DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Norman Boy
by William Wordsworth

High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down,
Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own,
From home and company remote and every playful joy,
Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman Boy.
Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from an English Dame,
Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came,
With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child
Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the dreary Wild.
His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics sprinkled o'er
Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more,
Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed,
And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed.
There 'was' he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed,
For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made.
A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be
A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he.
The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught
That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought
Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice,
To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice.
That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best
For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest
In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide,
The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide.
That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true
And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue
Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste
Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed.
Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let 'us' before we part
With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart,
That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's appointed way,
The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all-sufficing stay.
Hide not thy Face.
by John Hartley

Hide not Thy face, - and though the road
Be dark and long and rough,
With cheerfulness I'll bear my load,
Thy smile will be enough.
All other helps I can forego,
If with Faith's eye I trace,
Through earthly clouds of grief and woe,
The presence of Thy face.
Hide not Thy face; - weak, worn and
Oppressed with doubt and fear;
Still will I utter no complaint, - 
Content if Thou art near.
Thy loving hand my steps shall guide,
And set my doubts at rest;
In loving trust, whate'er betide,
For Thou, Lord, knowest best.
Hide not Thy face; - the tempter's wiles
Around my feet are spread;
The world's applause,-the wanton's smiles,
Beset the path I tread.
Alone, too weak to fight the host
Of Pleasure's vicious train,
'Tis then I need Thy succour most; - 
Let me not seek in vain.
Hide not Thy face, but day by day,
Shine out more clearly bright;
Until this narrow, thorny way,
Shall end in Death's dark night.
Then freed from all the taints of sin,
Through Thine abundant Grace;
The crown of righteousness I win,
And see Thee face to face.
Translations. - Die Nordsee (From Heine.)
by George MacDonald

PEACE.
[Footnote: I have here used rimes although the original has none. With notions of translating severer now than when, many years ago, I attempted this poem, I should not now take such a liberty. In a few other points also the translation is not quite close enough to please me; but it must stand.]
High in heaven the sun was glowing,
White cloud-waves were round him flowing;
The sea was still and grey.
Thinking in dreams, by the helm I lay:
Half waking, half in slumber, then
Saw I Christ, the Saviour of men.
In undulating garments white
He walked in giant shape and height
Over land and sea.
High in the heaven up towered his head;
His hands in blessing forth he spread
Over land and sea.
And for a heart, in his breast
He bore the sun; there did it rest.
The red, flaming heart of the Lord
Out its gracious radiance poured,
Its fair and love-caressing light
With illuminating and warming might
Over land and sea.
Sounds of solemn bells that go
Through the air to and fro,
Drew, like swans in rosy traces,
With soft, solemn, stately graces,
The gliding ship to the green shore--
Peopled, for many a century hoar,
By men who dwell at rest in a mighty
Far-spreading and high-towered city.
Oh, wonder of peace, how still was the town!
The hollow tumult had all gone down
Of the babbling and stifling trades;
And through each clean and echoing street
Walked men and women, and youths and maids,
White clothes wearing,
Palm branches bearing;
And ever and always when two did meet,
They gazed with eyes that plain did tell
They understood each other well;
And trembling, in self-renouncement and love,
Each a kiss on the other's forehead laid,
And looked up to the Saviour's sunheart above,
Which, in joyful atoning, its red blood rayed
Down upon all; and the people said,
From hearts with threefold gladness blest,
Lauded be Jesus Christ!
Bonnie George Campbell
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is from Motherwell's Minstrelsy, pp. 44-5.
The Story.--Motherwell says it 'is probably a lament for one of the adherents of the house of Argyle, who fell in the battle of Glenlivat, stricken on Thursday, the third day of October, 1594 years.' Another suggestion is that it refers to a Campbell of Calder killed in a feud with Campbell of Ardkinglas, the murder being the result of the same conspiracy which brought the Bonny Earl of Murray to his death. Another version of the ballad, however, gives the name as James, and it is useless and unnecessary to particularise.
BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL
1.
Hie upon Hielands
And low upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell
Rade out on a day.
Saddled and bridled
And gallant rade he;
Hame came his gude horse,
But never cam he!
2.
Out cam his auld mither
Greeting fu' sair,
And out cam his bonnie bride
Rivin' her hair.
Saddled and bridled
And booted rade he;
Toom hame cam the saddle,
But never cam he!
3.
'My meadow lies green,
And my corn is unshorn;
My barn is to big,
And my babie's unborn.'
Saddled and bridled
And booted rade he;
Toom hame cam the saddle,
But never cam he!
Nursery Rhyme. DCL. Relics.
by Unknown

High diddle doubt, my candle out,
My little maid is not at home:
Saddle my hog, and bridle my dog,
And fetch my little maid home.
Dickory Dock
by Walter Crane

Hickory, dickory dock!
The mouse ran up the clock;
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down,
Hickory, dickory dock!
Sonnet VI
by Robert Southey

High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung
To all the birds of Heaven, their living food!
He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce Sun
New torturers live to drink their parent blood!
He groans not, tho' the gorging Vulture tear
The quivering fibre! hither gaze O ye
Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty!
Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous care
The right and prudent; for beyond the grave
There is another world! and call to mind,
Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind
Murder is legalized, that there the Slave
Before the Eternal, "thunder-tongued shall plead
"Against the deep damnation of your deed."
Warning.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning,
Albeit the sun shone bright;
Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning,
"Remember Night!"
A Ballad Of Sark
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

High beyond the granite portal arched across
Like the gateway of some godlike giant's hold
Sweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and moss
East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold
Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold
Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark
Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark
Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree.
None would dream that grief even here may disembark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal boss
Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.
None would dream that all this moorland's glow and gloss
Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold
Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold
Now no sun relume from hope's belated spark
Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark
Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee,
While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss
On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.
Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss
Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold
Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould,
Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk,
Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark,
Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie,
Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark,
Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark,
Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.
Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark,
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Sonnet CXXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Non fur mai Giove e Cesare s' mossi.
LAURA IN TEARS.
High Jove to thunder ne'er was so intent,
So resolute great C'sar ne'er to strike,
That pity had not quench'd the ire of both,
And from their hands the accustom'd weapons shook.
Madonna wept: my Lord decreed that I
Should see her then, and there her sorrows hear;
So joy, desire should fill me to the brim,
Thrilling my very marrow and my bones.
Love show'd to me, nay, sculptured on my heart,
That sweet and sparkling tear, and those soft words
Wrote with a diamond on its inmost core,
Where with his constant and ingenious keys
He still returneth often, to draw thence
True tears of mine and long and heavy sighs.
MACGREGOR.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - To Poland.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Sopra i regni.
High o'er those realms that make blind chance the heir
Of empire, Poland, dost thou lift thy head:
For while thou mournest for thy monarch dead,
Thou wilt not let his son the sceptre bear,
Lest he prove weak perchance to do or dare.
Yet art thou even more by luck misled,
Choosing a prince of fortune, courtly-bred,
Uncertain whether he will spend or spare.
Oh, quit this pride! In hut or shepherd's pen
Seek Cato, Minos, Numa! For of such
God still makes kings in plenty: and these men
Will squander little substance and gain much,
Knowing that virtue and not blood shall be
Their titles to true immortality.
Beauty
by Madison Julius Cawein

High as a star, yet lowly as a flower,
Unknown she takes her unassuming place
At Earth's proud masquerade the appointed hour
Strikes, and, behold! the marvel of her face.
Nursery Rhyme. CCL. Charms.
by Unknown

Hickup, hickup, go away!
Come again another day;
Hickup, hickup, when I bake,
I'll give to you a butter-cake.
Riouperoux
by James Elroy Flecker

High and solemn mountains guard Riouperoux,
Small untidy village where the river drives a mill:
Frail as wood anemones, white and frail were you,
And drooping a little, like the slender daffodil.
Oh I will go to France again, and tramp the valley through,
And I will change these gentle clothes for clog and corduroy,
And work with the mill-hands of black Riouperoux,
And walk with you, and talk with you, like any other boy.
On Carthy'S Translation Of Longinus (Epigram Against Carthy)
by Jonathan Swift

High as Longinus to the stars ascends,
So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.
RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA
Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras,
Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.
ON THE SAME (Epigram Against Carthy)
What Midas touch'd became true gold, but then,
Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen.
The Rape Of The Mist
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

High o'er the clouds a Sunbeam shone,
And far down under him,
With a subtle grace that was all her own,
The Mist gleamed, fair and dim.
He looked at her with his burning eyes
And longed to fall at her feet;
Of all sweet things there under the skies,
He thought her the thing most sweet.
He had wooed oft, as a Sunbeam may,
Wave, and blossom, and flower;
But never before had he felt the sway
Of a great love's mighty power.
Tall cloud-mountains and vast space-seas,
Wind, and tempest, and fire - 
What are obstacles such as these
To a heart that is filled with desire?
Boldly he trod over cloud and star,
Boldly he swam through space,
She caught the glow of his eyes afar
And veiled her delicate face.
He was so strong and he was so bright,
And his breath was a breath of flame;
The Mist grew pale with a vague, strange fright,
As fond, yet fierce, he came.
Close to his heart she was clasped and kissed;
She swooned in love's alarms,
And dead lay the beautiful pale-faced Mist
In the Sunbeam's passionate arms.
A Prophecy - February 1807
by William Wordsworth

High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!
Thus in your books the record shall be found,
"A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound 
ARMINIUS! all the people quaked like dew
Stirred by the breeze; they rose, a Nation, true,
True to herself the mighty Germany,
She of the Danube and the Northern Sea,
She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw.
All power was given her in the dreadful trance;
Those new-born Kings she withered like a flame."
Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame
To that Bavarian who could first advance
His banner in accursed league with France,
First open traitor to the German name!
Nursery Rhyme. CCLI. Charms.
by Unknown

Hickup, snicup,
Rise up, right up!
Three drops in the cup
Are good for the hiccup.
Nursery Rhyme. CCV. Riddles.
by Unknown

[Currants.]
Higgledy piggledy
Here we lie,
Pick'd and pluck'd,
And put in a pie.
My first is snapping, snarling, growling,
My second's industrious, romping, and prowling.
Higgledy piggledy
Here we lie,
Pick'd and pluck'd,
And put in a pie.
The Crusader's Return
by Walter Scott (Sir)

1.
High deeds achieved of knightly fame,
From Palestine the champion came;
The cross upon his shoulders borne,
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
Each dint upon his batter'd shield
Was token of a foughten field;
And thus, beneath his lady's bower,
He sung as fell the twilight hour:
2.
'Joy to the fair! thy knight behold,
Return'd from yonder land of gold;
No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,
Save his good arms and battle-steed
His spurs, to dash against a foe,
His lance and sword to lay him low;
Such all the trophies of his toil,
Such, and the hope of Tekla's smile!
3.
'Joy to the fair! whose constant knight
Her favour fired to feats of might;
Unnoted shall she not remain,
Where meet the bright and noble train;
Minstrel shall sing and herald tell,
'Mark yonder maid of beauty well,
'Tis she for whose bright eyes were won
The listed field at Askalon!
4.
''Note well her smile! it edged the blade
Which fifty wives to widows made,
When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,
Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.
Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?
Twines not of them one golden thread,
But for its sake a Paynim bled.'
5.
'Joy to the fair! my name unknown,
Each deed, and all its praise thine own
Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,
The night dew falls, the hour is late.
Inured to Syria's glowing breath,
I feel the north breeze chill as death;
Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.'
Reincarnation.
by Madison Julius Cawein

High in the place of outraged liberty,
He ruled the world, an emperor and god
His iron armies swept the land and sea,
And conquered nations trembled at his nod.
By him the love that fills man's soul with light,
And makes a Heaven of Earth, was crucified;
Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God's despite,
And old in infamies, a king he died.
Justice begins now. Many centuries
In some vile body must his soul atone
As slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease,
Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXIX. Natural History.
by Unknown

Higglepy Piggleby,
My black hen,
She lays eggs
For gentlemen;
Sometimes nine,
And sometimes ten,
Higglepy Piggleby,
My black hen!
Sonnet CLXXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

In nobil sangue vita umile e queta.
SHE UNITES IN HERSELF THE HIGHEST EXCELLENCES OF VIRTUE AND BEAUTY.
High birth in humble life, reserved yet kind,
On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare,
A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind,
A happy spirit in a pensive air;
Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrined
All gifts and graces in this lady fair,
True honour, purest praises, worth refined,
Above what rapt dreams of best poets are.
Virtue and Love so rich in her unite,
With natural beauty dignified address,
Gestures that still a silent grace express,
And in her eyes I know not what strange light,
That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear,
Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear.
MACGREGOR.
Though nobly born, so humbly calm she dwells,
So bright her intellect--so pure her mind--
The blossom and its bloom in her we find;
With pensive look, her heart with mirth rebels:
Thus by her planets' union she excels,
(Nay--His, the stars' proud sov'reign, who enshrined
There honour, worth, and fortitude combined!)
Which to the bard inspired, his hope dispels.
Love blooms in her, but 'tis his home most pure;
Her daily virtues blend with native grace;
Her noiseless movements speak, though she is mute:
Such power her eyes, they can the day obscure,
Illume the night,--the honey's sweetness chase,
And wake its stream, where gall doth oft pollute.
WOLLASTON.
Nursery Rhyme. XX. Historical
by Unknown

High ding a ding, and ho ding a ding,
The parliament soldiers are gone to the king;
Some with new beavers, some with new bands,
The parliament soldiers are all to be hang'd.
When Pierrot Passes
by Theodosia Garrison

High above his happy head
Little leaves of Spring were spread;
And adown the dewy lawn
Soft as moss the young green grass
Wooed his footsteps, and the dawn
Paused to watch him pass.
Even so he seemed in truth
Dancing between Love and Youth;
And his song as gay a thing
Still before him seemed to go
Light as any bird awing,
Blithe as jonquils in the Spring,
And we laughed and said, "Pierrot,
'Tis Pierrot."
"Oh," he sang, "Her hands are far
Sweeter than white roses are;
When I hold them to my lips,
Ere I dare a finer bliss,
Petal-like her finger-tips
Tremble 'neath my kiss.
And the mocking of her eyes
Lures me like blue butterflies
Falling--lifting--of their grace,
And her mouth--her mouth is wine."
And we laughed as though her face
Suddenly illumed the place,
And we said, "'Tis Columbine,
Columbine."
The Portrait Of A Warrior
by Walter De La Mare

His brow is seamed with line and scar;
His cheek is red and dark as wine;
The fires as of a Northern star
Beneath his cap of sable shine.
His right hand, bared of leathern glove,
Hangs open like an iron gin,
You stoop to see his pulses move,
To hear the blood sweep out and in.
He looks some king, so solitary
In earnest thought he seems to stand,
As if across a lonely sea
He gazed impatient of the land.
Out of the noisy centuries
The foolish and the fearful fade;
Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,
Time hath not dimmed nor death dismayed.
A Song.
by John Dryden

High state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart:
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
My soul does inspire;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
Your love let me crave;
Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing;
That empire is all I would have.
Love's my petition,
All my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a lover,
So real a flame,
I'll die, I'll die,
So give up my game.
Rutland Gate
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

His back is bent and his lips are blue,
Shivering out in the wet:
"Here's a florin, my man, for you,
Go and get drunk and forget!"
Right in the midst of a Christian land,
Rotted with wealth and ease,
Broken and draggled they let him stand
Till his feet on the pavement freeze.
God leaves His poor in His vicars' care,
For He hears the church-bells ring,
His ears are buzzing with constant prayer
And the hymns His people sing.
Can His pity picture the anguish here,
Can He see, through a London fog,
The man who has worked "nigh seventy year"
To die the death of a dog?
No one heeds him, the crowds pass on.
Why does he want to live?
"Take this florin, and get you gone,
Go and get drunk, - and forgive!"
Robert Parkes
by Henry Kendall

High travelling winds by royal hill
Their awful anthem sing,
And songs exalted flow and fill
The caverns of the spring.
To-night across a wild wet plain
A shadow sobs and strays;
The trees are whispering in the rain
Of long departed days.
I cannot say what forest saith
Its words are strange to me:
I only know that in its breath
Are tones that used to be.
Yea, in these deep dim solitudes
I hear a sound I know
The voice that lived in Penrith woods
Twelve weary years ago.
And while the hymn of other years
Is on a listening land,
The Angel of the Past appears
And leads me by the hand;
And takes me over moaning wave,
And tracts of sleepless change,
To set me by a lonely grave
Within a lonely range.
The halo of the beautiful
Is round the quiet spot;
The grass is deep and green and cool,
Where sound of life is not.
Here in this lovely lap of bloom,
The grace of glen and glade,
That tender days and nights illume,
My gentle friend was laid.
I do not mark the shell that lies
Beneath the touching flowers;
I only see the radiant eyes
Of other scenes and hours.
I only turn, by grief inspired,
Like some forsaken thing,
To look upon a life retired
As hushed Bethesda's spring.
The glory of unblemished days
Is on the silent mound
The light of years, too pure for praise;
I kneel on holy ground!
Here is the clay of one whose mind
Was fairer than the dew,
The sweetest nature of his kind
I haply ever knew.
This Christian, walking on the white
Clear paths apart from strife,
Kept far from all the heat and light
That fills his father's life.
The clamour and exceeding flame
Were never in his days:
A higher object was his aim
Than thrones of shine and praise.
Ah! like an English April psalm,
That floats by sea and strand,
He passed away into the calm
Of the Eternal Land.
The chair he filled is set aside
Upon his father's floor;
In morning hours, at eventide,
His step is heard no more.
No more his face the forest knows;
His voice is of the past;
But from his life of beauty flows
A radiance that will last.
Yea, from the hours that heard his speech
High shining mem'ries give
That fine example which will teach
Our children how to live.
Here, kneeling in the body, far
From grave of flower and dew,
My friend beyond the path of star,
I say these words to you.
Though you were as a fleeting flame
Across my road austere,
The memory of your face became
A thing for ever dear.
I never have forgotten yet
The Christian's gentle touch;
And, since the time when last we met,
You know I've suffered much.
I feel that I have given pain
By certain words and deeds,
But stricken here with Sorrow's rain,
My contrite spirit bleeds.
For your sole sake I rue the blow,
But this assurance send:
I smote, in noon, the public foe,
But not the private friend.
I know that once I wronged your sire,
But since that awful day
My soul has passed through blood and fire,
My head is very grey.
Here let me pause! From years like yours
There ever flows and thrives
The splendid blessing which endures
Beyond our little lives.
From lonely lands across the wave
Is sent to-night by me
This rose of reverence for the grave
Beside the mountain lea.