OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/At Fort Pillow

AT FORT PILLOW
You shudder as you think upon The carnage of the grim report, The desolation when we won The inner trenches of the fort.
But there are deeds you may not know That scourge the pulses into strife; Dark memories of deathless woe Pointing the bayonet and knife.
The house is ashes where I dwelt Beyond the mighty inland sea, The tombstones shattered where I knelt By that old church upon the lee.
The prowling fiends who came with fire Camped on the consecrated sod, And trampled in the dust and mire The holy tenement of God!
The spot where darling mother sleeps, Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps, To stall the horse of some dragoon.
And when I ponder that black day, It makes my frantic spirit wince; I marched—with Longstreet—far away, But have beheld the ravage since.
The tears are hot upon my face, When thinking what bleak fate befell The only sister of our race— A thing too horrible to tell.
They say that ere her senses fled, She rescued, of her brothers cried, Then feebly bowed her stricken head, Too good to live thus—so she died.
Two of those brothers heard no plea, With their proud hearts for ever still— Guy, shrouded by the Tennessee, And Bertram at the Malvern Hill.
But I have heard it everywhere, Vibrating like a mystic knell; ’Tis as perpetual as the air And solemn as a funeral bell.
By scorched lagoon and murky swamp, My wrath was never in the lurch; I’ve killed the picket in his camp, And many a pilot on his perch.
With steady rifle, sharpened brand, A week ago, upon my steed, With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.
You should have seen our leader go Upon the battle’s burning marge, Swooping, like falcon, on the foe, Heading the gray line’s iron charge.
All outcasts from our ruined marts, We heard th’ undying serpent hiss, And, in the desert of our hearts, The fatal spell of Nemesis.
The Southern yell rang loud and high, The moment that we thundered in, Smiting the demons hip and thigh, Cleaving them to the very chin.
My right arm, bared for fiercer play, The left one held the rein in slack; In all the fury of the fray, I sought the white man, not the black.
The dabbled clots of brain and gore Across the swirling sabers ran; To me each brutal visage bore The front of one accursed man.
Trobbing along the frenzied vein, My blood seemed kindled into song— The death-dirge of the sacred slain, The slogan of immortal wrong.
It glared athwart the dripping glaives— It blazed in each avenging eye— The thought of desecrated graves And some lone sister’s desperate cry!
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Eidolon

EIDOLON
Ah, sweet-eyed Christ! Thy image smiles In its Cathedral cell, Shrined in the heaven-enamored arms Of her who never fell; And if my phantom eyes implore A more benignant beam, ’Tis a nepenthe I would crave For a memorial dream!
Dear Leonie! here did’st thou kneel That musky summer noon, As the zephyrs kissed in ecstasy The dimpled cheeks of June— As the sunlight drifted o’er thy brow A golden wave of grace, Bright blending with the miracles Of that angelic face.
Adorably Madonna-like, By this communion rail, Thy raptured face, though rich with youth, Was spirit-lit and pale; And oh those opulent blue eyes, Those Meccas of despair— They, they were glorious Eden-isles Lost in a lake of prayer!
Saint Leonie! I saw thee flit Gazelle-like to the street, And pure, melodious angels led Thy dainty, tinkling feet; My rebel thoughts were petrel-winged, Attendant upon thee, Chasing thy loved and lissome shape As Arabs of the sea.
Long did I love thee, belle Creole, As Gebirs love the sun, And in the temple of my soul Thou wast the eidolon; Long did I love thee, belle Creole, Where corsair billows rise, And where the silver planets soar In unfamiliar skies!
Dark Corcovado! did I not, With heart and soul aflame, Carve on thy broad, monarchal brow Her wildly-worshipped name— Watching the homeward ships scud by Before the nimble breeze, Till memory with them wept away Beyond the tropic seas!
Years, years had died, and once again I saw the spires of home; Then, armed with an undying hope, I stood beneath this dome. But not within the pillared aisle, Nor by the sacred sign, Could my bewildered eyes behold The loveliness of thine.
The sad November days had come, And eagerly I fled To find thee where the maidens deck The kingdoms of the dead; I found thee—yes, I found thee, love, Beneath the willow tree— With marble cross and immortelle And one word—“Leonie!”
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/In Memoriam

IN MEMORIAM
Father and Lord! We know full well Thy chastisements are for the best; And while the loved and lost are blest, Our hearts throb like a funeral bell, Although the weary are at rest.
We bow to Thy decree, we bow To that dread stroke which bore away, To regions of eternal day, Our darling boy, whose starry brow Beamed like a golden morn of May.
And yet, dear God, how hard to yield, Even to Thee, that precious life— Bequeathed to glory without strife, Without a scar or battle-field— But with Love’s tenderest virtues rife.
He came to us as sunshine falls Upon a sorrow-stricken hearth. He came with innocence and mirth; His voice made music in our halls— How can we hide him in the earth?
Thou who wast scourged and crucified For fallen man! behold to-night A mother smitten in Thy sight. Behold how all her hopes have died! Send her Thy comfort and Thy light!
Tell her that when the cruel wave Closed o’er her child’s benignant head, The Lord of Life in mercy sped, To glorify him in the grave And raise an angel from the dead.
Too pure to combat this dark globe, Too gentle for the madding crowd, Better thy unpolluted shroud, Thy early death, thy spotless robe, Than many years with sadness bowed.
Ah! we who loved thee so will keep Thy memory a sacred trust, A sweet evangel from the dust, To cheer us when we wail and weep, While thou art dwelling with the Just!
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/To Enarda II

TO ENARDA.—II.
Cruel Enarda! all in vain, In vain, thou view'st with joyful eyes The tears that show my grief and pain, Thyself exulting in my sighs.
​The burning tears that bathe my cheek, With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale, Thy lightness and caprice bespeak, Thy guilt and perfidy bewail.
Those signs of sorrow, on my face, Are not the obsequies portray'd Of a lost good, nor yet the trace Of tribute to thy beauties paid.
They are the evidence alone There fix'd thy falsehood to proclaim; Of thy deceits the horror shown, Of my delirium the shame.
I weep not now thy rigours o'er, Nor feel regret, that lost to me Are the returns, which false before Thou gavest, or favours faithlessly.
I weep o'er my delusions blind; I mourn the sacrifices made, And incense to a god unkind On an unworthy altar laid.
I weep the memory o'er debased Of my captivity to mourn, And all the weight and shame disgraced Of such vile fetters to have borne. ​Ever to my lorn mind return'd Are thoughts of homage offer'd ill, Disdains ill borne, affection spurn'd, And sighs contemn'd, recurring still.
Then, ah, Enarda! all in vain Thou think'st to please thee with my grief: Love, who now looks on me again With eyes of pity and relief,
A thousand times has me accost, As thus my tears to censure now, "To lose them thou hast nothing lost; Poor creature! why then weepest thou?",
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/The Two Rabbits

THE TWO RABBITS.
Some shrubs amidst to shun The dogs he saw pursue, I will not call it run, But say a rabbit flew.
From out his hiding-place A neighbour came to see, And said, "Friend, wait a space: What may the matter be?"
"What should it be?" he cried; "I breathless came in fear, Because that I espied Two scoundrel greyhounds near."
​"Yes," said the other, "far I see them also there; But those no greyhounds are!" "What?"—"Setters, I'll declare."
"How, setters do you say? My grandad just as much! They are greyhounds, greyhounds, they; I saw them plainly such."
"They are setters; get along: What know you of these matters?"– "They are greyhounds; you are wrong:"– "I tell you they are setters."
The dogs while they engage In these contentious habits, Come up, and vent their rage On my two thoughtless rabbits.
Who minor points affect, So much about to quarrel, And weightier things neglect, Let them take the moral.
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/The Warning

THE WARNING.
Yesterday the morning's light Shone on thy window crystal bright, And lightsome breezes floating there Gave richest perfumes to the air, Which the gay flowers had lent to them, All scatter'd from the unequal stem.
The nightingale had bathed his wing Beneath the neighbouring murmuring spring; And birds, and flowers, and streamlets gay, Seem'd to salute the new-born day; And in requital of the light, Their grateful harmony unite.
The sun was bright, the sky serene, The garden fresh and pleasant seen; Life was delight, and thou, sweet maid, No blush of shame thy charms betray'd; For innocence ruled o'er thy breast, Alike thy waking and thy rest.
Maiden, or angel upon earth, Thy laugh, and song of gentle mirth, In heaven were surely heard; thine eyes Were stars, and like sweet melodies Thy wandering tones; thy breath perfume, And dawn-like thy complexion's bloom.
As phantoms then thou didst not find The hours pass heavy on thy mind, A poet, under Love's decree, Sang melancholy songs to thee; And of his griefs the voice they lend Thou didst not, maiden, comprehend.
Poor maiden, now what change has come O'er that glad brow and youthful bloom? Forgotten flower, thy leaves are sere, Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear; Thy powerless stem all broken, low, May to the sun no colours show.
O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr'd birth, Why camest thou on this evil earth? Rose amid tangled briars born, What waits thee from the world but scorn? A blasting breath around thee, see, Thy bloom is gone, who 'll ask for thee?
Return, my angel, to thy sphere, Before the world shall see thee here: The joys of earth are cursed and brief, Buy them not with eternal grief! Heaven is alone, my soul, secure The mansion for an angel pure.
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/To Enarda I

TO ENARDA.—I.
Lovely Enarda! young and old All quarrel with me daily: Because I write to thee they scold, Perhaps sweet verses gaily.
"A judge should be more grave," they say, As each my song accuses; "From such pursuits should turn away As trifling with the Muses."
"How wofully you waste your time!" Preach others; but, all slighting, The more they scold, the more I rhyme; Still I must keep on writing.
Enarda's heart and mind to praise, All others far excelling, My rustic pipe its note shall raise, In well-toned measures telling.
​I wish, extolling to the skies, Her beauty's high perfection To sing, and all her witcheries Of feature and complexion:
With master pencil to portray Her snowy neck and forehead, And eyes that round so roguish play, And lips like carmine florid.
And let the Catos go at will, To where they most prefer it, Who withering frowns and sneerings still Give me for my demerit.
In spite of all, with wrinkled pate, The censures each rehearses, Enarda I will celebrate For ever in my verses.
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/The Timid Lover

THE TIMID LOVER.
In the sharp pains the tyrant Love Since first I saw thee made me feel, To thee a thousand times above, I come those pains to heal, My village girl! but soon as nigh To thee I find my way, If e'er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say.
My voices fail, and mournful sighs, Malicious phrenzy watching o'er, The place of them alone supplies; While mocks my efforts more The traitor god, when anxious by My thoughts to speak I pray; If e'er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say.
Then feels his fire so strong my soul, Meseems to die my only fate, My tears in torrents freely roll, And with deep groanings wait, ​To move thy feeling heart's reply; But vainly, all astray, If e'er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say.
I know not what, in trembling fear, That seals my lips, as yet to learn A foolish hope, thou mayst ev'n here My hapless love discern. I feel I must for ever fly From thy side far away; If e'er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say.
Alas! if thou couldst, my adored! But hear those sighs, and thoughts express'd, What happiness 'twould me afford! I should be, Phyllis, blest. But woe is me! beneath thine eye, To sink in mock'd dismay, If e'er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say.
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/To Galatea's Bird

TO GALATEA'S BIRD.
O silly little bird! who now On Galatea's lap hast got, My unrequited love allow To envy thee thy lot.
​Of the same lovely mistress both Alike the captives bound are we; But thou for thy misfortune loth, Whilst I am willingly.
Thou restless in thy prison art, Complaining ever of thy pains; While I would kisses, on my part, Ev'n lavish on my chains.
But, ah! how different treating us, Has scornful Fate the lot assign'd! With me she's always tyrannous, But with thee just as kind.
A thousand nights of torment borne, A thousand days of martyrdom, By thousand toils and pains, her scorn I cannot overcome.
Inestimable happiness, A mere caprice for thee has got; So bathed in tears, in my distress, I envy thee thy lot.
And there the while, with daring heel, Thou tread'st in arrant confidence, Without a heart or hope to feel, Or instinct's common sense, ​In the embraces, which my thought, Not even in its boldest vein, Could scarce to hope for have been brought, Presumptuous to attain.
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/The Song of the Pirate

THE SONG OF THE PIRATE.
The breeze fair aft, all sails on high,
Ten guns on each side mounted seen,
She does not cut the sea, but fly,
A swiftly sailing brigantine;
A pirate bark, the 'Dreaded' named,
For her surpassing boldness famed,
On every sea well known and shore,
From side to side their boundaries o'er.
The moon in streaks the waves illumes; Hoarse groans the wind the rigging through; In gentle motion raised assumes The sea a silvery shade with blue; While singing gaily on the poop, The pirate Captain, in a group, Sees Europe here, there Asia lies, And Stamboul in the front arise.
Sail on, my swift one! nothing fear; Nor calm, nor storm, nor foeman's force Shall make thee yield in thy career, Or turn thee from thy course. Despite the English cruisers fleet We have full twenty prizes made; And see their flags beneath my feet A hundred nations laid. My treasure is my gallant bark, My only god is liberty; My law is might, the wind my mark, My country is the sea.
There blindly kings fierce wars maintain, For palms of land, when here I hold As mine, whose power no laws restrain, Whatever the seas infold.
Nor is there shore around whate'er,
Or banner proud, but of my might
Is taught the valorous proofs to bear,
And made to feel my right.
My treasure is my gallant bark,
My only god is liberty;
My law is might, the wind my mark,
My country is the sea.
Look when a ship our signals ring,
Full sail to fly how quick she 's veer'd!
For of the sea I am the king,
My fury's to be fear'd;
But equally with all I share
Whate'er the wealth we take supplies;
I only seek the matchless fair
My portion of the prize.
My treasure is my gallant bark,
My only god is liberty;
My law is might, the wind my mark,
My country is the sea.
I am condemned to die! I laugh;
For, if my fates are kindly sped,
My doomer from his own ship's staff
Perhaps I'll hang instead. ​ And if I fall, why what is life?
For lost I gave it then as due,
When from slavery's yoke in strife
A rover I withdrew.
My treasure is my gallant bark,
My only god is liberty;
My law is might, the wind my mark,
My country is the sea.
My music is the north wind's roar,
The noise when round the cable runs,
The bellowings of the Black Sea's shore,
And rolling of my guns.
And as the thunders loudly sound,
And furious as the tempests rave,
I calmly rest in sleep profound,
So rock'd upon the wave.
My treasure is my gallant bark,
My only god is liberty;
My law is might, the wind my mark,
My country is the sea.
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/The Tower of Munion

THE TOWER OF MUNION.
Dark-shadow'd giant! shame of proud Castille, Castle without bridge, battlements or towers, In whose wide halls now loathsome reptiles steal, Where nobles once and warriors held their bowers! Tell me, where are they? where thy tapestries gay, Thy hundred troubadours of lofty song? Thy mouldering ruins in the vale decay, Thou humbled warrior! time has quell'd the strong Thy name and history to oblivion thrown, The world forgets that there thou standst, Munion.
To me thou art a spectre, shade of grief! With black remembrances my soul's o'ercast; To me thou art a palm with wither'd leaf, Burnt by the lightning, bow'd beneath the blast. I, wandering bard, proscribed perchance my doom In the bier's dust nor name, nor glory know; With useless toil my brow 's consumed in gloom; Of her I loved, dark dwelling-place below, Whom I was robb'd of, angel from above, Cursed be thy name, thy soil, as was my love.
There rest, aye, in thy loftiness, To shame the plain around, Warderless castle, matron lone, In whom no beauty 's found. At thee time laughs, thy towers o'erthrown, Scorned by thy vassals, by thy Lord Deserted, rest, black skeleton! Stain of the vale's green sward.
Priestless hermitage of Castille, On thee no banners wave; Unblazon'd gate, thy pointed vaults No more their weight can save: Thou hast no soldier on thy heights, No echo in thy halls, And rank weeds festering grow uncheck'd Beneath thy mouldering walls.
Chieftain dead in a foreign land, Forgotten of thy race, While storm-torn fragments from thy brow Are scatter'd o'er thy place; And men pass careless at thy feet, Nor seek thy tale to find; Because thy history is not read, Thy name 's not in their mind.
But thou hast one, who in a luckless hour Inscribed another's name on thy worn stone: 'T was I, and that my deep relentless shame Remains with thee alone. When my lips named that name, they play'd me false; When my hands graved it, 't was a like deceit; Now it exists not; in time's impious course 'T was swept beneath his feet.
And that celestial name, To time at length a prey, A woman for my sin, For a seraph snatch'd away; The hurricane of life Has left me, loved one, worse For my eternal grief, In pledge as of a curse, Thy name ne'er from my thoughts to part, Nor thy love ever from my heart.
# Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/To Spain, an Elegy

JOSE DE ESPRONCEDA.
TO SPAIN, AN ELEGY.
LONDON, 1829.
How solitary is the nation now
That peopled countries vast a former day!
That all beneath her sovereignty to bow,
From East to West extended once her sway!
Tears now profuse to shed, unhappy one,
Queen of the world! 'tis thine; and from thy face,
Enchanting yet in sorrow, there is none
Its overwhelming traces to erase.
How fatally o'er thee has death pour'd forth
Darkness and mourning, horrible and great!
And the stern despot in his madden' d wrath
Exulted wildly o'er thy low estate. ​ Nothing or great or beautiful he spared,
My country! the young warrior by him fell,
The veteran fell, and vile his war-axe glared,
Pleased all its fury o'er thee to impel.
Ev'n the pure maiden fell beneath the rage
Of the unpitying despot, as the rose
Condemned the summer's burning sun to engage
Her bloom and beauty withering soon must close.
Come, O! ye inhabiters of the earth,
And contemplate my misery! can there,
Tell me, be any found of mortal birth
Bearing the sorrows I am doom'd to bear?
I wretched, banish'd from my native land,
Behold, far from the country I adore,
Her former glories lost and high command,
And only left her sufferings to deplore.
Her children have been fatally betray'd
By treacherous brethren, and a tyrant's power;
And these her lovely fertile plains have made
Fields o'er which lamentations only lower.
Her arms extended wide unhappy Spain,
Her sons imploring in her deep distress:
Her sons they were, but her command was vain,
Unheard the traitor madness to repress. ​ Whate'er could then avail thee, tower or wall,
My country! still amid thy woes adored?
Where were the heroes that could once appal
The fiercest foe? where thy unconquer'd sword?
Alas! now on thy children's humbled brow
Deeply is shame engraved, and on their eyes,
Cast down and sorrowfully beating now,
The tears alone of grief and mourning rise.
Once was a time for Spain, when she possessed
A hundred heroes in her hour of pride;
And trembling nations saw her manifest
Her power and beauty, dazzling by their side.
As lofty shows itself in Lebanon
The cedar, so her brow she raised on high;
And fell her voice the nations round upon,
As terrifies a girl the thunders nigh.
But as a stone now in the desert's wild
Thou liest abandoned, and an unknown way
Through strangers' lands, uncertain where, exiled
The patriot's doomed unfortunate to stray.
Her ancient pomp and power are cover' d o'er
With sand and weeds contemptuous; and the foe,
That trembled at her puissance before,
Now mocks exulting and enjoys her woe. ​Maidens! your flowing locks dishevell'd tear,
To give them to the wandering winds; and bring
Your harps in mournful company to share
With me the sorrowful laments I sing.
Thus banish'd from our homes afar away
Still let us weep our miseries. O! Spain,
Who shall have power thy torments to allay?
Who shall have power to dry thy tears again!
# Messages and Letters of William Henry Harrison/Harrison to McIntosh Regarding land mortgage

William H. Harrison to William McIntosh
Greenfield Kentucky, 3rd April 1801
Burton Historical Collection, 59
Dear Sir:
I am informed by Judge [John] Griffin that the land which I bought of [Francis] Vigo was included in the Mortgage given to his Creditors at Detroit—if so I must ask the favor of you to get these gentlemen to release the Mortgage on Condition of my securing the purchase money to them— ​This I will do—& pay it in two equal annual payments Viz one half on the 1st of Jany next & the ballance the ensuing Jany. (1803) this will certainly be favorable for them as there is no chance of their getting the money from Vigo—but by foreclosing the Mortgage or in this way—I wish you could get Authority from this Company to release any other land which I may purchase from Vigo—& the payments of which to be made to them—
I shall set out for Vincennes in a few days where I hope to see you soon—
I am with great Regard
Your Humb Servt.
Willm H. Harrison
* ↑ William McIntosh, one of the well known Scotch family of McIntosh, moved to Vincennes about the time of the Revolution, received an appointed' 1801 of major of militia and treasurer of the territory, later fell out with Harrison. Burton Collection, 59; Dunn, Indiana 323, 328, 362, 413
* ↑ Judge John Griffin, a Federal Judge when Indiana territory was organized; judge in Michigan territory 1805, native of Va. son of Cyrus Griffin, last president of the Continental congress. He left Detroit 1824, went to Philadelphia, and died there 1840. Burton Historical Collection 59