OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Optimism/Knitting

At the concert and the play Everywhere you see them sitting, Knitting, knitting. Women who the other day Thought of nothing but their frocks Or their jewels or their locks, Women who have lived for pleasure, Who have known no work but leisure, Now are knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.
On the trains and on the ships With a diligence befitting, They are knitting. Some with smiles upon their lips, Some with manners debonair, Some with earnest look and air. But each heart in its own fashion, Weaves in pity and compassion In their knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.
Hurried women to and fro From their homes to labour flitting, Knitting, knitting, Busy handed come and go. Broken bits of time they spare, Just to feel they do their share, Just to keep life’s sense of beauty In the doing of a duty, They are knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/To France

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To France
By RALPH CHAPLIN.
Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet, Thou of the red Commune's heroic days; Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze Until these new bastiles fall at thy feet. Once more thy sons march down the ancient street Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise; Once more La Carmagnole—La Marseillaise Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat.
Ah, France—our—France—must they again endure The crown of thorns upon the cross of death? Is morning here. . .? Then speak that we may know! The sky seems lighter but we are not sure. Is morning here. . .? The whole world holds its breath
To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow.
# Poems for our Children/Birds

POEMS.
BIRDS.
If ever I see, On bush or tree, Young birds in a pretty nest, I must not, in my play, Steal the birds away, To grieve their mother's breast.
My mother I know, Would sorrow so, Should I be stolen away— So I 'll speak to the birds, In my softest words, Nor hurt them in my play.
# Poems for our Children/Choosing the Flower

CHOOSING THE FLOWER.
'I have a present, child, for thee, A flower—you will not lose it, Come choose you one from out these three, And tell me why you choose it.'
'The poppy—O 't is beautiful;— The brightest flower that blows— But Mother—I had rather smell A violet or rose—
​'The poppy makes me sleepy too, So I will choose some other— But these two flowers—what shall I do? I want them both, my mother.'
'And I, my gentle child, want one, And surely you 'll not grieve me, And take the pretty ones—and none But this dull poppy leave me.'
'No, mother—no—the rose is thine— How sweet—here only breathe it; —I choose the violet for mine, —Because—it grew beneath it.'
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/The Song of the Classes

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"The Song of the Classes"
By Ernest Jones
Chartist leader and poet, 1819–1869; sentenced in 1848 to two years imprisonment.
We plough and sow—we're so very, very low That we delve in the dirty clay, Till we bless the plain—with the golden grain, And the vale with the fragrant hay. Our place we know—we're so very low. 'Tis down at the landlord's feet: We're not too low—the bread to grow, But too low the bread to eat.
Down, down we go—we're so very, very low, To the hell of the deep sunk mines, But we gather the proudest gems that glow Where the crown of a despot shines. And whenever he lacks—upon our backs Fresh loads he deigns to lay: We're far too low to vote the tax, But not too low to pay.
We're low—we're low—mere rabble, we know, But at our plastic power The mould at the lordlings' feet will grow Into palace and church and tower—
​Then prostrate fall—in the rich man's hall, And cringe at the rich man's door: We're not too low to build the wall, But too low to tread the floor.
We're low—we're low—we're very, very low, Yet from our fingers glide The silken flow—and the robes that glow Round the limbs of the sons of pride. And what we get—and what we give— We know, and we know our share: We're not too low the cloth to weave, But too low the cloth to wear.
We're low—we're low—we're very, very low, And yet when the trumpets ring, The thrust of a poor man's arm will go Through the heart of the proudest king. We're low—we're low—our place we know We're only the rank and file, We're not too low to kill the foe, But too low to touch the spoil.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/We Have Fed You All For a Thousand Years

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We Have Fed You All For a Thousand Years.
Poem—By an Unknown Proletarian.
We have fed you all, for a thousand years And you hail us still unfed, Though there's never a dollar of all your wealth But marks the worker's dead. We have yielded our best to give you rest And you lie on crimson wool. Then if blood be the price of all your wealth, Good God! We have paid it in full.
There is never a mine blown skyward now But we're buried alive for you. There's never a wreck drifts shoreward now But we are its ghastly crew. Go reckon our dead by the forges red And the factories where we spin. If blood be the price of your cursed wealth Good God! We have paid it in.
We have fed you all for a thousand years— For that was our doom, you know, From the days when you chained us in your fields To the strike of a week ago. You have taken our lives, and our babies and wives, And we're told it's your legal share; But if blood be the price of your lawful wealth Good God! We have bought it fair.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Wheatland—A Memory

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Wheatland—A Memory
By MIRIAM ALLEN DeFORD.
Dust—powdery dust— Dust on the long benches and the rickety chairs of the courtroom— Dust on the old-time desk with its hanging bulb concealed in an inky blotter— Dust on the table covered with scabby red oilcloth— Dust on the two cells downstairs, with their barred doors open to the street— Dust on the heart of Wheatland— Dust and cobwebs. The wide empty street of Wheatland is vacant and quiet as a melancholiac. Somnolent shops snore by the raised wooden paving. The tiny hotel is bare and casual. Dust—dust—dust in the sunlight on the powdery roads, Dust on the houses with their tired hedges of honeysuckle, Dust on the apathetic railroad station— A curse of dust on the town of Wheatland.
The dust is all whispering. . . It whispers in the drab rutted streets— It whispers through the torn hanging window-shades of the courtroom— It whispers over the empty cells with their whitewashed sides scrawled with inscriptions— ("Ten days"—"nine days more"—Kentucky Slim did ​time here")— It whispers ominously away off on the wind to the wheat-fields and the hop-fields— It whispers till the heart is chilled— It whispers till Ford and Suhr can hear it in Folsom.
A curse of whispering dust on the town of Wheatland! A curse of sleep on the town of Wheatland! A curse of hops on the town of Wheatland! A curse of memories on the town of Wheatland!
# Poems for our Children

Although labelled "Part First", no second part was ever published.
POEMS
FOR
OUR CHILDREN.
BY
MRS SARAH J. HALE.
POEMS
FOR OUR CHILDREN:
DESIGNED FOR
FAMILIES, SABBATH SCHOOLS, AND INFANT SCHOOLS.
WRITTEN TO INCULCATE MORAL TRUTHS AND VIRTUOUS SENTIMENTS.
BY MRS SARAH J. HALE.
'The love of country and the love of God.'
'Long may it be ere luxury teach the shame, To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldly frame.'
PART FIRST.
BOSTON: MARSH, CAPEN & LYON. 1830.
BOSTON: Waitt & Dow's Print, 122 Washington-St.
To all Good Children in the United States.
Dear Children,
I wrote this book for you—to please and instruct you. I know children love to read rhymes, and sing little verses; but they often read silly rhymes, and such manner of spending their time is not good. I intended, when I began to write this book, to furnish you with a few pretty songs and poems which would teach you truths, and, I hope, induce you to love truth and goodness. Children who love their parents and their home, can soon teach their hearts to love their God and their country.
I offer you the 'First Part' of 'Poems for our Children'—if you like these I shall soon write the Second Part, and perhaps I shall make a larger book.
SARAH J. HALE.
Boston, May 1, 1830.
* Birds
* Mary's Lamb
* My Mother's Sweet Kiss
* Spring
* Summer Morning
* The Mole and the Eagle
* Choosing the Flower
* The Thunder Storm
* My Country
* The Boy, the Bee, and the Butterfly
* Sabbath Morning
* The Lesson
* The Bright Hearth
* The Stars
* Prayer
MARSH, CAPEN & LYON.
NO. 362 WASHINGTON ST—BOSTON,
HAVE CONSTANTLY FOR SALE,
A LARGE ASSORTMENT OF
JUVENILE BOOKS.
ON THE MOST LIBERAL TERMS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems for our Children/Mary's Lamb

MARY'S LAMB.
Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day— That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school.
And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear; And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said—'I'm not afraid— You'll keep me from all harm.'
'What makes the lamb love Mary so?' The eager children cry— ​'O, Mary loves the lamb, you know,' The Teacher did reply;— 'And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind.'
# Poems for our Children/My Country

MY COUNTRY.
America! my own dear land,— O, 'tis a lovely land to me; I thank my God that I was born Where man is free!
Our land—it is a glorious land— And wide it spreads from sea to sea— And sister States in Union join And all are free.
And equal laws we all obey,— To kings we never bend the knee— We may not own no Lord but God Where all are free.
We' ve lofty hills and sunny vales And streams that roll to either sea— And through this large and varied land Alike we 're free.
​You hear the sounds of healthful toil, And youth's gay shout and childhood's glee, And every one in safety dwells, And all are free.
We 're brothers all from South to North, One bond will draw us to agree— We love this country of our birth— We love the free—
We love the name of Washington, I lisped it on my father's knee— And we shall ne'er forget the name While we are free.
My Land, my own dear native Land, Thou art a lovely land to me; I bless my God that I was born Where man is free!
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/Unguided Will

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE ASSIGNATION.
God, in thy mercy, keep us with thy hand!
Dark are the thoughts that strive within the heart,
When evil passions rise like sudden storms,
Fearful and fierce! Let us not act those thoughts;
Leave not our course to our unguided will.
Left to ourselves, all crime is possible,
And those who seemed the most removed from guilt,
Have sunk the deepest!
Blanchard’s title is:
UNGUIDED WILL
In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838 ), as Evil Passions
Also recorded as Poverty
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/A Fragment

A FRAGMENT.
Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave! Let the pines murmur o'er your grave, Your dirge be in the moaning wave; We call you back no more!
Oh! there was mourning when ye fell, In your own vales a deep-toned knell, An agony—a wild farewell— But that hath long been o'er.
Rest with your still and solemn fame; The hills keep record of your name, And never can a touch of shame Darken the buried brow.
But we on changeful days are cast, When bright names from their place fall fast— And ye, that with your glory past, We cannot mourn you now.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/"Hark! in the trembling leaves,"

V.
Hark! in the trembling leaves, Mysterious whispers: hark! a rushing sound, Sweeps through yon twilight depth! e'en now they come, They throng to greet their guest! and who are they! Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, As a King's children gathered for the hour Of some high festival! exultingly, And kindred-like and God-like, on they pass, The glorious wandering shapes! aged and young Proud men and royal women! Lo my race, My sire's ancestral race!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/A Prayer

XIX.
A PRAYER.
Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest flower On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, Draws not sweet odour or young life alone, But the deep virtue of an inborn power To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour, With thoughts of Thee; to strengthen, to infuse Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues That speak thy presence; oh! with such a dower Grace Thou my song!—the precious gift bestow From thy pure spirit's treasury divine, To wake one tear of purifying flow, To soften one wrung heart for Thee and Thine; So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain, Be as the meek wild-flower's—if transient, yet not vain.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/A Remembrance of Grasmere

XII.
A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.
O vale and lake, within your mountain-urn Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep With light Elysian:—for the hues that steep Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float On golden clouds from Spirit-lands remote, Isles of the blest;—and in our memory keep Their place with holiest harmonies:—Fair scene, Most lov'd by evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar The perfect music of the charm serene! Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer!
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/Too Late

TOO LATE
CHAPTER XXIV.
A SCENE AT THE MASQUERADE.
I do not say, bequeath unto my soul
 Thy memory, I rather ask forgetting;
Withdraw, I pray, from me thy strong control;
 Though, that withdrawn, what has life worth regretting?
Alas! this is a miserable earth!
 Too late, or else too soon, the heart-beat quickens:
Hope finds too late its light was nothing worth,
 And round a dark and final vapour thickens.
MEMORY (EXTRACT)
From Three Extracts from the Diary of a Week – Memory in The New Monthly Magazine, 1837 (Vol 49)
As this poem is already in Blanchard’s Life and Literary Remains, he omits this separate extract
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/We Might Have Been

CHAPTER XXI.
LADY MARCHMONT'S JOURNAL.
We might have been!—these are but common words,
 And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing;
They are the echo of those finer chords,
 Whose music life deplores when unavailing.—
We might have been!
Alas! how different from what we are,
 Had we but known the bitter path before us!
But feelings, hopes, and fancies, left afar,
 What in the wide, bleak world can e'er restore us?—
We might have been!
WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN (EXTRACT)
From Three Extracts from the Diary of a Week–We Might have Been in The New Monthly Magazine, 1837 (Vol 49)
As this poem is already in Blanchard’s Life and Literary Remains, he omits this separate extract
# Poetical Portrait

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Poetical Portrait."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
Six poems entitled Poetical Portrait are included in Letitia Elizabeth Landon's collection The Venetian Bracelet, as follows:
* Poetical Portrait No. I, 'O no, sweet lady, not to thee'
* Poetical Portrait No. II, 'Ah! little do those features wear'
* Poetical Portrait No. III, 'His hand is on the snowy sail'
* Poetical Portrait No. IV, 'His brow is pale with high and passionate thoughts'
* Poetical Portrait No. V, 'Thy beauty! not a fault is there'
* Poetical Portrait No. VI, 'The light is kindling in his eye'
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/Youth and Love

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE DISCLOSURE.
Young, loving, and beloved—these are brief words;
And yet they touch on all the finer chords,
Whose music is our happiness; the tone
May die away, and be no longer known,
In the sad changes brought by darker years,
When the heart has to treasure up its tears,
And life looks mournful on an altered scene—
Still it is much to think that it has been.
Blanchard’s title is:
YOUTH AND LOVE
From The Venetian Bracelet, Canto I
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 20

Scans
Layout 4
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from Flowers of Loveliness, 1838/The Water-Lily

* WATER-LILIES
* Artist Fanny CorbauxEngraver G. Adcock
From the review in The Literary Gazette, 21st October 1837 Page 667-668
The Water-Lily.
Not 'mid the soil and the shadow of earth,
Have we our home, or take we our birth;
Keep ye your valleys that breathe of the rose,
When bendeth the myrtle; we reck not of those.
Low in the waters our palace we make,
Where sweepeth the river, or spreadeth the lake; And the willow that bends with its green hair above,
Like a lady in grief, is the tree that we love.
At noontide we sleep to the music of shells, That we bring from the depths of the sea to our cells; Our cells that are roofed with the crystal, whose light
Is like the young moon’s, on her first summer night.
Strange plants are around us, whose delicate leaves
No hue from the sunshine or moonlight receives; Yet rich are the colours, as those that are given
When the first hours of April are azure in heaven.
There branches the coral, as red as the lip
Of the earliest rose that the honey-bees sip;
And above are encrusted a myriad of spars,
With the hues of the rainbow, the light of the stars.
Our streams are like mirrors, reflecting the ranks
Of the wild flowers that blossom and bend on our banks;
We give back their beauty—the face is as fair
Of the rose in the wave, as it is on the air.
But the flower that we choose in our tresses to bind,—
How long are those tresses when flung on the wind!—
Is the lily, that ﬂoats on the shadowy tide,
With a white cup that treasures its gold-dust inside.
The pearls that lie under the ocean are white,
Like a bride’s sunny weeping, whose tears are half light,
And pure as the fall of the snow's early showers;
But they are not more fair nor more pure than these flowers.
We float down the wave when the waters are red
With the blushes that morning around her hath shed;
And we wring from our long hair the damps of the night,
The dew-drops that shine on the grass are less bright.
But alone, in the night, with the planets above,
Or the silvery moon, is the hour that we love;
Cold, pale is the light, and it suits with our doom,
For our heart has no warmth, and our cheek has no bloom.
The night wind then bears our sad singing along;
Ah! wo unto him who shall listen the song!
There is love in the music that ﬂoats on the air;
But the mortal who seeks us seeks death and despair.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from Flowers of Loveliness, 1838/The Poppy

* POPPY
* Artist Miss CorbauxEngraver T. A. Dean
From the review in The Literary Gazette, 21st October 1837, page 667
"The Poppy.
Pale are her enchanted slumbers;
 Pale is she with many dreams;
That white brow the turban cumbers;
 Wan, yet feverish she seems. Not the fountain's silvery flowing
 Lulls that haunted sleep;
Round her are wild visions growing,  Such as wake and weep.
Drugg'd is that impassioned sleeping,
 Sleep that is like life;
By the unquiet pillow keeping
 Hope, and fear, and strife.
Fast the fatal flower has bound her
 In its heavy spell;
Strange wild phantasms surround her,
 But she knows them well.
First, there comes an hour Elysian,
 Would it might remain!
Bringing back Love's early vision,
 But without its pain.
Soft the myrtles of the wild wood,
 Round her path-way part;
Happy like a guileless childhood,  With a woman’s heart.
But a deeper shadow closes
 On those lovely hours,
And the opening sky discloses
 Old ancestral towers:
There they stand—white, stately, solemn;
 While she looks, they fall; Round her lies the broken column,
 And the ruined wall.
Then, amid a forest lonely
 Does she seem to stray;
Our huge serpent, and one only,
 Seems to mark her way.
Then begins her hour of terror;
 Strange shapes know their time—
Struggling with some nameless error,
 With some unknown crime.
Phantoms crowd around, repeating
 Words that are of death; Loud her startled heart is beating,
 Louder than her breath.
But a rosy lip has kissed her,
 With that kiss she wakes;
Pale she gazes on the sister
 Who her slumber breaks.
Mighty must have been the sorrow,
 Passionate the grief,
Which can thus a solace borrow,
 From that haunted leaf.
Scarcer does the broken-hearted
 Draw a living breath;
Better it were quite departed,
 Than this life in death."
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Death’s Doings/The Scroll

* THE SCROLL
“THE SCROLL."
The maiden's cheek blush'd ruby bright, And her heart beat quick with its own delight; Again she should dwell on those vows so dear, Almost as if her lover were near. Little deemed she that letter would tell How that true lover fought and fell. The maiden read till her cheek grew pale— Yon drooping eye tells all the tale: She sees her own knight's last fond prayer, And she reads in that scroll her heart's despair. Oh! grave, how terrible art thou To young hearts bound in one fond vow. Oh! human love, how vain is thy trust; Hope! how soon art thou laid in dust.
Thou fatal pilgrim, who art thou, As thou fling'st the black veil from thy shadowy brow? I know thee now, dark lord of the tomb, By the pale maiden's withering bloom: The light is gone from her glassy eye, And her cheek is struck by mortality; From her parted lip there comes no breath, For that scroll was fate—its bearer—Death.
L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Death’s Doings

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Death’s Doings
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Pilgrim
* The Scroll
* The Serenade
* The Warrior
DEATH'S DOINGS:
CONSISTING OF NUMEROUS
ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS,
IN
Prose and Verse,
THE
FRIENDLY CONTRIBUTIONS OF VARIOUS WRITERS;
PRICIPALLY INTENDED AS
ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
THIRTY COPPER PLATES,
DESIGNED AND ETCHED
BY R. DAGLEY, AUTHOR OF "SELECT GEMS FROM THE ANTIQUE," &c.
SECOND EDITION, WITH CONSIDERABLE ADDITIONS
LONDON: J. ANDREWS, 167, NEW BOND STREET; AND W. COLE, 10, NEWGATE STREET.
1827.
See also Letitia Landon’s Sketches from Drawings by Mr Dagley in The Literary Gazette, 27th July 1822 onwards.