DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Instans Tyrannus
by Robert Browning

I.
Of the million or two, more or less,
I rule and possess,
One man, for some cause undefined,
Was least to my mind.
II.
I struck him, he grovelled of course,
For, what was his force?
I pinned him to earth with my weight
And persistence of hate:
And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,
As his lot might be worse.
III.
'Were the object less mean, would he stand
At the swing of my hand!
For obscurity helps him and blots
The hole where he squats.'
So, I set my five wits on the stretch
To inveigle the wretch.
All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,
Still he couched there perdue;
I tempted his blood and his flesh,
Hid in roses my mesh,
Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth,
Still he kept to his filth.
IV.
Had he kith now or kin, were access
To his heart, did I press:
Just a son or a mother to seize!
No such booty as these.
Were it simply a friend to pursue
'Mid my million or two,
Who could pay me in person or pelf
What he owes me himself!
No: I could not but smile through my chafe,
For the fellow lay safe
As his mates do, the midge and the nit,
Through minuteness, to wit.
V.
Then a humour more great took its place
At the thought of his face,
The droop, the low cares of the mouth,
The trouble uncouth
'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain
To put out of its pain.
And, 'no!' I admonished myself,
'Is one mocked by an elf,
Is one baffled by toad or by rat?
The gravamen's in that!
How the lion, who crouches to suit
His back to my foot,
Would admire that I stand in debate!
But the small turns the great
If it vexes you, that is the thing!
Toad or rat vex the king?
Though I waste half my realm to unearth
Toad or rat, 'tis well worth!'
VI.
So, I soberly laid my last plan
To extinguish the man.
Round his creep-hole, with never a break
Ran my fires for his sake;
Over-head, did my thunder combine
With my underground mine:
Till I looked from my labour content
To enjoy the event.
VII.
When sudden . . . how think ye, the end?
Did I say 'without friend'?
Say rather, from marge to blue marge
The whole sky grew his targe
With the sun's self for visible boss,
While an Arm ran across
Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast
Where the wretch was safe prest!
Do you see? Just my vengeance complete,
The man sprang to his feet,
Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!
So, I was afraid!
Upon Spalt.
by Robert Herrick

Of pushes Spalt has such a knotty race,
He needs a tucker for to burl his face.
Jupiter And The Farmer.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Of yore, a farm had Jupiter to rent;
To advertise it, Mercury was sent.
The farmers, far and near,
Flock'd round, the terms to hear;
And, calling to their aid
The various tricks of trade,
One said 'twas rash a farm to hire
Which would so much expense require;
Another, that, do what you would,
The farm would still be far from good.
While thus, in market style, its faults were told,
One of the crowd, less wise than bold,
Would give so much, on this condition,
That Jove would yield him altogether
The choice and making of his weather, - 
That, instantly on his decision,
His various crops should feel the power
Of heat or cold, of sun or shower.
Jove yields. The bargain closed, our man
Rains, blows, and takes the care
Of all the changes of the air,
On his peculiar, private plan.
His nearest neighbours felt it not,
And all the better was their lot.
Their year was good, by grace divine;
The grain was rich, and full the vine.
The renter, failing altogether,
The next year made quite different weather;
And yet the fruit of all his labours
Was far inferior to his neighbours'.
What better could he do? To Heaven
He owns at last his want of sense,
And so is graciously forgiven.
Hence we conclude that Providence
Knows better what we need
Than we ourselves, indeed.
For A Creole Lady
by Charles Baudelaire

Off in a perfumed land bathed gently by the sun,
Under a palm tree's shade tinged with a crimson trace,
A place where indolence drops on the eyes like rain,
I met a Creole lady of unstudied grace.
This brown enchantress' skin is warm and light in tone;
Her neck is noble, proud, her manner dignified;
Slender and tall, she goes with huntress' easy stride;
Her smile is tranquil, and her eyes are confident.
Madame, if you should come to place of pride and praise
Beside the green Loire, or by the pleasant Seine,
Adorning ancient mansions with your stately ways
There in the shelter of the shady groves, you'd start
A thousand sonnets blooming in the poets' hearts,
Whom your great eyes would turn to sycophants and slaves.
C'leste
by Arthur Macy

Of sweethearts I have had a score,
And time may bring as many more;
Tho' I remember all the rest,
Just now I worship dear C'leste;
Hers may not be the greatest love,
But ah! it is the latest love.
For little Cupid's never stupid,
As I've found out;
And love is truest when 'tis newest,
Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt.
Of sweethearts I have had a score,
C'leste says I deserve no more;
I take revenge on dear C'leste,
By telling her I love her best;
Hers may not be the greatest love,
But ah! it is the latest love.
For little Cupid's never stupid,
As I've found out;
And love is truest when 'tis newest,
Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt.
Thought
by Walt Whitman

Of what I write from myself, As if that were not the resum'; 
Of Histories, As if such, however complete, were not less complete than the preceding poems; 
As if those shreds, the records of nations, could possibly be as lasting as the preceding poems; 
As if here were not the amount of all nations, and of all the lives of heroes.
Success.
by Emma Lazarus

Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain,
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
These I ignore to-day and only long
To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,
One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song,
For all the victories of man's high endeavor,
Palm-bearing, laureled deeds that live forever,
The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.
Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one
Who has persisted and achieved?    Rejoice!
On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun.
Salute him with free heart and choral voice,
'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan,
The bold, significant, successful man.
Translation From Vittorelli. - On A Nun.
by George Gordon Byron

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,
Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguished, - soon - too soon expires;
But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.
But thou at least from out the jealous door,
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:
I to the marble, where my daughter lies,
Rush, - the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,
And knock, and knock, and knock - but none replies.
[First published, Childe Harold, Canto IV., 1818.]
Point Spread
by Paul Cameron Brown

The skull in the box is that of Cornelius A. Burleigh, the first man to be hanged in London, Ontario, August 19, 1830. The public hanging attracted an audience of over 3,000 when the village of London numbered only a few hundred. Because the rope broke, he was hanged twice! The top of the skull was taken on a world tour by Dr. O.S. Fowler, a phrenologist.
This part of the skull was presented to the Harris family.
(Eldon House brochure)
Off memory
& a dare,
the grave man
coming to a bitter end.
Burleigh, top of his
skull reminiscent of a laundry cup
(or toothpaste cap) separated from
its yellowing, rightful owner.
No jaws of life here - 
rather vengeance beyond death,
shellac & varnish twist shoved
to the withering bone.
Phrenology,
sinister "fin de siecle" fingering
of the intellect's character
through guru-dimensions of the head,
(pseudo-savant/skulduggery clairvoyant).
Thimble-full thinker, sleight of hand
smoke'n mirror trophy hunters
boisterous crowd in a
"hanging mood". Coins
flip on the outcome
while town drunks reel;
The village idiot getting
into the "swing" of things. Point spread
across the yawn
of death ...
brittle behaviour,
the sharp edge of beetles
clicking in the dark.
And I thought
of institutionalized evil
& rabid passion for revenge
pursued beyond the final resting place - 
most private skeletal remains
held up as curios. Medieval burning of a heretic's bones,
manure pile for those decried damned;
the cross-roads
drive your cart over the
bones of the dead,
the remembered suicide's end.
Not so strange
given human nature,
Lord Byron's silver drinking cup
runaway Ethiopian slave
(twisted paean to romance)
or Hand of Glory,
corpse-fresh from the gibbet &
famed forges of France.
Hair strands as in under
a magnifying glass, then
shards of clothing/clods of earth
covering a shovel.
The autopsy-necromancy
Nazi intrigue,
playing polo with your
opponent's skull
- Carl Sagan's Broca's Brain
red-bearded decapitation
floating in a cloud of formaldehyde;
sale of skeletons/white slavery
filthy lucre all in one utilitarian
lust for cadavers ... .
Robber-birds pinioning their prey ...
Mania to collect
mania to re-collect,
shadow-boxing logic
rattle his bones
he's only a pauper
whom nobody owns.
The Childhood Of Jesus.
by H. P. Nichols

Of the childhood of our Saviour
Tells one simple verse alone;
Yet from that his whole behavior
When he was a child, is known.
He was subject to his mother,
So the holy Scriptures say;
'Tis enough, we need no other
Record of him day by day.
Thus we, his obedience knowing,
Know how gentle and how mild,--
How in truth and goodness growing
Was our Saviour from a child.
Little children, who endeavor
Like the blessed One to be,
As you try, remember ever
How obedient was he.
If, like Jesus pure and holy,
You your parents' will obey,
You will grow more meek and lowly,
And more like him, every day.
By Use Comes Easiness.
by Robert Herrick

Oft bend the bow, and thou with ease shalt do
What others can't with all their strength put to.
Poking Fun At Xanthias
by Eugene Field

Of your love for your handmaid you need feel no shame.
Don't apologize, Xanthias, pray;
Remember, Achilles the proud felt a flame
For Brissy, his slave, as they say.
Old Telamon's son, fiery Ajax, was moved
By the captive Tecmessa's ripe charms;
And Atrides, suspending the feast, it behooved
To gather a girl to his arms.
Now, how do you know that this yellow-haired maid
(This Phyllis you fain would enjoy)
Hasn't parents whose wealth would cast you in the shade,--
Who would ornament you, Xan, my boy?
Very likely the poor chick sheds copious tears,
And is bitterly thinking the while
Of the royal good times of her earlier years,
When her folks regulated the style!
It won't do at all, my dear boy, to believe
That she of whose charms you are proud
Is beautiful only as means to deceive,--
Merely one of the horrible crowd.
So constant a sweetheart, so loving a wife,
So averse to all notions of greed
Was surely not born of a mother whose life
Is a chapter you'd better not read.
As an unbiased party I feel it my place
(For I don't like to do things by halves)
To compliment Phyllis,--her arms and her face
And (excuse me!) her delicate calves.
Tut, tut! don't get angry, my boy, or suspect
You have any occasion to fear
A man whose deportment is always correct,
And is now in his forty-first year!
Snowflakes.
by Hattie Howard

Of specious weight like tissue freight
The snowflakes are - in sparkle pure
As the rich parure
A lovely queen were proud to wear;
As volatile, as fine and rare
As thistle-down dispersed in air,
Or bits of filmy lace;
Like nature's tear-drops strewn around
That beautify and warm the ground,
But melt upon my face.
A ton or more against my door
They lie, and look, in form and tint,
Like piles of lint,
When war's alarum roused the land,
Wrought out by woman's loyal hand
From linen rag, and robe, and band - 
From garments cast aside - 
In hospital, on battle-field
The shattered limb that bound and healed,
Or stanched life's ebbing tide.
I see the gleam of lake and stream,
The silver glint in frost portrayed
Of the bright cascade;
They bear the moisture of marshes dank,
The dew of the lawn, or river bank,
The river itself by sunlight drank;
All these in frigid air,
That strange alembic, crystallize
In odd, fantastic shape and size
Like gems of dazzling glare.
Oh, of the snow such fancies grow,
'Till thought is lost in wandering,
And wondering
If portions of their drapery
The angel beings, sad to see
So much of earth's impurity,
Have dropped from clearer skies
As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot
To make this world a fairer spot,
And more like Paradise.
North And South.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Of the North I wove a dream,
All bespangled with the gleam
Of the glancing wings of swallows
Dipping ripples in a stream,
That, like a tide of wine,
Wound through lands of shade and shine
Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine.
And where orchard-boughs were bent
Till their tawny fruitage blent
With the golden wake that marked the
Way the happy reapers went;
Where the dawn died into noon
As the May-mists into June,
And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon.
Of the South I dreamed: And there
Came a vision clear and fair
As the marvelous enchantments
Of the mirage of the air;
And I saw the bayou-trees,
With their lavish draperies,
Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees.
Peering from lush fens of rice,
I beheld the Negro's eyes,
Lit with that old superstition
Death itself can not disguise;
And I saw the palm tree nod
Like an oriental god,
And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod,
And I dreamed that North and South,
With a sigh of dew and drouth,
Blew each unto the other
The salute of lip and mouth;
And I wakened, awed and thrilled - 
Every doubting murmur stilled
In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled.
Ecce Puer
by James Joyce

Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.
Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!
Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.
A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!
Lines To Miss E. Atkinson, On Her Presenting The Author With An Irish Pebble.
by John Carr (Sir)

Oft does the lucid pebble shine,
Just cover'd by the murm'ring sea;
Thus precious, thus conceal'd, it shews,
Fair maid! thy mind and modesty.
If searching eyes the stone discern,
Quick will the hand of Art remove
Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown,
It seals the fond record of love.
And here the sweet connexion ends,
Eliza! 'twixt the gem and thee;
For thou wast polish'd from the first,
By Nature's hand, more happily!
To A Poet Of Quality. Praising The Lady Hinchinbroke
by Matthew Prior

Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense
She looks henceforth upon as dowdies.
Yet she to one must still submit,
To dear Mamma must pay her duty;
She wonders, praising Wilmot's wit,
Thou shouldst forget his daughter's beauty.
An Appeal To The Free.
by Susanna Moodie

Offspring of heaven, fair Freedom! impart
The light of thy spirit to quicken each heart.
Though the chains of oppression our free limbs ne'er bound,
Bid us feel for the wretch round whose soul they are wound;
Whose breast is corroded with anguish so deep
That the eye of the slave is too blood-shot to weep;
No balm from the fountain of nature will flow
When the mind is degraded by fetter and blow.
The friends of humanity nobly have striven,
But the bonds of the heart-broken slave are unriven!
Whilst Religion extends o'er those champions her shield,
May they never to party or prejudice yield
The glorious cause by all freemen espoused.
A light shines abroad and the lion is roused;
The crush of the iron has struck fire from the stone;
Bid them back to the charge--and the field is their own!
Ye children of Britain! brave sons of the Isles!
Who revel in freedom and bask in her smiles,
Can ye sanction such deeds as are done in the West
And sink on your pillows untroubled to rest?
Are your slumbers unbroken by visions of dread?
Does no spectre of misery glare on your bed?
No cry of despair break the silence of night
And thrill the cold hearts that ne'er throbbed for the right?
Are ye fathers,--nor pity those children bereaved
Of the birth-right which man from his Maker received?
Are ye husbands,--and blest with affectionate wives,
The comfort, the solace, the joy of your lives,--
And feel not for him whom a tyrant can sever
From the wife of his bosom and children for ever?
Are ye Christians, enlightened with precepts divine,
And suffer a brother in bondage to pine?
Are ye men, whom fair freedom has marked for her own,
Yet listen unmoved to the negro's deep groan?
Ah no!--ye are slaves!--for the freeborn in mind
Are the children of mercy, the friends of mankind:
By no base, selfish motive their actions are weighed;
They barter no souls in an infamous trade;
They eat not the bread which is moistened by tears,
And carelessly talk of the bondage of years;--
They feel as men should feel;--the clank of the chain
Bids them call upon Justice to cleave it in twain!--
Epilogue, Spoken At Oxford, By Mrs Marshall.
by John Dryden

Oft has our poet wish'd, this happy seat
Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat:
I wonder'd at his wish, but now I find
He sought for quiet, and content of mind;
Which noiseful towns, and courts can never know,
And only in the shades like laurels grow.
Youth, ere it sees the world, here studies rest,
And age returning thence concludes it best.
What wonder if we court that happiness
Yearly to share, which hourly you possess;
Teaching even you, while the vex'd world we show,
Your peace to value more, and better know?
'Tis all we can return for favours past,
Whose holy memory shall ever last;
For patronage from him whose care presides
O'er every noble art, and every science guides:
Bathurst,[1] a name the learn'd with reverence know,
And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe;
Whose age enjoys but what his youth deserved,
To rule those Muses whom before he served.
His learning, and untainted manners too,
We find, Athenians, are derived to you:
Such ancient hospitality there rests
In yours, as dwelt in the first Grecian breasts,
Whose kindness was religion to their guests.
Such modesty did to our sex appear,
As, had there been no laws, we need not fear,
Since each of you was our protector here.
Converse so chaste, and so strict virtue shown,
As might Apollo with the Muses own.
Till our return, we must despair to find
Judges so just, so knowing, and so kind.
In Bonds
by George MacDonald

Of the poor bird that cannot fly
Kindly you think and mournfully;
For prisoners and for exiles all
You let the tears of pity fall;
And very true the grief should be
That mourns the bondage of the free.
The soul--she has a fatherland;
Binds her not many a tyrant's hand?
And the winged spirit has a home,
But can she always homeward come?
Poor souls, with all their wounds and foes,
Will you not also pity those?
Of The Terrible Doubt Of Apperarances
by Walt Whitman

Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all - that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive - the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night - colors, densities, forms - May-be these are, (as doubtless they are,) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known;
(How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them;)
May-be seeming to me what they are, (as doubtless they indeed but seem,) as from my present point of view - And might prove, (as of course they would,) naught of what they appear, or naught any how, from entirely changed points of view;
To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answer'd by my lovers, my dear friends;
When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom - I am silent - I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave;
But I walk or sit indifferent - I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
Written In A Blank Leaf Of Macpherson's Ossian
by William Wordsworth

Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,
Fragments of far-off melodies,
With ear not coveting the whole,
A part so charmed the pensive soul.
While a dark storm before my sight
Was yielding, on a mountain height
Loose vapours have I watched, that won
Prismatic colours from the sun;
Nor felt a wish that heaven would show
The image of its perfect bow.
What need, then, of these finished Strains?
Away with counterfeit Remains!
An abbey in its lone recess,
A temple of the wilderness,
Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling
The majesty of honest dealing.
Spirit of Ossian! if imbound
In language thou may'st yet be found,
If aught (entrusted to the pen
Or floating on the tongues of men,
Albeit shattered and impaired)
Subsist thy dignity to guard,
In concert with memorial claim
Of old grey stone, and high-born name
That cleaves to rock or pillared cave
Where moans the blast, or beats the wave,
Let Truth, stern arbitress of all,
Interpret that Original,
And for presumptuous wrongs atone;
Authentic words be given, or none!
Time is not blind; yet He, who spares
Pyramid pointing to the stars,
Hath preyed with ruthless appetite
On all that marked the primal flight
Of the poetic ecstasy
Into the land of mystery.
No tongue is able to rehearse
One measure, Orpheus! of thy verse;
Musaeus, stationed with his lyre
Supreme among the Elysian quire,
Is, for the dwellers upon earth,
Mute as a lark ere morning's birth.
Why grieve for these, though past away
The music, and extinct the lay?
When thousands, by severer doom,
Full early to the silent tomb
Have sunk, at Nature's call; or strayed
From hope and promise, self-betrayed;
The garland withering on their brows;
Stung with remorse for broken vows;
Frantic, else how might they rejoice?
And friendless, by their own sad choice!
Hail, Bards of mightier grasp! on you
I chiefly call, the chosen Few,
Who cast not off the acknowledged guide,
Who faltered not, nor turned aside;
Whose lofty genius could survive
Privation, under sorrow thrive;
In whom the fiery Muse revered
The symbol of a snow-white beard,
Bedewed with meditative tears
Dropped from the lenient cloud of years.
Brothers in soul! though distant times
Produced you nursed in various climes,
Ye, when the orb of life had waned,
A plenitude of love retained:
Hence, while in you each sad regret
By corresponding hope was met,
Ye lingered among human kind,
Sweet voices for the passing wind,
Departing sunbeams, loth to stop,
Though smiling on the last hill top!
Such to the tender-hearted maid
Even ere her joys begin to fade;
Such, haply, to the rugged chief
By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief;
Appears, on Morven's lonely shore,
Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore,
The Son of Fingal; such was blind
Maeonides of ampler mind;
Such Milton, to the fountain head
Of glory by Urania led!