DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Lines On The Death Of Captain Hiram A. Coats, My Old Schoolmate And Friend.
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Dead? or is it a dream 
Only the voice of a dream?
Dead in the prime of his years,
And laid in the lap of the dust;
Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust.
Strong and manly was he,
Strong and tender and true;
Proud in the prime of his years;
Strong in the strength of the just:
A heart that was half a lion's,
And half the heart of a girl;
Tender to all that was tender,
And true to all that was true;
Bold in the battle of life,
And bold on the bloody field;
First at the call of his country,
First in the front of the foe.
Hope of the years was his 
The golden and garnered sheaves;
Fair on the hills of autumn
Reddened the apples of peace.
Dead? or is it a dream?
Dead in the prime of his years,
And laid in the lap of the dust.
Aye, it is but a dream;
For the life of man is a dream:
Dead in the prime of his years
And laid in the lap of the dust;
Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust.
Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust?
Aye, but what of the breath
Blown out of the bosom of God?
What of the spirit that breathed
And burned in the temple of clay?
Dust unto dust returns;
The dew-drop returns to the sea;
The flash from the flint and the steel
Returns to its source in the sun.
Change cometh forever-and-aye,
But forever nothing is lost 
The dew-drop that sinks in the sand,
Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea.
Ah, life is only a link
In the endless chain of change.
Death giveth the dust to the dust
And the soul to the infinite soul:
For aye since the morning of man 
Since the human rose up from the brute 
Hath Hope, like a beacon of light,
Like a star in the rift of the storm,
Been writ by the finger of God
On the longing hearts of men.
O follow no goblin fear;
O cringe to no cruel creed;
Nor chase the shadow of doubt
Till the brain runs mad with despair.
Stretch forth thy hand, O man,
To the winds and the quaking earth 
To the heaving and falling sea 
To the ultimate stars and feel
The throb of the spirit of God 
The pulse of the Universe.
The Fudges In England. Letter XI. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----. ------, Ireland.
by Thomas Moore

Dear Dick--just arrived at my own humbleg'te,
I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,
Just arrived, per express, of our late noble feat.
[Extract from the "County Gazette."]
This place is getting gay and full again.
*                *                *                *                *
Last week was married, "in the Lord,"
The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan,
Preacher, in Irish, of the Word,
He, who the Lord's force lately led on--
(Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,)[1]
To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chosen, as "heir of grace,"
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.
Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted--
Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan Lyre,"
In our Gazette, last week, we printed).
Eloped with Pat. Magan, Esquire.
The fugitives were trackt some time,
After they'd left the Aunt's abode,
By scraps of paper scrawled with rhyme,
Found strewed along the Western road;--
Some of them, ci-devant curlpapers,
Others, half burnt in lighting tapers.
This clew, however, to their flight,
After some miles was seen no more;
And, from inquiries made last night,
We find they've reached the Irish shore.
Every word of it true, Dick--the escape from Aunt's thrall--
Western road--lyric fragments--curl-papers and all.
My sole stipulation, ere linkt at the shrine
(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine),
Was that, when we were one, she must give up the Nine;
Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.
With a vow never more against prose to transgress.
This she did, like a heroine;--smack went to bits
The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits--
Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes canzonets--
Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,
Some turned into papillotes, worthy to rise
And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!
While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay),
Begged, as "lover of po'thry," to read on the way.
Having thus of life's poetry dared to dispose,
How we now, Dick, shall manage to get thro' its prose,
With such slender materials for style, Heaven knows!
But--I'm called off abruptly--another Express!
What the deuce can it mean?--I'm alarmed, I confess.
P.S.
Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs!
I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days.
There--read the good news--and while glad, for my sake,
That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,
Admire also the moral--that he, the sly elf,
Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudged himself!
EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED.
With pain the mournful news I write,
Miss Fudge's uncle died last night;
And much to mine and friends' surprise,
By will doth all his wealth devise--
Lands, dwellings--rectories likewise--
To his "beloved grand-niece," Miss Fanny,
Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many
Long years hath waited--not a penny!
Have notified the same to latter,
And wait instructions in the matter.
For self and partners, etc.
Dolly Varden
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Dear Dolly! who does not recall
The thrilling page that pictured all
Those charms that held our sense in thrall
Just as the artist caught her,
As down that English lane she tripped,
In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped,
Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped,
The locksmith's pretty daughter?
Sweet fragment of the Master's art!
O simple faith! O rustic heart!
O maid that hath no counterpart
In life's dry, dog-eared pages!
Where shall we find thy like? Ah, stay!
Methinks I saw her yesterday
In chintz that flowered, as one might say,
Perennial for ages.
Her father's modest cot was stone,
Five stories high; in style and tone
Composite, and, I frankly own,
Within its walls revealing
Some certain novel, strange ideas:
A Gothic door with Roman piers,
And floors removed some thousand years,
From their Pompeian ceiling.
The small salon where she received
Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved
By Chinese cabinets, conceived
Grotesquely by the heathen;
The sofas were a classic sight,
The Roman bench (sedilia hight);
The chairs were French in gold and white,
And one Elizabethan.
And she, the goddess of that shrine,
Two ringed fingers placed in mine,
The stones were many carats fine,
And of the purest water,
Then dropped a curtsy, far enough
To fairly fill her cretonne puff
And show the petticoat's rich stuff
That her fond parent bought her.
Her speech was simple as her dress,
Not French the more, but English less,
She loved; yet sometimes, I confess,
I scarce could comprehend her.
Her manners were quite far from shy.
There was a quiet in her eye
Appalling to the Hugh who'd try
With rudeness to offend her.
'But whence,' I cried, 'this masquerade?
Some figure for to-night's charade,
A Watteau shepherdess or maid?'
She smiled and begged my pardon:
'Why, surely you must know the name,
That woman who was Shakespeare's flame
Or Byron's, well, it's all the same:
Why, Lord! I'm Dolly Varden!'
Horace, Lib. I, Epist. IX, Imitated. To The Right Honourable Mr. Harley
by Matthew Prior

Dear Dick, how e'er it comes into his head,
Believes, as firmly as he does his creed,
That you and I, sir, are extremely great;
Though I plain Mat, you minister of state.
One word from me, without all doubt, he says,
Would fix his fortune in some little place.
Thus better than myself, it seems, he knows
How far my interest with my patron goes;
And answering all objections I can make,
Still plunges deeper in his dear mistake.
From this wild fancy, sir, there may proceed
One wilder yet, which I foresee, and dread;
That I, in fact, a real interest have,
Which to my own advantage I would save,
And, with the usual courtier's trick, intend
To serve myself, forgetful of my friend.
To shun this censure, I all shame lay by,
And make my reason with his will comply;
Hoping, for my excuse, 'twill be confest,
That of two evils I have chose the least.
So, sir, with this epistolary scroll,
Receive the partner of my inmost soul:
Him you will find in letters, and in laws
Not unexpert, firm to his country's cause,
Warm in the glorious interest you pursue,
And, in one word, a good man and a true.
The Dean's Complaint, Translated And Answered
by Jonathan Swift

DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone.
ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own.
DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown.
ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn.
Give them good wine, and meat to stuff,
You may have company enough.
DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell,
Than if it rang out for my knell.
ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well.
DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start,
Than at the rumbling of a cart.
ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f - t.
DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack!
No more I hear a woman's clack.
ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill,
Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill;
But louder than a bell, or thunder:
That does, I own, increase my wonder.
To The Dean Of St. Patrick's
by Jonathan Swift

Dear Dean, I'm in a sad condition,
I cannot see to read or write;
Pity the darkness of thy Priscian,
Whose days are all transform'd to night.
My head, though light, 's a dungeon grown,
The windows of my soul are closed;
Therefore to sleep I lay me down,
My verse and I are both composed.
Sleep, did I say? that cannot be;
For who can sleep, that wants his eyes?
My bed is useless then to me,
Therefore I lay me down to rise.
Unnumber'd thoughts pass to and fro
Upon the surface of my brain;
In various maze they come and go,
And come and go again.
So have you seen in sheet burnt black,
The fiery sparks at random run;
Now here, now there, some turning back
Some ending where they just begun.
THOMAS SHERIDAN.
The Adventures Of An Elf.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

By Fedor Flinzer. Freely translated by J.H. Ewing.
I.
Dear children, listen whilst I tell
What to a certain Elf befell,
Who left his house and sallied forth
Adventure seeking, south and north,
And west and east, by path and field,
Resolved to conquer or to yield.
A thimble on his back he carried,
With a rose-twig his foes he parried.
II.
It was a sunny, bright, spring day,
When to the wood he took his way;
He knew that in a certain spot
A Bumble Bee his nest had got.
The Bee was out, the chance was good,
But just when grabbing all he could,
He heard the Bee behind him humming,
And only wished he'd heard him coming!
III.
In terror turned the tiny man,
And now a famous fight began:
The Bee flew round, and buzzed and stung,
The Elf his prickly rose-staff swung.
Now fiercely here, now wildly there,
He hit the Bee or fought the air.
At last one weighty blow descended:
The Bee was dead--the fight was ended.
IV.
Exhausted quite, he took a seat.
The honey tasted doubly sweet!
The thimble-full had been upset,
But still there were a few drops yet.
He licked his lips and blessed himself,
That he was such a lucky Elf,
And now might hope to live in clover;
But, ah! his troubles were not over!
V.
For at that instant, by his side,
A beast of fearful form he spied:
At first he thought it was a bear,
And headlong fell in dire despair.
He lost one slipper in the moss,
And this was not his only loss.
With paws and snout the beast was nimble,
And very soon cleared out the thimble.
VI.
This rifling of his honey-pot
Awoke our Elfin's wrath full hot.
He made a rope of linden bast,
By either end he held it fast,
And creeping up behind the beast,
Intent upon the honey feast,
Before it had the slightest inkling,
The rope was round it in a twinkling.
VII.
The mouse shrieked "Murder!" "Fire!" and "Thieves!"
And struggled through the twigs and leaves.
It pulled the reins with all its might,
Our hero only drew them tight.
Upon the mouse's back he leapt,
And like a man his seat he kept.
His steed was terribly affrighted,
But he himself was much delighted.
VIII.
"Gee up, my little horse!" he cried,
"I mean to have a glorious ride;
So bear me forth with lightning speed,
A Knight resolved on doughty deed.
The wide world we will gallop round,
And clear the hedges at one bound."
The mouse set off, the hero bantered,
And out into the world they cantered.
IX.
At last they rode up to an inn:
"Good Mr. Host, pray who's within?"
"My daughter serves the customers,
Before the fire the Tom-cat purrs."
For further news they did not wait--
The mouse sprang through the garden-gate--
They fled without a look behind them.
The question is--Did Thomas find them?
News For Country Cousins.
by Thomas Moore

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper,
When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper,
But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends
As you chance to pick up from political friends-
Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down
To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.
As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better--
His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster)
Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter
To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master;
Engaging to change the old name, if he can,
From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;--
Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim)
Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.
From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar--
Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are,
And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose)
Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]--
Is now busy collecting with brotherly care
The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing
One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare)
On all the distinguisht old ladies now going.
(While I write, an arrival from Riga--the "Brothers"--
Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)
Last advices from India--Sir Archy, 'tis thought,
Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught
In N. Lat. 2l.)--and his Highness Burmese,
Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees,
And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant
To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment.
(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose
Can establish a running account with the Jews!)
The security being what Rothschild calls "goot,"
A loan will be shortly, of course, set on foot;
The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co.
With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe,
And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us leg-bail,
As he did once before) to pay down on the nail.
*             *             *             *             *
This is all for the present--what vile pens and paper!
Yours truly, dear Cousin--best love to Miss Draper.
September, 1826.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XX - Baptism
by William Wordsworth

Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs
Of Infancy, provides a timely shower
Whose virtue changes to a Christian Flower
A Growth from sinful Nature's bed of weeds!
Fitliest beneath the sacred roof proceeds
The ministration; while parental Love
Looks on, and Grace descendeth from above
As the high service pledges now, now pleads.
There, should vain thoughts outspread their wings and fly
To meet the coming hours of festal mirth,
The tombs which hear and answer that brief cry,
The Infant's notice of his second birth
Recall the wandering Soul to sympathy
With what man hopes from Heaven, yet fears from Earth.
The Custer Wail.
by A. H. Laidlaw

Dead! Where the bold and brave
Blend in one bloody grave;
Dead! With no coward clay
Weltering in gore that day.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! With his boys in blue,
Baptized in bloody dew.
Dead! Where his enemy
Fled from his fearless eye.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Like a meteor,
Flashed o'er the field of war.
Dead! With immortal pride,
Glorious and glorified.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the captives sing
Saved by his rifle's ring.
Dead! Where the painted brave
Bled by his gory glaive.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the feathered game
Fell at his deadly aim.
Dead! Where the buffalo
Found him a gallant foe.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the prairie steed
Vainly exerts his speed.
Dead! Where the antlered stag
Dies on the dizzy crag.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the valleys sink
Low to the river's brink.
Dead! Where the mountains spring
Higher than eagle's wing.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the solar glows
Eastward and upward rose.
Dead! Where the evening's gold
Westward and downward rolled.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the streamy vales
Murmur their tender tales.
Dead! Where the ocean's roll
Sobs for the passing soul.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the thicket's throats
Mingle their million notes.
Dead! Where the forests dim
Tone their lone requiem.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where the eagle's scream
Shortens the hunter's dream.
Dead! Where the nightingale
Trills out her lonely tale.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where no maiden fair
Weaves with his waving hair.
Dead! Where no darling sips
Life from his loving lips.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Where no woman's breast,
Robbed of her love and rest,
Flower with a fading leaf,
Sinks in her silent grief.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.
Dead! Nevermore to be.
Dead! Nevermore to be.
Dead! Evermore to me.
Dead! Evermore to me.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to ME!
Dr. Sheridan To Dr. Swift
by Jonathan Swift

1718
Dear Dean, since in cruxes and puns you and I deal,
Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle?
'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning,
In bed as I lay, sir, a-tossing and turning.
You'll find if you read but a few of your histories,
All women, as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the sex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend them;
I swear without jest I an honour intend them.
In a sieve, sir, their ancient extraction I quite tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.
This I told you before; do you know what I mean, sir?
"Not I, by my troth, sir." - Then read it again, sir.
The reason I send you these lines of rhymes double,
Is purely through pity, to save you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last,
When your Pegasus canter'd in triple, and rid fast.
As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnassus,
With Phoebus's leave, to run with his asses,
He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded,
While your fiery steed is whipp'd, spurr'd, bastinaded.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER
In reading your letter alone in my hackney,
Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh.
And when with much labour the matter I crack'd,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.
A woman's no sieve, (for with that you begin,)
Because she lets out more than e'er she takes in.
And that she's a riddle can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.
But grant her a sieve, I can say something archer;
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher.
Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,
What name for a maid,[1] was the first man's damnation?
If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus.
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11, 1718, past 12 at noon.
Winter Song
by Robert Bloomfield

Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down,
And sweep this deep Snow from the door:
Old Winter comes on with a frown;
A terrible frown for the poor.
In a Season so rude and forlorn
How can age, how can infancy bear
The silent neglect and the scorn
Of those who have plenty to spare?
Fresh broach'd is my Cask of old Ale,
Well-tim'd now the frost is set in;
Here's Job come to tell us a tale,
We'll make him at home to a pin.
While my Wife and I bask o'er the fire,
The roll of the Seasons will prove,
That Time may diminish desire,
But cannot extinguish true love.
O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,
If you can but keep scandal away,
To learn what the world has been at,
And what the great Orators say;
Though the Wind through the crevices sing,
And Hail down the chimney rebound,
I'm happier than many a king
While the Bellows blow Bass to the sound.
Abundance was never my lot:
But out of the trifle that's given,
That no curse may alight on my Cot,
I'll distribute the bounty of Heaven:
The fool and the slave gather wealth;
But if I add nought to my store,
Yet while I keep conscience in health,
I've a Mine that will never grow poor.
Lines. Addressed To The Rev. J. T. Becher, [1] On His Advising The Author To Mix More With Society.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
2.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
3.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal'd,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal'd,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
4.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my bosom, for fame 
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
5.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
6.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
7.
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
8.
To me what is wealth? - it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title? - the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion? - I seek but renown.
9.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
To William Hayley, Esq.
by William Cowper

Dear architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled birth!
But what his commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.