DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Lochinvar
by Walter Scott (Sir)

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Glenara
by Thomas Campbell

O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence, they looked on the ground.
In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made.
But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed.
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud."
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn,
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.
Song: From Cynthia's Revels
by Ben Jonson

O, that joy so soon should waste!
Or so sweet a bliss
As a kiss
Might not for ever last!
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
The dew that lies on roses,
When the Morn herself discloses,
Is not so precious.
O, rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another,
It should be my wishing
That I might die kissing.
Despondency.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

O, gloomy world that rolls in weary space,
And moans wild music to the broken spheres,
Whose rivers wander into seas of tears,
Despair has bound thee in a close embrace;
A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!
Death grows beside existence, and with time
Is comrade of its changes; cycles roll
Their heavy circles through the human soul,
And pour their dirges into mournful rhyme;
A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!
He gropes in shadows for a happy beam
That shall delight his bosom; into mist
Dissolves the substance that ambition kissed,
While greatness grows the garland of a dream;
A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!
Endeavor struggles to an open grave;
The past is lost in monumental dust,
Where age on age in angry ire has thrust
The wise, the strong, the mighty, and the brave;
A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!
The years are shades that totter from their tombs,
The ages, ghosts that live in catacombs
And lure the Present to their awful homes,
Where ancient races wander in the glooms;
A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!
Oblivion welcomes men with gentle arms,
And presses them like infants to her breast,
Repeats to them her lullabies of rest,
And guards them from all sorrows and alarms;
A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!
Then hasten, world, and let my battle cease;
I care not where I stay nor when I go;
For action gives unhappiness and woe,
But Lethe brings forgetfulness and peace;
A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!
Where?
by George W. Doneghy

I.
O, where are the friends that in youth we once knew,
Whose smiles were like sunshine, whose hearts were so true?
Alas! they are lost in the darkness and gloom
That veils them from sight in the cold, silent tomb!
II.
O, where are the years that forever have fled,
And over Life's morning their radiance shed?
With the Past written down on the unending scroll
Where Time--grim destroyer--his victims enroll!
III.
O, where are the fancies, the visions, the dreams,
That filled the young breast--with which memory teems?
They have faded away--from life they have passed--
Like stars blotted out when the sky's overcast!
IV.
O, where are the hopes that have beckoned us on
With their beacons of light, through sunshine and storm?
Like spectres--like phantoms--like vapor and mist,
They have vanished forever--a will-o'-the-wisp!
V.
O, where are the harbors, the havens of rest,
That solace can give to a heart that's opprest?
They are hid from the vision beyond the blue sky,
Yet the eye of sweet Faith their portals descry!
Odes From Horace. - To Lydia. Book The First, Ode The Eighth.
by Anna Seward

O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell
Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ
The strongest power of amorous spell
On Sybaris, belov'd too well,
Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?
Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare,
Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat?
Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear
In which he us'd, with graceful air,
Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet?
Why is it now no more his pride
To rein the ardent horse with agile arm?
With new-strung sinews to divide
The yellow Tyber's angry tide,
When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?
Why hates he, as the viper's gore,
The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein?
Why do we see his arms no more
With livid bruises spotted o'er,
Of manly sports the honorable stain?
'T was his to whirl, with matchless skill,
The glancing quoit, the certain javelin throw,
While Crowds, with acclamations shrill,
The lofty Circus joy'd to fill,
And all the honors of the Day bestow.
Such fond seclusion why desire? - 
Thus Thetis' care her blooming Son conceal'd,
Ere yet commenc'd that Contest dire,
When mournful gleam'd the funeral pyre,
Thro' ten long years, on Ilium's purpled field.
In vain the female vest he wore,
That Love maternal might avert his fate;
Lest his spear drink the Lycian gore,
Lest sinking Troy his force deplore,
And DEATH with GLORY meet him at her gate.
Bless 'em!
by John Hartley

O, the lasses, the lasses, God bless 'em!
His heart must be hard as a stooan
'At could willingly goa an distress 'em,
For withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan.
Tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growin
For Adam, wor scented soa sweet,
He ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin,
He trampled 'em under his feet.
He long'd to some sweet one to whisper;
An wol sleepin Eve came to his home;
He wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her,
An ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come.
An tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented,
An anxious fowk's saycrets to know,
Pluck'd an apple, - noa daat shoo repented
When shoo saw at it made sich a row.
Tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her;
For aw'm fairly convinced an declare,
'At aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her,
Nor all th' world an noa woman to share.
Then let us be kind to all th' wimmin,
Throo th' poorest to th' Queen up oth' throne,
For if, Eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin,
It's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own.
Speak
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Obscured the sun, the world is dark;
Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,
Send down thy spark.
Let every heart in France be stirred,
By such an all-compelling word
As thou once heard.
Say to each soul, 'Lo! I am near;
My voice still speaks in accents clear.
Be still and hear.
'The France I saved can not be lost;
Though tempest-torn and terror-tossed,
Count not the cost.
'Give as the maid of Domremy
Gave all - gave life itself to see
Her country free.
'Back of great France my spirit towers
To aid her through the darkest hours
With God's own powers!'
Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,
Shine through the night, speak through the dark
The while we hark.
In The Beginning Of Robe's Geography. Written At Paris, 1700.
by Matthew Prior

Of all that William rules, or robe
Describes, great Rhea, of thy globe,
When or on posthorse or in chaise,
With much expense and little ease,
My destin'd miles I shall have gone,
By Thames, or Maese, by Po, or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own;
Great Mother, let me once be able
To have a garden, house, and stable,
That I may read, and ride, and plant,
Superior to desire or want;
And as health fails, and years increase,
Sit down and think, and die in peace.
Oblige thy favourite undertakers
To throw me in but twenty acres;
This number sure they may allow,
For pasture ten, and ten for plough;
'Tis all that I would wish or hope,
For me, and John, and Nell, and Crop.
Then as thou wilt dispose the rest
(And let not Fortune spoil the jest)
To those who at the market-rate
Can barter honour for estate.
Now if thou grant'st me my request,
To make thy vot'ry truly bless'd,
Let curs'd revenge and saucy pride
To some bleak rock far off be tied,
Nor e'er approach my rural seat,
To tempt me to be base and great.
And, Goddess, this kind office done,
Charge Venus to command her son
(Wherever else she lets him rove)
To shun my house, and field, and grove:
Peace cannot dwell with Hate or Love.
Hear, gracious Rhea, what I say,
And thy petitioner shall pray.
The Haschish
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Of all that Orient lands can vaunt
Of marvels with our own competing,
The strangest is the Haschish plant,
And what will follow on its eating.
What pictures to the taster rise,
Of Dervish or of Almeh dances!
Of Eblis, or of Paradise,
Set all aglow with Houri glances!
The poppy visions of Cathay,
The heavy beer-trance of the Suabian;
The wizard lights and demon play
Of nights Walpurgis and Arabian!
The Mollah and the Christian dog
Change place in mad metempsychosis;
The Muezzin climbs the synagogue,
The Rabbi shakes his beard at Moses!
The Arab by his desert well
Sits choosing from some Caliph's daughters,
And hears his single camel's bell
Sound welcome to his regal quarters.
The Koran's reader makes complaint
Of Shitan dancing on and off it;
The robber offers alms, the saint
Drinks Tokay and blasphemes the Prophet.
Such scenes that Eastern plant awakes;
But we have one ordained to beat it,
The Haschish of the West, which makes
Or fools or knaves of all who eat it.
The preacher eats, and straight appears
His Bible in a new translation;
Its angels negro overseers,
And Heaven itself a snug plantation!
The man of peace, about whose dreams
The sweet millennial angels cluster,
Tastes the mad weed, and plots and schemes,
A raving Cuban filibuster!
The noisiest Democrat, with ease,
It turns to Slavery's parish beadle;
The shrewdest statesman eats and sees
Due southward point the polar needle.
The Judge partakes, and sits erelong
Upon his bench a railing blackguard;
Decides off-hand that right is wrong,
And reads the ten commandments backward.
O potent plant! so rare a taste
Has never Turk or Gentoo gotten;
The hempen Haschish of the East
Is powerless to our Western Cotton
Song. "Of All The Days In Memory's List"
by John Clare

Of all the days in memory's list,
Those motley banish'd days;
Some overhung with sorrow's mist,
Some gilt with hopeful rays;
There is a day 'bove all the rest
That has a lovely sound,
There is a day I love the best--
When Patty first was found.
When first I look'd upon her eye,
And all her charms I met,
There's many a day gone heedless by,
But that I'll ne'er forget;
I met my love beneath the tree,
I help'd her o'er the stile,
The very shade is dear to me
That blest me with her smile.
Strange to the world my artless fair,
But artless as she be,
She found the witching art when there
To win my heart from me;
And all the days the year can bring,
As sweet as they may prove,
There'll ne'er come one like that I sing,
Which found the maid I love.
Who'll Buy Gods Of Love?
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

OF all the beauteous wares
Exposed for sale at fairs,
None will give more delight
Than those that to your sight
From distant lands we bring.
Oh, hark to what we sing!
These beauteous birds behold,
They're brought here to be sold.
And first the big one see,
So full of roguish glee!
With light and merry bound
He leaps upon the ground;
Then springs up on the bougd,
We will not praise him now.
The merry bird behold, 
He's brought here to be sold.
And now the small one see!
A modest look has he,
And yet he's such apother
As his big roguish brother.
'Tis chiefly when all's still
He loves to show his will.
The bird so small and bold, 
He's brought here to be sold.
Observe this little love,
This darling turtle dove!
All maidens are so neat,
So civil, so discreet
Let them their charms set loose,
And turn your love to use;
The gentle bird behold, 
She's brought here to be sold.
Their praises we won't tell;
They'll stand inspection well.
They're fond of what is new, 
And yet, to show they're true,
Nor seal nor letter's wanted;
To all have wings been granted.
The pretty birds behold, 
Such beauties ne'er were sold!
Arms And The Man. - The Oaks And The Tempest.
by James Barron Hope

Oaks multiplied apace, and o'er the seas
Big rumors went in many a winding ring;
And stories fabulous on every breeze
Swept to a distant King.
Full many a tale of wild romance, and myth,
In large hyperbole the New World told,
And down from days of Raleigh and of Smith
The Colonies meant gold.
Not from Banchoonan's mines came forth the ore,
But from the waters, and the woods, and fields,
Paid for in blood, but bringing more and more
The wealth that labor yields.
Then seeing this, that King beyond the sea,
The jus divinum filling all his soul,
Bethought him that he held these lands in fee
And absolute control.
When this high claim in action was displayed
With one accord the young Plantations spoke,
And told him, English-like, they were not made
To plough with such a yoke.
Thus met, not his to falter, or to flag,
A sudden fury seized the Royal breast - 
Prometheus bound upon a Scythian crag
His policy expressed.
And, so, he ordered in those stormy hours
His adamantine chains for one and all,
Brute "Force" and soulless "Strength" the only Power
On which he chose to call.
Great men withstood him many a weary day;
In Press and Parliament full well they strove:
But all in vain, for he was bound to play
A travesty on Jove!
Then flamed the crater! And the flame took wing;
Furious and far the lava blazed around,
Until at last, on this same spot that King
His Herculaneum found!
Breed's Hill became Vesuvius, and its stream
Rushed forth through years, a God-directed tide
To light two Worlds and realize the dream
For which brave Warren died.
On A Candle
by Jonathan Swift

TO LADY CARTERET
Of all inhabitants on earth,
To man alone I owe my birth,
And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee,
Are all my parents more than he:
I, a virtue, strange and rare,
Make the fairest look more fair,
And myself, which yet is rarer,
Growing old, grow still the fairer.
Like sots, alone I'm dull enough,
When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff;
But, in the midst of mirth and wine,
I with double lustre shine.
Emblem of the Fair am I,
Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;
In my eye my greatest grace,
Emblem of the Cyclops' race;
Metals I like them subdue,
Slave like them to Vulcan too;
Emblem of a monarch old,
Wise, and glorious to behold;
Wasted he appears, and pale,
Watching for the public weal:
Emblem of the bashful dame,
That in secret feeds her flame,
Often aiding to impart
All the secrets of her heart;
Various is my bulk and hue,
Big like Bess, and small like Sue:
Now brown and burnish'd like a nut,
At other times a very slut;
Often fair, and soft, and tender,
Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender:
Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers,
Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours:
But whatever be my dress,
Greater be my size or less,
Swelling be my shape or small,
Like thyself I shine in all.
Clouded if my face is seen,
My complexion wan and green,
Languid like a love-sick maid,
Steel affords me present aid.
Soon or late, my date is done,
As my thread of life is spun;
Yet to cut the fatal thread
Oft revives my drooping head;
Yet I perish in my prime,
Seldom by the death of time;
Die like lovers as they gaze,
Die for those I live to please;
Pine unpitied to my urn,
Nor warm the fair for whom I burn:
Unpitied, unlamented too,
Die like all that look on you.
Of A' The Airts The Wind Can Blaw
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."
I.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
II.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
III.
O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Among the leafy trees,
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
Bring hame the laden bees;
And bring the lassie back to me
That's aye sae neat and clean;
Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
Sae charming is my Jean.
IV.
What sighs and vows amang the knowes
Hae passed atween us twa!
How fond to meet, how wae to part,
That night she gaed awa!
The powers aboon can only ken,
To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me
As my sweet lovely Jean!
Song. On The Birthday Of Mrs. ----.
by Thomas Moore

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.
Of all my happiest hours of joy,
And even I have had my measure,
When hearts were full, and every eye
Hath kindled with the light of pleasure,
An hour like this I ne'er was given,
So full of friendship's purest blisses;
Young Love himself looks down from heaven,
To smile on such a day as this is.
Then come, my friends, this hour improve,
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever;
And may the birth of her we love
Be thus with joy remembered ever!
Oh! banish every thought to-night,
Which could disturb our soul's communion;
Abandoned thus to dear delight,
We'll even for once forget the Union!
On that let statesmen try their powers,
And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for;
The union of the soul be ours,
And every union else we sigh for.
Then come, my friends, etc.
In every eye around I mark
The feelings of the heart o'er-flowing;
From every soul I catch the spark
Of sympathy, in friendship glowing.
Oh! could such moments ever fly;
Oh! that we ne'er were doomed to lose 'em;
And all as bright as Charlotte's eye,
And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom.
Then come, my friends, etc.
For me, whate'er my span of years,
Whatever sun may light my roving;
Whether I waste my life in tears,
Or live, as now, for mirth and loving;
This day shall come with aspect kind,
Wherever fate may cast your rover;
He'll think of those he left behind,
And drink a health to bliss that's over!
Then come, my friends, etc.
Hymn to Humility
by William Hayley

Of all the Christian virtues chief
With modest charms, and mild relief,
Most apt to heal the wounds of pride, and spleen,
To thee, humility; I bend;
O let me feel, thou art my friend!
Rule thou my bosom, as its gentle queen!
'Tis thine benignly to repress
All proud conceit, all vain excess;
To give the chasten'd mind its proper tone;
To make it keep in sight
The worth of others with delight,
And never look too fondly on its own.
Teach me, with active zeal, to wake
At nature's sigh, for pity's sake,
When pride in dreams of apathy will nod!
Still guided by thy Christian breath,
Keep me, thro' scenes of life, and death,
To mortals kind, and dutiful to God.
October
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

October woods wherein
The boy's dream comes to pass,
And Nature squanders on the boy her pomp,
And crowns him with a more than royal crown,
And unimagined splendor waits his steps.
The gazing urchin walks through tents of gold,
Through crimson chambers, porphyry and pearl,
Pavilion on pavilion, garlanded,
Incensed and starred with lights and airs and shapes,
Color and sound, music to eye and ear,
Beyond the best conceit of pomp or power.
A Speculation.
by Thomas Moore

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.
Three Friends
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Of all the blessings which my life has known,
I value most, and most praise God for three:
Want, Loneliness, and Pain, those comrades true,
Who masqueraded in the garb of foes
For many a year, and filled my heart with dread.
Yet fickle joys, like false, pretentious friends,
Have proved less worthy than this trio.    First,
Want taught me labour, led me up the steep
And toilsome paths to hills of pure delight,
Trod only by the feet that know fatigue,
And yet press on until the heights appear.
Then loneliness and hunger of the heart
Sent me upreaching to the realms of space,
Till all the silences grew eloquent,
And all their loving forces hailed me friend.
Last, pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staff
Of close communion with the over-soul,
That I might lean upon it to the end,
And find myself made strong for any strife.
And then these three who had pursued my steps
Like stern, relentless foes, year after year,
Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me,
And lo! they were divinely beautiful,
For through them shone the lustrous eyes of Love.