DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To The Poets Who Only Read And Listen
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

When evening's shadowy fingers fold
The flowers of every hue,
Some shy, half-opened bud will hold
Its drop of morning's dew.
Sweeter with every sunlit hour
The trembling sphere has grown,
Till all the fragrance of the flower
Becomes at last its own.
We that have sung perchance may find
Our little meed of praise,
And round our pallid temples bind
The wreath of fading bays.
Ah, Poet, who hast never spent
Thy breath in idle strains,
For thee the dewdrop morning lent
Still in thy heart remains;
Unwasted, in its perfumed cell
It waits the evening gale;
Then to the azure whence it fell
Its lingering sweets exhale.
Verse by Taj Mahomed
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

When first I loved, I gave my very soul
Utterly unreserved to Love's control,
But Love deceived me, wrenched my youth away
And made the gold of life for ever grey.
Long I lived lonely, yet I tried in vain
With any other Joy to stifle pain;
There is no other joy, I learned to know,
And so returned to Love, as long ago.
Yet I, this little while ere I go hence,
Love very lightly now, in self-defence.
Announcement Of A New Thalaba. Addressed To Robert Southey, Esq.
by Thomas Moore

When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue
The terrible tale of Thalaba sung--
Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout
That grim divan of conjurors out,
Whose dwelling dark, as legends say,
Beneath the roots of the ocean lay,
(Fit place for deep ones, such as they,)
How little thou knewest, dear Dr. Southey,
Altho' bright genius all allow thee,
That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes
Should see a second Thalaba rise--
As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine,
Tho' his havoc lie in a different line,
And should find this new, improved Destroyer
Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer;
A sort of an "alien," alias man,
Whose country or party guess who can,
Being Cockney half, half Jonathan;
And his life, to make the thing completer,
Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre,
Loose and irregular as thy feet are;--
First, into Whig Pindarics rambling,
Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling;
Now love his theme, now Church his glory
(At once both Tory and ama-tory),
Now in the Old Bailey-lay meandering,
Now in soft couplet style philandering;
And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine,
Dragging his wounded length along,
When scourged by Holland's silken thong.
In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second
May fairly a match for the First be reckoned;
Save that your Thalaba's talent lay
In sweeping old conjurors clean away,
While ours at aldermen deals his blows,
(Who no great conjurors are, God knows,)
Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level,
Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil,
Bullies the whole Milesian race--
Seven millions of Paddies, face to face;
And, seizing that magic wand, himself,
Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf,
Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey
All into foreigners, in a jiffy--
Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em,
Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em?
Never in short did parallel
Betwixt two heroes gee so well;
And among the points in which they fit,
There's one, dear Bob, I can't omit.
That hacking, hectoring blade of thine
Dealt much in the Domdaniel line;
And 'tis but rendering justice due,
To say that ours and his Tory crew
Damn Daniel most devoutly too.
At Cheshire Cheese
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

When first of wise old Johnson taught,
My youthful mind its homage brought,
And made the pond'rous crusty sage
The object of a noble rage.
Nor did I think (How dense we are!)
That any day, however far,
Would find me holding, unrepelled,
The place that Doctor Johnson held!
But change has come and time has moved,
And now, applauded, unreproved,
I hold, with pardonable pride,
The place that Johnson occupied.
Conceit! Presumption! What is this?
You surely read my words amiss;
Like Johnson I,--a man of mind!
How could you ever be so blind?
No. At the ancient "Cheshire Cheese,"
Blown hither by some vagrant breeze,
To dignify my shallow wit,
In Doctor Johnson's seat I sit!
To The Duchess Of York, On Her Return From Scotland In The Year 1682.
by John Dryden

When factious rage to cruel exile drove
The queen of beauty,[1] and the court of love,
The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts,
And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts:
Our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd
Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd,
Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great supporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay,
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the sun and he had lost their way.
But now the illustrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm,
Foreflow'd her passage, to behold her form:
Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis, pass'd;
But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.
Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
And Envy did but look on her, and died.
Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate,
Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were set,
But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt:
Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,
The famine past, the plenty still to come.
For her the weeping heavens become serene;
For her the ground is clad in cheerful green:
For her the nightingales are taught to sing,
And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.
The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays;
And Love, restored his ancient realm surveys,
Recalls our beauties, and revives our plays;
His waste dominions peoples once again,
And from her presence dates his second reign.
But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,
Dispensing what she never will admit:
Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
No more shall vex the Church, and tear the State:
No more shall Faction civil discords move,
Or only discords of too tender love:
Discord, like that of music's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
Who best should love the Duke, and serve the King.
Abolition Of Slavery In The District Of Columbia, 1862
by John Greenleaf Whittier

When first I saw our banner wave
Above the nation's council-hall,
I heard beneath its marble wall
The clanking fetters of the slave!
In the foul market-place I stood,
And saw the Christian mother sold,
And childhood with its locks of gold,
Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.
I shut my eyes, I held my breath,
And, smothering down the wrath and shame
That set my Northern blood aflame,
Stood silent, where to speak was death.
Beside me gloomed the prison-cell
Where wasted one in slow decline
For uttering simple words of mine,
And loving freedom all too well.
The flag that floated from the dome
Flapped menace in the morning air;
I stood a perilled stranger where
The human broker made his home.
For crime was virtue: Gown and Sword
And Law their threefold sanction gave,
And to the quarry of the slave
Went hawking with our symbol-bird.
On the oppressor's side was power;
And yet I knew that every wrong,
However old, however strong,
But waited God's avenging hour.
I knew that truth would crush the lie,
Somehow, some time, the end would be;
Yet scarcely dared I hope to see
The triumph with my mortal eye.
But now I see it! In the sun
A free flag floats from yonder dome,
And at the nation's hearth and home
The justice long delayed is done.
Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer,
The message of deliverance comes,
But heralded by roll of drums
On waves of battle-troubled air!
Midst sounds that madden and appall,
The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew !
The harp of David melting through
The demon-agonies of Saul!
Not as we hoped; but what are we?
Above our broken dreams and plans
God lays, with wiser hand than man's,
The corner-stones of liberty.
I cavil not with Him: the voice
That freedom's blessed gospel tells
Is sweet to me as silver bells,
Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice!
Dear friends still toiling in the sun;
Ye dearer ones who, gone before,
Are watching from the eternal shore
The slow work by your hands begun,
Rejoice with me! The chastening rod
Blossoms with love; the furnace heat
Grows cool beneath His blessed feet
Whose form is as the Son of God!
Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springs
Are sweetened; on our ground of grief
Rise day by day in strong relief
The prophecies of better things.
Rejoice in hope! The day and night
Are one with God, and one with them
Who see by faith the cloudy hem
Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light
Overseas
by Madison Julius Cawein

Non numero horas nisi serenas
When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems
In soul I am a part of it;
A portion of its humid beams,
A form of fog, I seem to flit
From dreams to dreams....
An old ch'teau sleeps 'mid the hills
Of France: an avenue of sorbs
Conceals it: drifts of daffodils
Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs
Like iron bills.
I pass the gate unquestioned; yet,
I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make
Dark pools of restless violet.
Between high bramble banks a lake, - 
As in a net
The tangled scales twist silver, - shines....
Gray, mossy turrets swell above
A sea of leaves. And where the pines
Shade ivied walls, there lies my love,
My heart divines.
I know her window, slimly seen
From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged:
Her garden, with the nectarine
Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged
'Twixt walls of green.
Cool-babbling a fountain falls
From gryphons' mouths in porphyry;
Carp haunt its waters; and white balls
Of lilies dip it when the bee
Creeps in and drawls.
And butterflies - each with a face
Of faery on its wings - that seem
Beheaded pansies, softly chase
Each other down the gloom and gleam
Trees interspace.
And roses! roses, soft as vair,
Round sylvan statues and the old
Stone dial - Pompadours, that wear
Their royalty of purple and gold
With wanton air....
Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe
The perfume of her touch; her gloves,
Modeling the daintiness they sheathe;
Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves,
Lie there beneath
A bank of eglantine, that heaps
A rose-strewn shadow. - Na've-eyed,
With lips as suave as they, she sleeps;
The romance by her, open wide,
O'er which she weeps.
Cock Up Your Beaver.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Cock up your beaver."
I.
When first my brave Johnnie lad
Came to this town,
He had a blue bonnet
That wanted the crown;
But now he has gotten
A hat and a feather,
Hey, brave Johnnie lad,
Cock up your beaver!
II.
Cock up your beaver,
And cock it fu' sprush,
We'll over the border
And gie them a brush;
There's somebody there
We'll teach better behaviour,
Hey, brave Johnnie lad,
Cock up your beaver!
Overseas
by Madison Julius Cawein

Non numero horas nisi serenas
When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems
In soul I am a part of it;
A portion of its humid beams,
A form of fog, I seem to flit
From dreams to dreams....
An old ch'teau sleeps 'mid the hills
Of France: an avenue of sorbs
Conceals it: drifts of daffodils
Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs
Like iron bills.
I pass the gate unquestioned; yet,
I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make
Dark pools of restless violet.
Between high bramble banks a lake,
As in a net
The tangled scales twist silver, shines....
Gray, mossy turrets swell above
A sea of leaves. And where the pines
Shade ivied walls, there lies my love,
My heart divines.
I know her window, slimly seen
From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged:
Her garden, with the nectarine
Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged
'Twixt walls of green.
Cool-babbling a fountain falls
From gryphons' mouths in porphyry;
Carp haunt its waters; and white balls
Of lilies dip it when the bee
Creeps in and drawls.
And butterflies each with a face
Of faery on its wings that seem
Beheaded pansies, softly chase
Each other down the gloom and gleam
Trees interspace.
And roses! roses, soft as vair,
Round sylvan statues and the old
Stone dial Pompadours, that wear
Their royalty of purple and gold
With wanton air....
Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe
The perfume of her touch; her gloves,
Modeling the daintiness they sheathe;
Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves,
Lie there beneath
A bank of eglantine, that heaps
A rose-strewn shadow. Na've-eyed,
With lips as suave as they, she sleeps;
The romance by her, open wide,
O'er which she weeps.
Gertrude.
by Madison Julius Cawein

When first I gazed on GERTRUDE'S face,
Beheld her loveliness and grace;
Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair,
Her ways, more winsome than the kiss
Spring gives the flowers; her smile, that is
Brighter than all the summer air
Made sweet with birds: - I did declare, - 
And still declare! - there is no one,
No girl beneath the moon or sun,
So beautiful to look upon!
And to my thoughts, that on her dwell,
Nothing seems more desirable - 
Not OPHIR gold nor ORIENT pearls - 
Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.
On A Library Wall
by Arthur Macy

When faltering fingers bid me cease to write,
And, laying down the pen, I seek the Night,
May those, to whom the Daylight still is sweet,
With loving lips my name ofttimes repeat.
And should Belshazzar's spirit hither stray,
And linger o'er the lines I write to-day,
May he, who wept for Babylonia's fall,
Look kindly at this "writing on the wall"!
When Evening Shadows Fall
by James Whitcomb Riley

When evening shadows fall,
She hangs her cares away
Like empty garments on the wall
That hides her from the day;
And while old memories throng,
And vanished voices call,
She lifts her grateful heart in song
When evening shadows fall.
Her weary hands forget
The burdens of the day.
The weight of sorrow and regret
In music rolls away;
And from the day's dull tomb,
That holds her in its thrall,
Her soul springs up in lily bloom
When evening shadows fall.
O weary heart and hand,
Go bravely to the strife -
No victory is half so grand
As that which conquers life!
One day shall yet be thine -
The day that waits for all
Whose prayerful eyes are things divine
When evening shadows fall.
The Greenwich Pensioners.
by William Lisle Bowles

When evening listened to the dipping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,
By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
Reflects that stately structure on his side,
Within whose walls, as their long labours close,
The wanderers of the ocean find repose,
We wore, in social ease, the hours away,
The passing visit of a summer's day.
Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,
I lingered on the river's marge alone,
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,
And watched the last bright sunshine steal away.
As thus I mused amidst the various train
Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main,
Two sailors, - well I marked them, as the beam
Of parting day yet lingered on the stream,
And the sun sank behind the shady reach, - 
Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach.
The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;
Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight,
For ever. As I drew, more anxious, near,
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;
But neither said a word. He who was blind,
Stood as to feel the comfortable wind,
That gently lifted his gray hair - his face
Seemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace.
The other fixed his gaze upon the light,
Parting, and when the sun had vanished quite,
Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,
Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,
Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek!
And then, as meek and silent as before,
Back, hand in hand, they went, and left the shore.
As they departed through the unheeding crowd,
A caged bird sang from the casement loud,
And then I heard alone that blind man say,
The music of the bird is sweet to-day!
I said, O heavenly Father! none may know
The cause these have for silence or for woe!
Here they appeared heartstricken and resigned
Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.
There is a world, a pure unclouded clime,
Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time,
Nor loss of friends! Perhaps when yonder bell
Pealed slow, and bade the dying day farewell,
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to night,
They thought upon that world of distant light!
And when the blind man, lifting light his hair,
Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer;
Then sighed, as the blithe bird sang o'er his head,
No morn shall shine on me till I am dead!
Dark And Strange
by John Frederick Freeman

When first Love came, then was I but a boy
Swept with delirium of undreamt joy.
Now Love comes to a man serious with change
Of life and death--and makes the world dark and strange.
Abu Midjan
by Eugene Field

When Father Time swings round his scythe,
Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,
So that its juices, red and blithe,
May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.
"Elsewise with tears and bated breath
Should I survey the life to be.
But oh! How should I hail the death
That brings that--vinous grace to me!"
So sung the dauntless Saracen,
Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains
That, curst of Allah, loathed of men,
The faithless one shall die in chains.
But one vile Christian slave that lay
A prisoner near that prisoner saith:
"God willing, I will plant some day
A vine where liest thou in death."
Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave
With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows;
Where rots the martyred Christian slave
Allah, and only Allah, knows!
On The Religious Memory Of Mrs. Catherine Thomson, My Christian Friend, Deceased Dec. 16, 1646
by John Milton

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,
Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Love led them on; and Faith, who knew them best
Thy handmaids, clad them oer with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
And speak the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge; who henceforth bid thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
A Love-Song.
by Henry Austin Dobson

(XVIII. CENT.)
When first in CELIA'S ear I poured
A yet unpractised pray'r,
My trembling tongue sincere ignored
The aids of "sweet" and "fair."
I only said, as in me lay,
I'd strive her "worth" to reach;
She frowned, and turned her eyes away,--
So much for truth in speech.
Then DELIA came. I changed my plan;
I praised her to her face;
I praised her features,--praised her fan,
Her lap-dog and her lace;
I swore that not till Time were dead
My passion should decay;
She, smiling, gave her hand, and said
'Twill last then--for a DAY.
When First That Smile. (Venetian Air.)
by Thomas Moore

When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight,
Oh what a vision then came o'er me!
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,
Seemed in that smile to pass before me.
Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies,
Of golden fruit and harvests springing,
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,
And of the joy their light was bringing.
Where now are all those fondly-promised hours?
Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness--
Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers,
Or aught that's known for grace and lightness.
Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day,
Should be each vow of Love's repeating;
Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray--
Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!
Colonial Experience
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

[By A New Chum]
(Air: 'So Early in the Morning.')
When first I came to Sydney Cove
And up and down the streets did rove,
I thought such sights I ne'er did see
Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
Chorus
Oh! it's broiling in the morning,
It's toiling in the morning,
It's broiling in the morning,
It's toiling all day long.
Into the park I took a stroll'
I felt just like a buttered roll.
A pretty name 'The Sunny South!'
A better one 'The Land of Drouth!'
Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.
Next day into the bush I went,
On wild adventure I was bent,
Dame Nature's wonders I'd explore,
All thought of danger would ignore.
Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.
The mosquitoes and bull-dog ants
Assailed me even through my pants.
It nearly took my breath away
To hear the jackass laugh so gay!
Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.
This lovely country, I've been told,
Abounds in silver and in gold.
You may pick it up all day,
Just as leaves in autumn lay!
Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.
Marines will chance this yarn believe,
But bluejackets you can't deceive.
Such pretty stories will not fit,
Nor can I their truth admit.
Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.
Some say there's lots of work to do.
Well, yes, but then, 'twixt me and you,
A man may toil and broil all day'
The big, fat man gets all the pay,
Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.
Mayhap such good things there may be,
But you may have them all, for me,
Instead of roaming foreign parts
I wish I'd studied the Fine Arts!
Chorus: Oh! it's broiling, &c.
Prologue To "The Earl Of Essex; Or, The Unhappy Favourite;" By Mr J. Banks, 1682.
by John Dryden

SPOKEN TO THE KING AND QUEEN AT THEIR COMING TO THE HOUSE.
When first the ark was landed on the shore,
And Heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no more;
When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
And the new scene of earth began to draw;
The dove was sent to view the waves' decrease,
And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
'Tis needless to apply, when those appear,
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the royal dove,
Still innocent, as harbinger of love:
The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
Tell me, ye Powers! why should vain man pursue,
With endless toil, each object that is new,
And for the seeming substance leave the true?
Why should he quit for hopes his certain good,
And loathe the manna of his daily food?
Must England still the scene of changes be,
Tost and tempestuous, like our ambient sea?
Must still our weather and our wills agree?
Without our blood our liberties we have:
Who that is free would fight to be a slave?
Or, what can wars to after-times assure,
Of which our present age is not secure?
All that our monarch would for us ordain,
Is but to enjoy the blessings of his reign.
Our land's an Eden, and the main's our fence,
While we preserve our state of innocence:
That lost, then beasts their brutal force employ,
And first their lord, and then themselves destroy.
What civil broils have cost, we know too well;
Oh! let it be enough that once we fell!
And every heart conspire, and every tongue,
Still to have such a king, and this king long.