DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
King Henry VII And The Shipwrights
by Rudyard Kipling

Harry, our King in England, from London town is gone,
And comen to Hamull on the Hoke in the Countie of Suthampton.
For there lay the Mary of the Tower, his ship of war so strong,
And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights did him wrong.
He told not none of his setting forth, nor yet where he would go,
(But only my Lord of Arundel) and meanly did he show,
In an old jerkin and patched hose that no man might him mark.
With his frieze hood and cloak above, he looked like any clerk.
He was at Hamull on the Hoke about the hour of the tide,
And saw the Mary haled into dock, the winter to abide,
With all her tackle and habilaments which are the King his own;
But then ran on his false shipwrights and stripped her to the bone.
They heaved the main-mast overboard, that was of a trusty tree,
And they wrote down it was spent and lost by force of weather at sea.
But they sawen it into planks and strakes as far as it might go,
To maken beds for their own wives and little children also.
There was a knave called Slingawai, he crope beneath the deck,
Crying: 'Good felawes, come and see! The ship is nigh a wreck!
For the storm that took our tall main-mast, it blew so fierce and fell,
Alack! it hath taken the kettles and pans, and this brass pott as well!'
With that he set the pott on his head and hied him up the hatch,
While all the shipwrights ran below to find what they might snatch;
All except Bob Brygandyne and he was a yeoman good,
He caught Slingawai round the waist and threw him on to the mud.
'I have taken plank and rope and nail, without the King his leave,
After the custom of Portesmouth, but I will not suffer a thief.
Nay, never lift up thy hand at me, there's no clean hands in the trade.
Steal in measure,' quo' Brygandyne. 'There's measure in all things made!'
'Gramercy, yeoman!' said our King. 'Thy council liketh me.'
And he pulled a whistle out of his neck and whistled whistles three.
Then came my Lord of Arundel pricking across the down,
And behind him the Mayor and Burgesses of merry Suthampton town.
They drew the naughty shipwrights up, with the kettles in their hands,
And bound them round the forecastle to wait the King's commands.
But 'Sith ye have made your beds,' said the King, 'ye needs must lie thereon.
For the sake of your wives and little ones, felawes, get you gone!'
When they had beaten Slingawai, out of his own lips
Our King appointed Brygandyne to be Clerk of all his ships.
'Nay, never lift up thy hands to me, there's no clean hands in the trade.
But steal in measure,' said Harry our King. 'There's measure in all things made!'
God speed the Mary of the Tower, the Sovereign, and Grace Dieu,
The Sweepstakes and the Mary Fortune, and the Henry of Bristol too !
All tall ships that sail on the sea, or in our harbours stand,
That they may keep measure with Harry our King and peace in Engeland !
Hallowe'en
by Virna Sheard

There is an old Italian legend which says that on the eve of the beloved festival of All Saints (Hallowe'en) the souls of the dead return to earth for a little while and go by on the wind. The feast of All Saints is followed by the feast of the dead, when for a day only the sound of the Miserere is heard throughout the cities of Italy.
Hark! Hark to the wind! 'Tis the night, they say,
When all souls come back from the far away - 
The dead, forgotten this many a day!
And the dead remembered - ay! long and well - 
And the little children whose spirits dwell
In God's green garden of asphodel.
Have you reached the country of all content,
0 souls we know, since the day you went
From this time-worn world, where your years were spent?
Would you come back to the sun and the rain,
The sweetness, the strife, the thing we call pain,
And then unravel life's tangle again?
I lean to the dark - Hush! - was it a sigh?
Or the painted vine-leaves that rustled by?
Or only a night-bird's echoing cry?
The Victory.
by Robert Southey

Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony
Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
Met on the element,--they met, they fought
A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumphed! yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves!
For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause,
They have their passing paragraphs of praise
And are forgotten.
There was one who died
In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian's page will chronicle.
Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me after that this man
Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced
From his own home and wife and little ones,
Who by his labour lived; that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband's love, a father's anxiousness,
That from the wages of his toil he fed
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued, talk of them, of joys
That he had known--oh God! and of the hour
When they should meet again, till his full heart
His manly heart at last would overflow
Even like a child's with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,
For it came suddenly and shattered him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought
On those he loved so well.
He ocean deep
Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter
Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know
What a cold sickness made her blood run back
When first she heard the tidings of the fight;
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She listened to the names of those who died,
Man does not know, or knowing will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness
She gazed upon her children, and beheld
His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou
Her comforter who art the widow's friend!
The Passing Of The Queen
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Hark! The drums! Muffled drums!
The long low ruffle of the drums!--
And every head is bowed,
In the vast expectant crowd,
As the Great Queen comes,--
By the way she knew so well,
Where our cheers were wont to swell,
As we tried in vain to tell
Of our love unspeakable.
Now she comes
To the rolling of the drums,
And the slow sad tolling of the bell.
Let every head be bowed,
In the silent waiting crowd,
As the Great Queen comes,
To the slow sad ruffle of the drums!
Who is this that comes,
To the rolling of the drums,
In the sorrowful great silence of the peoples?
Take heart of grace,
She is not here!
The Great Queen is not here!
What most in her we did revere,--
The lofty spirit, white and clear,
The tender love that knew no fear,
The soul sincere,--
These come not here,
To the rolling of the drums,
In the silence and the sorrow of the peoples.
Death has but little part
In her. Love cannot die.
Who reigns in every heart
Hath immortality.
So, though our heads are bent,
Our hearts are jubilant,
As she comes,--
As a conqueror she comes--
With the rolling of the drums,
To the stateliest of her homes,
In the hearts of her true and faithful peoples.
For the Great Queen lives for ever
In the hearts of those who love her.
January, 1901.
Christmas Hymn. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

Hark! angel voices from the sky
Proclaim a Saviour's birth;
Glory, they sing, to God on high,
Peace and goodwill on earth!
Catch the glad strain, ye seraphs bright!
The glorious tidings spread;
Wake, wake to wonder and to light,
The dark sleep of the dead!
Let the wide earth, from shore to shore,
One loud hosannah raise,
Glory to God, whom we adore,
Glory and hymns of praise!
The Fire Brigade
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Hark! high o'er the rattle and clamour and clatter
Of traffic-filled streets, do you hear that loud noise?
And pushing and rushing to see what's the matter,
Like herds of wild cattle, go pell-mell the boys.
There's a fire in the city! the engines are coming!
The bold bells are clanging, "Make way in the street!"
The wheels of the hose-cart are spinning and humming
In time to the music of galloping feet.
Make way there! make way there! the horses are flying,
The sparks from their swift hoofs shoot higher and higher,
The crowds are increasing - the gamins are crying:
"Hooray, boys!"    "Hooray, boys!"    "Come on to the fire!"
With clanging and banging and clatter and rattle
The long ladders follow the engine and hose.
The men are all ready to dash into battle;
But will they come out again?    God only knows.
At windows and doorways crowd questioning faces;
There's something about it that quickens one's breath.
How proudly the brave fellows sit in their places - 
And speed to the conflict that may be their death!
Still faster and faster and faster and faster
The grand horses thunder and leap on their way
The red foe is yonder, and may prove the master;
Turn out there, bold traffic - turn out there, I say!
For once the loud truckman knows oaths will not matter
And reins in his horses and yields to his fate.
The engines are coming! let pleasure-crowds scatter,
Let street car and truckman and mail waggon wait.
They speed like a comet - they pass in a minute;
The boys follow on like a tail to a kite;
The commonplace street has but traffic now in it - 
The great fire engines have swept out of sight.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XLVI - Afflictions Of England
by William Wordsworth

Harp! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string,
The faintest note to echo which the blast
Caught from the hand of Moses as it passed
O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd-king,
Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing
Of dread Jehovah; then, should wood and waste
Hear also of that name, and mercy cast
Off to the mountains, like a covering
Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, oh! weep,
Weep with the good, beholding King and Priest
Despised by that stern God to whom they raise
Their suppliant hands; but holy is the feast
He keepeth; like the firmament his ways:
His statutes like the chambers of the deep.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXI. Relics.
by Unknown

Hark, hark,
The dogs do bark,
Beggars are coming to town;
Some in jags,
Some in rags,
And some in velvet gowns.
Lovest Thou Me? - John xxi.16.
by William Cowper

Hark, my soul! it is the Lord:
'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word;
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee:
'Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?
'I deliver'd thee when bound,
And when bleeding, heal'd thy wound;
Sought thee wandering, set thee right,
Turn'd thy darkness into light.
'Can a woman's tender care
Cease towards the child she bare?
Yes, she may forgetful be,
Yet will I remember thee.
'Mine is an unchanging love,
Higher than the heights above;
Deeper than the depths beneath,
Free and faithful, strong as death.
'Thou shalt see my glory soon,
When the work of grace is done;
Partner of my throne shalt be: -
Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?'
Lord, it is my chief complaint,
That my love is weak and faint;
Yet I love thee and adore:
Oh for grace to love thee more!
Spanish Chorus.
by Thomas Moore

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air;
And seems in every note to swear
By Saragossa's ruined streets,
By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.
Hope The Hornblower
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

"Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!
Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
The sun's on meadow and mill.
Follow me, hearts that love the chase;
Follow me, feet that keep the pace:
Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill."
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?
What is the quarry afoot to-day?
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away,
And what the game ye kill?
Is it the deer, that men may dine?
Is it the wolf that tears the kine?
What is the race ye ride, ye ride,
Ye ride by moor and hill?
"Ask not yet till the day be dead
What is the game that's forward fled,
Ask not yet till the day be dead
The game we follow still.
An echo it may be, floating past;
A shadow it may be, fading fast:
Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill"
Down The River
by Barcroft Boake

Hark, the sound of it drawing nearer,
Clink of hobble and brazen bell;
Mark the passage of stalwart shearer,
Bidding Monaro soil farewell.
Where is he making for? Down the river,
Down the river with eager tread;
Where is he making for? Down the river,
Down the river to seek a 'shed'.
Where is his dwelling on old Monaro?
Buckley's Crossing, or Jindaboine?
Dry Plain is it, or sweet Bolaira?
P'raps 'tis near where the rivers join
Where is he making for? Down the river.
When, oh when, will he turn him back?
Soft sighs follow him down the river,
Moist eyes gaze at his fading track.
See, behind him his pack-horse, ambling,
Bears the weight of his master's kit,
Oft and oft from the pathway rambling,
Crops unhampered by cruel bit.
Where is he making for? Equine rover,
Sturdy nag from the Eucumbene,
Tempted down by the thought of clover,
Springing luscious in Riverine.
Dreams of life and its future chances,
Snatch of song to beguile the way;
Through green crannies the sunlight glances,
Silver-gilding the bright 'Jack Shay'.
'So long, mate, I can stay no longer,
So long, mate, I've no time to stop,
Pens are waiting me at Mahonga,
Bluegong, Grubben and Pullitop.
'What! you say that the river's risen?
What! that the melted snow has come?
What! that it locks and bars our prison?
Many's the mountain stream I've swum.
I must onward and cross the river,
So long, mate, for I cannot stay;
I must onward and cross the river,
Over the river there lies my way.'
One man short when the roll they're calling;
One man short at old Bobby Rand's;
Heads are drooping and tears are falling
Up on Monaro's mountain lands.
Where is he making for? Down the river,
Down the river of slimy bed;
Where is he making for? Down the river,
Down the river that bears him, dead
Group From Tartarus.
by Friedrich Schiller

Hark! like the sea in wrath the heavens assailing,
Or like a brook through rocky basin wailing,
Comes from below, in groaning agony,
A heavy, vacant torment-breathing sigh!
Their faces marks of bitter torture wear,
While from their lips burst curses of despair;
Their eyes are hollow, and full of woe,
And their looks with heartfelt anguish
Seek Cocytus' stream that runs wailing below,
For the bridge o'er its waters they languish.
And they say to each other in accents of fear,
"Oh, when will the time of fulfilment appear?"
High over them boundless eternity quivers,
And the scythe of Saturnus all-ruthlessly, shivers!
Night In New York
by George Parsons Lathrop

Haunted by unknown feet - 
Ways of the midnight hour!
Strangely you murmur below me,
Strange is your half-silent power.
Places of life and of death,
Numbered and named as streets,
What, through your channels of stone,
Is the tide that unweariedly beats?
A whisper, a sigh-laden breath,
Is all that I hear of its flowing.
Footsteps of stranger and foe - 
Footsteps of friends, could we meet - 
Alike to me in my sorrow;
Alike to a life left alone.
Yet swift as my heart they throb,
They fall thick as tears on the stone:
My spirit perchance may borrow
New strength from their eager tone.
Still ever that slip and slide
Of the feet that shuffle or glide,
And linger or haste through the populous waste
Of the shadowy, dim-lit square!
And I know not, from the sound,
As I sit and ponder within,
The goal to which those steps are bound, - 
On hest of mercy, or hest of sin,
Or joy's short-measured round;
Yet a meaning deep they bear
In their vaguely muffled din.
Roar of the multitude,
Chafe of the million-crowd,
To this you are all subdued
In the murmurous, sad night-air!
Yet whether you thunder aloud,
Or hush your tone to a prayer,
You chant amain through the modern maze
The only epic of our days.
Still as death are the places of life;
The city seems crumbled and gone,
Sunk 'mid invisible deeps - 
The    city so lately rife
With the stir of brain and brawn.
Haply it only sleeps;
But what if indeed it were dead,
And another earth should arise
To greet the gray of the dawn?
Faint then our epic would wail
To those who should come in our stead.
But what if that earth were ours?
What if, with holier eyes,
We should meet the new hope, and not fail?
Weary, the night grows pale:
With a blush as of opening flowers
Dimly the east shines red.
Can it be that the morn shall fulfil
My dream, and refashion our clay
As the poet may fashion his rhyme?
Hark to that mingled scream
Rising from workshop and mill - 
Hailing some marvelous sight;
Mighty breath of the hours,
Poured through the trumpets of steam;
Awful tornado of time,
Blowing us whither it will!
God has breathed in the nostrils of night,
And behold, it is day!
Fishing.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

"Harry, where have you been all morning?"
"Down at the pool in the meadow-brook."
"Fishing?" "Yes, but the trout were wary,
Couldn't induce them to take a hook."
"Why, look at your coat! You must have fallen,
Your back's just covered with leaves and moss."
How he laughs! Good-natured fellow!
Fisherman's luck makes most men cross.
"Nellie, the Wrights have called. Where were you?"
"Under the tree, by the meadow-brook
Reading, and oh, it was too lovely;
I never saw such a charming book."
The charming book must have pleased her, truly,
There's a happy light in her bright young eyes
And she hugs the cat with unusual fervor,
To staid old Tabby's intense surprise.
Reading? yes, but not from a novel.
Fishing! truly, but not with a rod.
The line is idle, the book neglected 
The water-grasses whisper and nod.
The fisherman bold and the earnest reader
Sit talking of what? Perhaps the weather.
Perhaps no matter whate'er the subject,
It brings them remarkably close together.
It causes his words to be softly spoken,
With many a lingering pause between,
The while the sunbeams chase the shadows
Over the mosses, gray and green.
Blushes are needful for its discussion,
And soft, shy glances from downcast eyes,
In whose blue depths are lying hidden
Loving gladness, and sweet surprise.
Trinity Chapel is gay this evening,
Filled with beauty, and flowers, and light,
A captive fisherman stands at the altar,
With Nellie beside him all in white.
The ring is on, the vows are spoken,
And smiling friends, good fortune wishing,
Tell him his is the fairest prize
Ever brought from a morning's fishing.
The Bandog
by Walter De La Mare

Has anybody seen my Mopser? - 
A comely dog is he,
With hair of the colour of a Charles the Fifth,
And teeth like ships at sea,
His tail it curls straight upwards,
His ears stand two abreast,
And he answers to the simple name of Mopser
When civilly addressed.
The Road That Has No End
by Joseph Burrows

Hast ever tramped along the road
That has no end?
The far brown winding road, your one
Fast friend
A tattered weather-beaten swag,
A silent mate
To send
His dumb warm comfort to the heart,
A fount where dreams ascend.
There's wondrous freedom on the road
That has no end;
A man's heart glows, his spirit leaps
To blend
Its joy of life with fierce wind's gust
Upon his face:
To lend
Its cry to Nature's tumult, full
And shrill, as twilight shades descend.
The flowers bloom along the road
That has no end
Cool breezes blow, the gum trees sway
And bend;
The wild doves woo, and softly coo
Their soothing notes,
And mend
Heart's throbbing pain to sweet content,
And peace lights on the mind's sad trend
There's pain and toil along the road
That has no end;
A sinking heart, and weary feet
That spend
Their strength, and lag and crave respite;
And dim tired eyes
That tend
To close their heavy lids upon
The stinging dusts that upward wend.
There are sweet still hours along the road
That has no end
'Neath twinkling stars when night's deep shades
O'erpend;
A man's eyes shine with gathered tears,
And memories come
To rend
His straining heart strings, while above
The paling lights his mood commend.
I love the road, the swagman's road
That has no end;
I love its joys, that pains and toils
Transcend;
It is my dreams, the life that fills my heart
And when death comes and would
My peacefulness
Amend,
I pray that God may let my soul depart
With my tattered swag beside me,
'Mid my friends that never chide me,
And my face towards the distant clouded hill,
Where leads the far brown winding road
That has no end.
Gazel.
by Thomas Moore

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh;
Already, in the unopened flowers
That sleep around us, Fancy's eye
Can see the blush of future bowers;
And joy it brings to thee and me,
My own beloved Maami!
The streamlet frozen on its way,
To feed the marble Founts of Kings,
Now, loosened by the vernal ray,
Upon its path exulting springs--
As doth this bounding heart to thee,
My ever blissful Maami!
Such bright hours were not made to stay;
Enough if they awhile remain,
Like Irem's bowers, that fade away.
From time to time, and come again.
And life shall all one Irem be
For us, my gentle Maami.
O haste, for this impatient heart,
Is like the rose in Yemen's vale,
That rends its inmost leaves apart
With passion for the nightingale;
So languishes this soul for thee,
My bright and blushing Maami!
To Father* Kronos.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Hasten thee, Kronos!
On with clattering trot
Downhill goeth thy path;
Loathsome dizziness ever,
When thou delayest, assails me.
Quick, rattle along,
Over stock and stone let thy trot
Into life straightway lead
Now once more
Up the toilsome ascent
Hasten, panting for breath!
Up, then, nor idle be, 
Striving and hoping, up, up!
Wide, high, glorious the view
Gazing round upon life,
While from mount unto mount
Hovers the spirit eterne,
Life eternal foreboding.
Sideways a roof's pleasant shade
Attracts thee,
And a look that promises coolness
On the maidenly threshold.
There refresh thee! And, maiden,
Give me this foaming draught also,
Give me this health-laden look!
Down, now! quicker still, down!
See where the sun sets
Ere he sets, ere old age
Seizeth me in the morass,
Ere my toothless jaws mumble,
And my useless limbs totter;
While drunk with his farewell beam
Hurl me, a fiery sea
Foaming still in mine eye, 
Hurl me, while dazzled and reeling,
Down to the gloomy portal of hell.
Blow, then, gossip, thy horn,
Speed on with echoing trot,
So that Orcus may know we are coming;
So that our host may with joy
Wait at the door to receive us.
Astrophel and Stella - Second Song.
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Haue I caught my heau'nly iewell,
Teaching Sleepe most faire to be!
Now will I teach her that she,
When she wakes, is too-too cruell.
Since sweet Sleep her eyes hath charmed,
The two only darts of Loue,
Now will I, with that Boy, proue,
Some play, while he is disamed.
Her tongue, waking, still refuseth,
Giuing frankly niggard no:
Now will I attempt to know
What no her tongue, sleeping, vseth.
See the hand that, waking, gardeth,
Sleeping, grants a free resort:
Now I will inuade the fort,
Cowards Loue with losse rewardeth.
But, O foole, thinke of the danger
Of her iust and high disdaine;
Now will I, alas, refraine;
Loue feares nothing else but anger.
Yet those lips, so sweetly swelling,
Do inuite a stealing kisse.
Now will I but venture this;
Who will reade, must first learne spelling.
Oh, sweet kisse! but ah, shes waking!
Lowring beautie chastens me:
Now will I for feare hence flee;
Foole, more Foole for no more taking.