swift as the feathered throng:
With wonder-lights out-streaming
They blew themselves along.
And up on the night-wind swimming,
With pose and dart and rise,
Away went the air fleet skimming
Through a haze of jewel skies.
One boat above them drifted
Apart from the flying bands,
And an air-chief bent and lifted
The children with mighty hands.
The children wondered greatly,
Three air-chiefs met them there,
They were tall and grave and stately
With bodies of purple air.
A pearl light with misty shimmer
Went dancing about them all,
As the dyes of the moonbow glimmer
On a trembling waterfall.
The trail of the fleet to the far lands
Was wavy along the night,
And on through the sapphire starlands
They followed the wake of light.
"Look down, Aileen," said Rory,
"The earth's as thin as a dream."
It was lit by a sun-fire glory
Outraying gleam on gleam.
They saw through the dream-world under
Its heart of rainbow flame
Where the starry people wander;
Like gods they went and came.
The children looked without talking
Till Roray spoke again,
"Are those our folk who are walking
Like little shadow men?
"They don't see what is about them,
They look like pigmies small,
The world would be full without them
And they think themselves so tall!"
The magic bark went fleeting
Like an eagle on and on;
Till over its prow came beating
The foam-light of the dawn.
The children's dream grew fainter,
Three air-chiefs still were there,
But the sun the shadow painter
Drew five on the misty air.
The dream-light whirled bewild'ring,
An air-chief said, "You know.
You are living now, my children,
Ten thousand years ago."
They looked at themselves in the old light,
And mourned the days of the new
Where naught is but darkness or cold light,
Till a bell came striking through.
"We must go," said the wise young sages:
It was five at dawn by the chimes,
And they ran through a thousand ages
From the old De Danaan Times.
--August 15, 1896
Elegy II. On The Death Of The University Beadle At Cambridge.[1]
by William Cowper

Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear,
Minerva's flock longtime was wont t'obey,
Although thyself an herald, famous here,
The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away.
He calls on all alike, nor even deigns
To spare the office that himself sustains.
Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
By Leda's paramour[2] in ancient time,
But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
Or, Aeson-like,[3] to know a second prime,
Worthy for whom some Goddess should have won
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.[4]
Commission'd to convene with hasty call
The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand!
So stood Cyllenius[5] erst in Priam's hall,
Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command,
And so, Eurybates[6] when he address'd
To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest.
Dread Queen of sepulchres! whose rig'rous laws
And watchful eyes, run through the realms below,
Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause,
Too often to the Muse not less a foe,
Chose meaner marks, and with more equal aim
Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen and its shame!
Flow, therefore, tears for Him from ev'ry eye,
All ye disciples of the Muses, weep!
Assembling, all, in robes of sable dye,
Around his bier, lament his endless sleep,
And let complaining Elegy rehearse
In every School her sweetest saddest verse.
The Beadle O' Drumlee
by Violet Jacob

Them that's as highly placed as me
(Wha am the beadle o' Drumlee)
Should na be prood, nor yet owre free.
Me an' the meenister, ye ken,
Are no the same as a' thae men
We hae for neebours i' the glen.
The Lord gie'd him some lairnin' sma'
An me guid sense abune them a',
An them nae wuts to ken wha's wha.
Ye'd think, to hear the lees they tell,
The Sawbath day could mind itsel'
Withoot a hand to rug the bell,
Ye'd think the Reverend Paitrick Broun
Could ca' the Bible up an' doon
An' loup his lane in till his goon.
Whiles, gin he didna get frae me
The wicelike wird I weel can gie,
Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?
The elders, Ross an' Weellum Aird,
An' fowk like Alexander Caird,
That think they're cocks o' ilka yaird,
Fegs aye! they'd na be sweir to rule
A lad sae newly frae the schule
Gin my auld bonnet crooned a fule!
But oh! Jehovah's unco' kind!
Whaur wad this doited pairish find
A man wi' sic a powerfu' mind?
Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht
Blind wi' the elders' shinin' licht,
Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.
It's what they canna understan'
That brains hae ruled since time began,
An' that the beadle is the man!
Happen Thine.
by John Hartley

Then its O! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know!
Who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow,
Who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise,
An who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways.
Shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam,
Shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come;
Shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may,
Shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way.
At morn when her husband sets off to his wark,
Shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark;
An at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back,
An if worried forgets all his cares in a crack.
If onny naybor is sick or distressed,
Shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best;
An if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace,
They fly straight to her and they tell her ther case.
Shoo harkens - an then in a motherly tone
Sympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own;
Shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way,
To return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray.
Soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight,
Yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight.
Shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn, - 
Shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born.
Shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had,
For her principal joy is to see others glad;
Shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own,
Has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan.
If failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me, - 
Shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be; - 
To know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad; - 
If shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad.
Caledonia.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Humours of Glen."
I.
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom:
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
II.
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld CALEDONIA'S blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they? - The haunt of the tyrant and slave!
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.
The Sonnets VI - Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
by William Shakespeare

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
Songs Of The Night Watches, - The Morning Watch.
by Jean Ingelow

THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN."
The moon is bleached as white as wool,
And just dropping under;
Every star is gone but three,
And they hang far asunder, - 
There's a sea-ghost all in gray,
A tall shape of wonder!
I am not satisfied with sleep, - 
The night is not ended.
But look how the sea-ghost comes,
With wan skirts extended,
Stealing up in this weird hour,
When light and dark are blended.
A vessel! To the old pier end
Her happy course she's keeping;
I heard them name her yesterday:
Some were pale with weeping;
Some with their heart-hunger sighed,
She's in, - and they are sleeping.
O! now with fancied greetings blest,
They comfort their long aching:
The sea of sleep hath borne to them
What would not come with waking,
And the dreams shall most be true
In their blissful breaking.
The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes, - 
No blush of maid is sweeter;
The red sun, half way out of bed,
Shall be the first to greet her.
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake,
And rise, and run to meet her.
Their lost they have, they hold; from pain
A keener bliss they borrow.
How natural is joy, my heart!
How easy after sorrow!
For once, the best is come that hope
Promised them "to-morrow."
The Path
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

There are no beaten paths to Glory's height,
There are no rules to compass greatness known;
Each for himself must cleave a path alone,
And press his own way forward in the fight.
Smooth is the way to ease and calm delight,
And soft the road Sloth chooseth for her own;
But he who craves the flower of life full-blown,
Must struggle up in all his armor dight!
What though the burden bear him sorely down
And crush to dust the mountain of his pride,
Oh, then, with strong heart let him still abide;
For rugged is the roadway to renown,
Nor may he hope to gain the envied crown,
Till he hath thrust the looming rocks aside.
Her Lament For His Death
by Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

Then when Grania was certain of Diarmuid's death she gave out a long very pitiful cry that was heard through the whole place, and her women and her people came to her, and asked what ailed her to give a cry like that. And she told them how Diarmuid had come to his death by the Boar of Beinn Gulbain in the hunt Finn had made. When her people heard that, they gave three great heavy cries in the same way, that were heard in the clouds and the waste places of the sky. And then Grania bade the five hundred that she had for household to go to Beinn Gulbain for the body of Diarmuid, and when they were bringing it back, she went out to meet them, and they put down the body of Diarmuid, and it is what she said: I am your wife, beautiful Diarmuid, the man I would do no hurt to; it is sorrowful I am after you to-night.
I am looking at the hawk and the hound my secret love used to be hunting with; she that loved the three, let her be put in the grave with Diarmuid.
Let us be glad to-night, let us make all welcome to-night, let us be open-handed to-night, since we are sitting by the body of a king.
And O Diarmuid, she said, it is a hard bed Finn has given you, to be lying on the stones and to be wet with the rain. Ochone! she said, your blue eyes to be without sight, you that were friendly and generous and pursuing. O love! O Diarmuid! it is a pity it is he sent you to your death.
You were a champion of the men of Ireland, their prop in the middle of the fight; you were the head of every battle; your ways were glad and pleasant.
It is sorrowful I am, without mirth, without light, but only sadness and grief and long dying; your harp used to be sweet to me, it wakened my heart to gladness. Now my courage is fallen down, I not to hear you but to be always remembering your ways. Och! my grief is going through me.
A thousand curses on the day when Grania gave you her love, that put Finn of the princes from his wits; it is a sorrowful story your death is to-day.
You were the man was best of the Fenians, beautiful Diarmuid, that women loved. It is dark your dwelling-place is under the sod, it is mournful and cold your bed is; it is pleasant your laugh was to-day; you were my happiness, Diarmuid.
Haunters Of The Silence
by Madison Julius Cawein

There are haunters of the silence, ghosts that hold the heart and brain:
I have sat with them and hearkened; I have talked with them in vain:
I have shuddered from their coming, yet have run to meet them there,
And have cursed them and have blessed them and have loved them to despair.
At my door I see their shadows; in my walks I meet their ghosts;
Where I often hear them weeping or sweep by in withered hosts:
Perished dreams, gone like the roses, crumbling by like autumn leaves;
Phantoms of old joys departed, that the spirit eye perceives.
Oft at night they sit beside me, fix their eyes upon my face,
Demon eyes that burn and hold me, in whose deeps my heart can trace
All the past; and where a passion, as in Hell the ghosts go by,
Turns an anguished face toward me with a love that cannot die.
In the night-time, in the darkness, in the blackness of the storm,
Round my fireplace there they gather, flickering form on shadowy form:
In the daytime, in the noontide, in the golden sunset glow,
On the hilltops, in the forests, I have met them walking slow.
There are haunters of the silence, ghosts that hold the brain and heart:
In the mansion of my being they have placed a room apart:
There I hear their spectre raiment, see their shadows on the floor,
Where the raven, Sorrow, darkens Love's pale image o'er my door.
Golden Days.
by Lizzie Lawson

There are days of summer sunshine,
Of warm and sunny weather,
When the hedge is full of hawthorn
And hills are glad with heather.
There are days of silent sadness,
Of frost, and snow, and rain,
When we fear that summer's gladness
Will never come again.
And now our songs are minor key,
And now in merry tune;
The windward side will change to lee,
And January to June.
Day and night the sun is shining,
Though he may hide his head;
Each cloud has a silver lining,
The flowers are asleep not dead.
Every day may have its playtime
Made bright by cheerful lays;
And life be one long Maytime,
A year of golden days.
Legends Of Lost Haven
by Bliss Carman (William)

There are legends of Lost Haven,
Come, I know not whence, to me,
When the wind is in the clover,
When the sun is on the sea.
There are rumors in the pine-tops,
There are whispers in the grass;
And the flocking crows at nightfall
Bring home hints of things that pass
Out upon the broad dike yonder,
All day long beneath the sun,
Where the tall ships cloud and settle
Down the sea-curve, one by one.
And the crickets in fine chorus--
Every slim and tiny reed--
Strive to chord the broken rhythmus
Of the world, and half succeed.
There are myriad traditions
Treasured by the talking rain;
And with memories the moonlight
Walks the cold and silent plain.
Where the river tells his hill-tales
To the lone complaining bar,
Where the midgets thread their dances
To the yellow twilight star,
Where the blossom bends to hearken
To the bee with velvet bands,
There are chronicles enciphered
Of the yet uncharted lands.
All the musical marauders
Of the berry and the bloom
Sing the lure of soul's illusion
Out of darkness, out of doom.
But the sure and great evangel
Comes when half alone I hear,
At the rosy door of silence,
Love, the lord of speech, draw near.
Then for once across the threshold,
Darkling spirit, thou art free,--
As thy hope is every ship makes
Some lost haven of the sea.
Ther's sunshine an storm
by John Hartley

Ther's sunshine an storm as we travel along,
Throo life's journey whear ivver we be;
An its wiser to leeten yor heart wi' a song,
Nor to freeat at wbat fate may decree;
Yo'll find gooid an bad amang th' fowk 'at yo meet,
An' form friendships maybe yo'll regret;
But tho' some may deceive an lay snares for yor feet,
Pass 'em by, - an' Forgive an' Forget.
The River Of Sleep
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There are curious isles in the River of Sleep,
Curious isles without number.
We'll visit them all as we leisurely creep
Down the winding stream whose current is deep,
In our beautiful barge of Slumber.
The very first isle in this wonderful stream
Quite close to the shore is lying,
And after a supper of cakes and cream
We come to the Night-Mare-Isle with a scream,
And hurry away from it crying.
And next is the Island-of-Lullaby,
And every one there rejoices.
The winds are only a perfumed sigh,
And the birds that sing in the treetops try
To imitate Mothers' voices.
A little beyond is the Isle-of-Dreams;
Oh, that is the place to be straying.
Everything there is just as it seems;
Dolls are real and sunshine gleams,
And no one calls us from playing.
And then we come to the drollest isle,
And the funniest sounds come pouring
Down from its borderlands once in a while,
And we lean o'er our barge and listen and smile;
For that is the Isle-of-Snoring.
And the very last isle in the River of Sleep
Is the sunshiny Isle-of-Waking.
We see it first with our eyes a-peep,
And we give a yawn -then away we leap,
The barge of Slumber forsaking.
Then, Fare Thee Well. (Old English Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
The pain of parting thus,
Dear love!
The pain of parting thus.
Had we but known, since first we met,
Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
The deep, deep pain of this,
Dear love!
The deep, deep pain of this.
But no, alas, we've never seen
One glimpse of pleasure's ray,
But still there came some cloud between,
And chased it all away,
Dear love!
And chased it all away.
Yet, even could those sad moments last,
Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together past,
Than years of mirth apart,
Dear love!
Than years of mirth apart.
Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
And nurst mid vain regrets:
Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
Like them in tears it sets,
Dear love!
Like them in tears it sets.
New-Fashioned Echoes.
by Thomas Moore

Sir,--
Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.
As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.
Yours, etc. S.
huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono, coeamus, retulit echo.
OVID.
There are echoes, we know, of all sorts,
From the echo that "dies in the dale,"
To the "airy-tongued babbler" that sports
Up the tide of the torrent her "tale."
There are echoes that bore us, like Blues,
With the latest smart mot they have heard;
There are echoes extremely like shrews
Letting nobody have the last word.
In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too.
Certain "talented" echoes[2]    there dwell,
Who on being askt, "How do you do?"
Politely reply, 'Pretty well,"
But why should I talk any more
Of such old-fashioned echoes as these,
When Britain has new ones in store,
That transcend them by many degrees?
For of all repercussions of sound
Concerning which bards make a pother,
There's none like that happy rebound
When one blockhead echoes an other;--
When Kenyon commences the bray,
And the Borough-Duke follows his track;
And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay
Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!--
And while, of most echoes the sound
On our ear by reflection doth fall,
These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round,
Without any reflection at all.
Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,
Who can name all the echoes there are
From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue,
From Benledi to wild Uamvar;
I might track thro' each hard Irish name
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came
To the chief Neddy, Kenyon, again;
Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne,
How from Dawson it died off genteelly--
How hollow it hung from the crown
Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;
How on hearing my Lord of Glandine,
Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way,
Outdone in their own special line
By the forty-ass power of his bray!
But, no--for so humble a bard
'Tis a subject too trying to touch on;
Such noblemen's names are too hard,
And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.
Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,
Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves;
If in spite of Narcissus you still
Take to fools who are charmed with themselves,
Who knows but, some morning retiring,
To walk by the Trent's wooded side,
You may meet with Newcastle, admiring
His own lengthened ears in the tide!
Or, on into Cambria straying,
Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf,
In his love of ass-cendency, braying
A Brunswick duet with himself!