DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Cookmaid, Turnspit, And Ox.
by John Gay

(To a Poor Man.)
Consider man in every sphere,
Then answer, - Is your lot severe?
Is God unjust? You would be fed:
I grant you have to toil for bread.
Your wants are plainly to you known,
So every mortal feels his own;
Nor would I dare to say I knew,
'Midst men, one happier man than you.
Adam in Paradise was lone;
With Eve was first transgression known;
And thus they fell, and thus disgrace
Entailed the curse on human race.
When Philip's son, by glory fired,
The empire of the world desired,
He wept to find the course he ran - 
Despite of altars - was of man.
So avaricious hopes are checked,
And so proud man may lack respect;
And so ambition may be foiled
Of the reward for which it moiled.
The wealthy surfeit of their wealth,
Grudging the ploughman's strength and health.
The man, who weds the loveliest wife,
Weds, with her loveliness, much strife.
One wants an heir: another rails
Upon his heirs and the entails.
Another - but can'st thou discern
Envies and jealousies that burn?
Bid them avaunt! and say you have
Blessings unknown, which others crave.
"Where is the turnspit? Bob is gone,
And dinner must be drest by one:
Where is that cur - (and I am loth
To say that Betty swore an oath) - 
The sirloin's spoiled: I'll give it him!" - 
And Betty did look fierce and grim.
Bob, who saw mischief in her eye,
Avoided her - approaching nigh:
He feared the broomstick, too, with physics
As dread as Betty's metaphysics.
"What star did at my birth preside,
That I should be born-slave?" he sighed:
"To tread that spit, of horrid sound - 
Inglorious task - to which no hound,
That ever I knew, was abased.
Whence is my line and lineage traced?
I would that I had been professed
A lap-dog, by some dame caressed:
I would I had been born a spaniel,
Sagacious nostrilled, and called Daniel:
I would I had been born a lion,
Although I scorn a feline scion:
I would I had been born of woman,
And free from servitude - as human;
My lot had then been, I discern, fit,
And not, as now, a wretched turnspit."
An ox replied, who heard this whine:
"Dare you at partial fate repine?
Behold me, now beneath the goad.
And now beneath the waggon's load;
Now ploughing the tenacious plain,
And housing now the yellow grain.
Yet I without a murmur bear
These various labours of the year.
Yet come it will, the day decreed
By fates, when I am doomed to bleed:
And you, by duties of your post,
Must turn the spit when I must roast;
And to repay your currish moans
Will have the pickings of my bones."
The turnspit answered: "Superficial
Has been my gaze on poor and rich, all.
What, do the mighty ones then bear
Their load of carking grief and care?
And man perhaps - ah, goodness knows! - 
May have his share of pains and woes."
So saying, with contented look.
Bob wagged his tail, and followed cook.
My Vigil
by Helen Leah Reed

Companioned by the lonely hours,
My vigil with the stars I keep, - 
The happy stars that never weep, - 
The wakeful stars that never sleep,
Spirit of me that frets and cowers,
Ah, what am I, that I should be
And breathe in this Infinity?
Unburdened of the weight of self,
Toward the highest heights I am borne,
Below lies Earth, begrimed and worn,
Far, far from me her praise, her scorn,
Her joys, her woes, her loss, her pelf,
One with the happy stars am I!
Our limits the unbounded sky!
The Apparition.
by Herman Melville

(A Retrospect.)
Convulsions came; and, where the field
Long slept in pastoral green,
A goblin-mountain was upheaved
(Sure the scared sense was all deceived),
Marl-glen and slag-ravine.
The unreserve of Ill was there,
The clinkers in her last retreat;
But, ere the eye could take it in,
Or mind could comprehension win,
It sunk! - and at our feet.
So, then, Solidity's a crust - 
The core of fire below;
All may go well for many a year,
But who can think without a fear
Of horrors that happen so?
Conductor Bradley
by John Greenleaf Whittier

A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut railway, May 9, 1873.
Conductor Bradley, (always may his name
Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came,
Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,
Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stood
To do the utmost that a brave man could,
And die, if needful, as a true man should.
Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears
On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears,
Lost in the strength and glory of his years.
What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain,
Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again
"Put out the signals for the other train!"
No nobler utterance since the world began
From lips of saint or martyr ever ran,
Electric, through the sympathies of man.
Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to this
The sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness,
Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!
Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain
That last brave act of failing tongue and brain
Freighted with life the downward rushing train,
Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave,
Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave.
Others he saved, himself he could not save.
Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead
Who in his record still the earth shall tread
With God's clear aureole shining round his head.
We bow as in the dust, with all our pride
Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.
God give us grace to live as Bradley died
Comrades.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Comrades, pour the wine to-night
For the parting is with dawn!
Oh, the clink of cups together,
With the daylight coming on!
Greet the morn
With a double horn,
When strong men drink together!
Comrades, gird your swords to-night,
For the battle is with dawn!
Oh, the clash of shields together,
With the triumph coming on!
Greet the foe,
And lay him low,
When strong men fight together!
Comrades, watch the tides to-night,
For the sailing is with dawn!
Oh, to face the spray together,
With the tempest coming on!
Greet the sea
With a shout of glee,
When strong men roam together!
Comrades, give a cheer to-night,
For the dying is with dawn!
Oh, to meet the stars together,
With the silence coming on!
Greet the end
As a friend a friend,
When strong men die together!
Nursery Rhyme. CCXII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[Isabel.]
Congeal'd water and Cain's brother,
That was my lover's name, and no other.
The Cat And The Two Sparrows.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
To Monseigneur The Duke De Bourgogne.
Contemporary with a sparrow tame
There lived a cat; from tenderest age,
Of both, the basket and the cage
Had household gods the same.
The bird's sharp beak full oft provoked the cat,
Who play'd in turn, but with a gentle pat,
His wee friend sparing with a merry laugh,
Not punishing his faults by half.
In short, he scrupled much the harm,
Should he with points his ferule arm.
The sparrow, less discreet than he,
With dagger beak made very free.
Sir Cat, a person wise and staid,
Excused the warmth with which he play'd:
For 'tis full half of friendship's art
To take no joke in serious part.
Familiar since they saw the light,
Mere habit kept their friendship good;
Fair play had never turn'd to fight,
Till, of their neighbourhood,
Another sparrow came to greet
Old Ratto grave and saucy Pete.
Between the birds a quarrel rose,
And Ratto took his side.
'A pretty stranger, with such blows
To beat our friend!' he cried.
'A neighbour's sparrow eating ours!
Not so, by all the feline powers.'
And quick the stranger he devours.
'Now, truly,' saith Sir Cat,
I know how sparrows taste by that.
Exquisite, tender, delicate!'
This thought soon seal'd the other's fate. - 
But hence what moral can I bring?
For, lacking that important thing,
A fable lacks its finishing:
I seem to see of one some trace,
But still its shadow mocks my chase.
Yours, prince, it will not thus abuse:
For you such sports, and not my muse.
In wit, she and her sisters eight
Would fail to match you with a mate.
Fancy's Fool
by Bliss Carman (William)

"Cornel, cornel, green and white,
Spreading on the forest floor,
Whither went my lost delight
Through the silent door?"
"Mortal, mortal, overfond,
How come you at all to know
There be any joys beyond
Blisses here and now?"
"Cornel, cornel, white and cool,
Many a mortal, I've heard tell,
Who is only Fancy's fool
Knows that secret well."
"Mortal, mortal, what would you
With that beauty once was yours?
Perishable is the dew,
And the dust endures."
"Cornel, cornel, pierce me not
With your sweet, reserved disdain!
Whisper me of things forgot
That shall be again."
"Mortal, we are kinsmen, led
By a hope beyond our reach.
Know you not the word unsaid
Is the flower of speech?"
All the snowy blossoms faded,
While the scarlet berries grew;
And all summer they evaded
Anything they knew.
"Cornel, cornel, green and red
Flooring for the forest wide,
Whither down the ways of dread
Went my starry-eyed?"
"Mortal, mortal, is there found
Any fruitage half so fair
In the dim world underground
As there grows in air?"
"Wilding cornel, you can guess
Nothing of eternal pain,
Growing there in quietness
In the sun and rain."
"Mortal, where your heart would be
Not a wanderer may go,
But he shares the dark with me
Underneath the snow."
And the scarlet berries scattered
With the coming on of fall;
Not to one of them it mattered
Anything at all.
Odes From Horace. - To The Hon. Thomas Erskine. Horace, Book The Second, Ode The Third, Imitated.
by Anna Seward

OCTOBER 1796.
Conscious the mortal stamp is on thy breast,
O, ERSKINE! still an equal mind maintain,
That wild Ambition ne'er may goad thy rest,
Nor Fortune's smile awake thy triumph vain,
Whether thro' toilsome tho' renowned years
'T is thine to trace the Law's perplexing maze,
Or win the SACRED SEALS, whose awful cares
To high decrees devote thy honor'd days.
Where silver'd Poplars with the stately Pines
Mix their thick branches in the summer sky,
And the cool stream, whose trembling surface shines,
Laboriously oblique, is hurrying by;
There let thy duteous Train the banquet bring,
In whose bright cups the liquid ruby flows,
As Life's warm season, on expanded wing,
Presents her too, too transitory rose;
While every Muse and Grace auspicious wait,
As erst thy Handmaids, when, with brow serene,
Gay thou didst rove where Buxton views elate
A golden Palace deck her savage scene[1].
At frequent periods woo th' inspiring Band
Before thy days their summer-course have run,
While, with clos'd shears, the fatal Sisters stand,
Nor aim to cut the brilliant thread they spun.
Precarious Tenant of that gay Retreat,
Fann'd by pure gales on Hampstead's airy downs,
Where filial troops for thee delighted wait,
And their fair Mother's smile thy banquet crowns!
Precarious Tenant! - shortly thou may'st leave
These, and propitious Fortune's golden hoard;
Then spare not thou the stores, that shall receive,
When set thy orb, a less illustrious Lord.
What can it then avail thee that thy pleas
Charm'd every ear with TULLY's periods bland?
Or that the subject Passions they could seize,
And with the thunder of the GREEK command?
What can it then avail thee that thy fame
Threw tenfold lustre on thy noble Line?
Since neither birth, nor self-won glory, claim
One hour's exemption from the sable shrine.
E'en now thy lot shakes in the Urn, whence Fate
Throws her pale edicts in reverseless doom!
Each issues in its turn, or soon, or late,
And lo! the great Man's prize! - a SILENT TOMB!
Sonnet LXVII. On Doctor Johnson's Unjust Criticisms In His Lives Of The Poets[1].
by Anna Seward

Cou'd aweful Johnson want poetic ear,
Fancy, or judgment? - no! his splendid strain,
In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea. - The pain
Which writh'd o'er Garrick's fortunes, shows us clear
Whence all his spleen to GENIUS. - Ill to bear
A Friend's renown, that to his own must reign,
Compar'd, a Meteor's evanescent train,
To Jupiter's fix'd orb, proves that each sneer,
Subtle and fatal to poetic Sense,
Did from insidious ENVY meanly flow,
Illumed with dazzling hues of eloquence,
And Sophist-Wit, that labor to o'er-throw
Th' awards of AGES, and new laws dispense
That lift the mean, and lay the MIGHTY low.
1: When Johnson's Idolaters are hard pressed concerning his injustice in those fallacious though able pages; - when they are reminded that he there tells us the perusal of Milton's Paradise Lost is a task, and never a pleasure; - reminded also of his avowed contempt of that exquisite Poem, the LYCIDAS; - of his declaration that Dryden's absurd Ode on the death of Mrs. Anne Killegrew, written in Cowley's worst manner, is the noblest Ode in this Language; - of his disdain of GRAY as a lyric Poet; of the superior respect he pays to Yalden, Blackmore, and Pomfret; - When these things are urged, his Adorers seek to acquit him of wilful misrepresentation by alledging that he wanted ear for lyric numbers, and taste for the higher graces of POETRY: - but it is impossible so to believe, when we recollect that even his prose abounds with poetic efflorescence, metaphoric conception, and harmonious cadence, which in the highest degree adorn it, without diminishing its strength. We must look for the source of his injustice in the envy of his temper. When Garrick was named a Candidate for admission into the Literary Club, Dr. Johnson told Mr. Thrale he would black-ball him. "Who, Sir? Mr. Garrick! Companion of your Youth! your acknowledged Friend!" "Why, Sir, I love my little David better than any, or all of his Flatterers love him; but surely we ought to sit in a Society like ours, 'unelbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, or PLAYER." See Supplement to Dr. Johnson's Letters, published by Mrs. Piozzi. The blended hypocrisy and malice of this sally show the man. Johnson knew, at times, how to coax without sincerity as well as to abuse without justice. His seeming fondness for Mrs. C - - of Lichfield, on his visits to that City, and the contempt with which he spoke of her to her Townspeople, was another instance of the same nature.
Lines Written During The Castlereagh Administration.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Corpses are cold in the tomb;
Stones on the pavement are dumb;
Abortions are dead in the womb,
And their mothers look pale - like the death-white shore
Of Albion, free no more.
2.
Her sons are as stones in the way -
They are masses of senseless clay -
They are trodden, and move not away, -
The abortion with which SHE travaileth
Is Liberty, smitten to death.
3.
Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor!
For thy victim is no redresser;
Thou art sole lord and possessor
Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions - they pave
Thy path to the grave.
4.
Hearest thou the festival din
Of Death, and Destruction, and Sin,
And Wealth crying "Havoc!" within?
'Tis the bacchanal triumph that makes Truth dumb,
Thine Epithalamium.
5.
Ay, marry thy ghastly wife!
Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife
Spread thy couch in the chamber of Life!
Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and Hell be thy guide
To the bed of the bride!
Sonnet LXXIV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Cos' potess' io ben chiuder in versi.
HE COMPLAINS THAT TO HIM ALONE IS FAITH HURTFUL.
Could I, in melting verse, my thoughts but throw,
As in my heart their living load I bear,
No soul so cruel in the world was e'er
That would not at the tale with pity glow.
But ye, blest eyes, which dealt me the sore blow,
'Gainst which nor helm nor shield avail'd to spare
Within, without, behold me poor and bare,
Though never in laments is breathed my woe.
But since on me your bright glance ever shines,
E'en as a sunbeam through transparent glass,
Suffice then the desire without the lines.
Faith Peter bless'd and Mary, but, alas!
It proves an enemy to me alone,
Whose spirit save by you to none is known.
MACGREGOR.
Veni Creator Spiritus, Paraphrased.
by John Dryden

CREATOR SPIRIT, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come, visit every pious mind;
Come, pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us, while we sing!
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!
Thou strength of his Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command:
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down!
Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died:
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!
Windmills And Stone Stables.
by James McIntyre

Cows suffered in the days of old
For want of water and from cold,
Now of good water they have fill
For it is pumped by the windmill.
No matter how well cows were fed
They suffered cold in their board shed,
But good stone walls now them enfold,
And they are warm and safe from cold.
Now they do enjoy their fodder,
And repay with their full udder,
If bran slops you on cow bestow
Of milk it will increase the flow.
And in your efforts do not halt
But let them daily lick the salt,
And never let the dogs them chase,
But let them walk at their quiet pace.
The Little Old Table
by Thomas Hardy

Creak, little wood thing, creak,
When I touch you with elbow or knee;
That is the way you speak
Of one who gave you to me!
You, little table, she brought -
Brought me with her own hand,
As she looked at me with a thought
That I did not understand.
- Whoever owns it anon,
And hears it, will never know
What a history hangs upon
This creak from long ago.
Prometheus.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Cover thy spacious heavens, Zeus,
With clouds of mist,
And, like the boy who lops
The thistles' heads,
Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks,
Yet thou must leave
My earth still standing;
My cottage too, which was not raised by thee;
Leave me my hearth,
Whose kindly glow
By thee is envied.
I know nought poorer
Under the sun, than ye gods!
Ye nourish painfully,
With sacrifices
And votive prayers,
Your majesty:
Ye would e'en starve,
If children and beggars
Were not trusting fools.
While yet a child
And ignorant of life,
I turned my wandering gaze
Up tow'rd the sun, as if with him
There were an ear to hear my wailings,
A heart, like mine,
To feel compassion for distress.
Who help'd me
Against the Titans' insolence?
Who rescued me from certain death,
From slavery?
Didst thou not do all this thyself,
My sacred glowing heart?
And glowedst, young and good,
Deceived with grateful thanks
To yonder slumbering one?
I honour thee! and why?
Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrows
Of the heavy laden?
Hast thou e'er dried up the tears
Of the anguish-stricken?
Was I not fashion'd to be a man
By omnipotent Time,
And by eternal Fate,
Masters of me and thee?
Didst thou e'er fancy
That life I should learn to hate,
And fly to deserts,
Because not all
My blossoming dreams grew ripe?
Here sit I, forming mortals
After my image;
A race resembling me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy, to be glad,
And thee to scorn,
As I!
Harvest
by John Charles McNeill

Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;
Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold;
A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere;
The twitter of killdees keen in the air;
The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam
On the last load home.
There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke
Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.
The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her
Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,
And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam
On the last load home.
Sonnet CVI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

L' avara Babilonia ha colmo 'l sacco.
HE PREDICTS TO ROME THE ARRIVAL OF SOME GREAT PERSONAGE WHO WILL BRING HER BACK TO HER OLD VIRTUE.
Covetous Babylon of wrath divine
By its worst crimes has drain'd the full cup now,
And for its future Gods to whom to bow
Not Pow'r nor Wisdom ta'en, but Love and Wine.
Though hoping reason, I consume and pine,
Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan's brow,
Who shall again build up, and we avow
One faith in God, in Rome one head and shrine.
Her idols shall be shatter'd, in the dust
Her proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl'd,
Her wardens into flames and exile thrust,
Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the world
Possess in peace; and we shall see it made
All gold, and fully its old works display'd.
MACGREGOR.
One Dear Smile.
by Thomas Moore

Couldst thou look as dear as when
First I sighed for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breathed thee then,
Oh, how blissful life would be!
Hopes that now beguiling leave me,
Joys that lie in slumber cold--
All would wake, couldst thou but give me
One dear smile like those of old.
No--there's nothing left us now,
But to mourn the past;
Vain was every ardent vow--
Never yet did Heaven allow
Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me--
Life itself looks dark and cold;
Oh, thou never more canst give me
One dear smile like those of old
Could I But Mention But Thy Name;
by W. M. MacKeracher

Could I but strike - a sweeter note
Than all from virgin choirs that float,
Or harps with cords of gold;
A note more soft and more sublime
Than she, the sweetest of the Nine,
Euterpe's strains unfold!
The note which even now I hear
(For angels breathe it in my ear)
But never dared to raise -
Could I but mention but thy name,
To whom I owe this sacred flame
And love's inspired lays!
Ah! then, methinks, when I should hear
My Muse employ that word so dear;
When thoughts of thee inspire;
In sweeter strains my song should swell
Than e'er from harp of Orpheus fell
Or Phoebus' full-stringed lyre!
The Ass & The Sick Lion
by Walter Crane

Crafty Lion,--perhaps with the gout,
Kept his cave; where, to solve any doubt,
Many visitors go:
But the Ass, he said "No!
They go in, but I've seen none come out."
Reason From Results
Craigo Woods
by Violet Jacob

Craigo Woods, wi' the splash o' the cauld rain beatin'
I' the back end o' the year,
When the clouds hang laigh wi' the weicht o' their load o' greetin'
And the autumn wind's asteer;
Ye may stand like gaists, ye may fa' i' the blast that's cleft ye
To rot i' the chilly dew,
But when will I mind on aucht since the day I left ye
Like I mind on you - on you?
Craigo Woods, i' the licht o' September sleepin'
And the saft mist o' the morn,
When the hairst climbs to yer feet, an' the sound o' reapin'
Comes up frae the stookit corn,
And the braw reid puddock-stules are like jewels blinkin'
And the bramble happs ye baith,
O what do I see, i' the lang nicht, lyin' an' thinkin'
As I see yer wraith - yer wraith?
There's a road to a far-aff land, an' the land is yonder
Whaur a' men's hopes are set;
We dinna ken foo lang we maun hae to wander,
But we'll a' win to it yet;
An' gin there's woods o' fir an' the licht atween them,
I winna speir its name,
But I'll lay me doon by the puddock-stules when I've seen them,
An' I'll cry "I'm hame - I'm hame!"
Could man be drunk for ever
by Alfred Edward Housman

Could man be drunk for ever
With liquor, love, or fights,
Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down of nights.
But men at whiles are sober
And think by fits and starts,
And if they think, they fasten
Their hands upon their hearts.
Bedroom Glass
by Paul Cameron Brown

Counted three white pigeons
on a roof, near a gable
silhouetting a barn;
as an afterthought
killed as many nervy bluebottles
on the bedroom glass as
warnings to myself, perhaps,
or the elements pelting the window
with ice beads, tiny crystalline
versions of those distant elephantine birds.