OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/O God of heaven! The dream of horror

PRIVATELY PRINTED POEMS
I
O God of heaven! The dream of horror, The frightful dream is over now; The sickened heart, the blasting sorrow, The ghastly night, the ghastlier morrow, The aching sense of utter woe.
The burning tears that would keep welling, The groan that mocked at every tear, That burst from out their dreary dwelling, As if each gasp were life expelling, But life was nourished by despair.
The tossing and the anguished pining, The grinding teeth and starting eye; The agony of still repining, When not a spark of hope was shining From gloomy fate's relentless sky.
The impatient rage, the useless shrinking From thoughts that yet could not be borne; The soul that was for ever thinking, Till nature maddened, tortured, sinking, At last refused to mourn. ​It's over now—and I am free, And the ocean wind is caressing me, The wild wind from the wavy main I never thought to see again.
Bless thee, bright Sea, and glorious dome, And my own world, my spirit's home; Bless thee, bless all—I cannot speak; My voice is choked, but not with grief, And salt drops from my haggard cheek Descend like rain upon the heath.
How long they've wet a dungeon floor, Falling on flagstones damp and grey: I used to weep even in my sleep; The night was dreadful like the day.
I used to weep when winter's snow Whirled through the grating stormily; But then it was a calmer woe, For everything was drear to me.
The bitterest time, the worst of all, Was that in which the summer sheen Cast a green lustre on the wall That told of fields of lovelier green.
Often I've sat down on the ground, Gazing up to the flush scarce seen, Till, heedless of the darkness round, My soul has sought a land serene. ​It sought the arch of heaven divine, The pure blue heaven with clouds of gold; It sought thy father's home and mine As I remembered it of old.
Oh, even now too horribly Come back the feelings that would swell, When with my face hid on my knee, I strove the bursting groans to quell.
I flung myself upon the stone; I howled, and tore my tangled hair; And then, when the first gust had flown, Lay in unspeakable despair.
Sometimes a curse, sometimes a prayer, Would quiver on my parchèd tongue; But both without a murmur there Died in the breast from whence they sprung.
And so the day would fade on high, And darkness quench that lonely beam, And slumber mould my misery Into some strange and spectral dream, Whose phantom horrors made me know The worst extent of human woe.
But this is past, and why return O'er such a path to brood and mourn? Shake off the fetters, break the chain, And live and love and smile again. ​The waste of youth, the waste of years, Departed in that dungeon thrall; The gnawing grief, the hopeless tears, Forget them—oh, forget them all!
August 7, 1834, E. J. B.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Plead for Me

XIV
PLEAD FOR ME
Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now, When Reason, with a scornful brow, Is mocking at my overthrow! Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me And tell why I have chosen thee!
Stern Reason is to judgement come, Arrayed in all her forms of gloom: Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb? No, radiant angel, speak and say, Why I did cast the world away.
Why I have persevered to shun The common paths that others run; And on a strange road journeyed on, Heedless, alike of wealth and power— Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.
These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, And saw my offerings on their shrine; But careless gifts are seldom prized, And mine were worthily despised. ​So, with a ready heart, I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever-present, phantom thing— My slave, my comrade, and my king.
A slave, because I rule thee still; Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill: A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight,—
My darling pain that wounds and sears, And wrings a blessing out from tears By deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And am I wrong to worship where Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Conductor Bradley

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY
A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut railway, May 9, 1873.
Conductor Bradley, (always may his name Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came, Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,
Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stood To do the utmost that a brave man could, And die, if needful, as a true man should.
Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears, Lost in the strength and glory of his years.
What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain, Dead to all thought save duty’s, moved again: “Put out the signals for the other train!”
No nobler utterance since the world began From lips of saint or martyr ever ran, Electric, through the sympathies of man.
Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to this The sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness, Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!
Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain That last brave act of failing tongue and brain! Freighted with life the downward rushing train,
Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave, Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave. Others he saved, himself he could not save.
Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead Who in his record still the earth shall tread With God’s clear aureole shining round his head.
We bow as in the dust, with all our pride Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside. God give us grace to live as Bradley died!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Divine Compassion

DIVINE COMPASSION
Long since, a dream of heaven I had, And still the vision haunts me oft; I see the saints in white robes clad, The martyrs with their palms aloft; But hearing still, in middle song, The ceaseless dissonance of wrong; And shrinking, with hid faces, from the strain Of sad, beseeching eyes, full of remorse and pain.
The glad song falters to a wail, The harping sinks to low lament; Before the still unlifted veil I see the crownëd foreheads bent, Making more sweet the heavenly air With breathings of unselfish prayer; And a Voice saith: “O Pity which is pain, O Love that weeps, fill up my sufferings which remain!
“Shall souls redeemed by me refuse To share my sorrow in their turn? Or, sin-forgiven, my gift abuse Of peace with selfish unconcern? Has saintly ease no pitying care? Has faith no work, and love no prayer? While sin remains, and souls in darkness dwell, Can heaven itself be heaven, and look unmoved on hell?”
Then through the Gates of Pain, I dream, A wind of heaven blows coolly in; Fainter the awful discords seem, The smoke of torment grows more thin, Tears quench the burning soil, and thence Spring sweet, pale flowers of penitence: And through the dreary realm of man’s despair, Star-crowned an angel walks, and lo! God’s hope is there!
Is it a dream? Is heaven so high That pity cannot breathe its air? Its happy eyes forever dry, Its holy lips without a prayer! My God! my God! if thither led By Thy free grace unmerited, No crown nor palm be mine, but let me keep A heart that still can feel, and eyes that still can weep.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Child-Songs

CHILD-SONGS
Still linger in our noon of time And on our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns The Aryan mothers sung.
And childhood had its litanies In every age and clime; The earliest cradles of the race Were rocked to poet’s rhyme.
Nor sky, nor wave, nor tree, nor flower, Nor green earth’s virgin sod, So moved the singer’s heart of old As these small ones of God.
The mystery of unfolding life Was more than dawning morn, Than opening flower or crescent moon The human soul new-born!
And still to childhood’s sweet appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach From lisping voices learns,—
The voices loved of him who sang, Where Tweed and Teviot glide, That sound to-day on all the winds That blow from Rydal-side,—
Heard in the Teuton’s household songs, And folk-lore of the Finn, Where’er to holy Christmas hearths The Christ-child enters in!
Before life’s sweetest mystery still The heart in reverence kneels; The wonder of the primal birth The latest mother feels.
We need love’s tender lessons taught As only weakness can; God hath His small interpreters; The child must teach the man.
We wander wide through evil years, Our eyes of faith grow dim; But he is freshest from His hands And nearest unto Him!
And haply, pleading long with Him For sin-sick hearts and cold, The angels of our childhood still The Father’s face behold.
Of such the kingdom!—Teach Thou us, O Master most divine, To feel the deep significance Of these wise words of Thine!
The haughty eye shall seek in vain What innocence beholds; No cunning finds the key of heaven, No strength its gate unfolds.
Alone to guilelessness and love That gate shall open fall; The mind of pride is nothingness, The childlike heart is all!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Birchbrook Mill

BIRCHBROOK MILL
A noteless stream, the Birchbrook runs Beneath its leaning trees; That low, soft ripple is its own, That dull roar is the sea’s.
Of human signs it sees alone The distant church spire’s tip, And, ghost-like, on a blank of gray, The white sail of a ship.
No more a toiler at the wheel, It wanders at its will; Nor dam nor pond is left to tell Where once was Birchbrook mill.
The timbers of that mill have fed Long since a farmer’s fires; His doorsteps are the stones that ground The harvest of his sires.
Man trespassed here; but Nature lost No right of her domain; She waited, and she brought the old Wild beauty back again.
By day the sunlight through the leaves Falls on its moist, green sod, And wakes the violet bloom of spring And autumn’s golden-rod.
Its birches whisper to the wind, The swallow dips her wings In the cool spray, and on its banks The gray song-sparrow sings.
But from it, when the dark night falls, The school-girl shrinks with dread; The farmer, home-bound from his fields, Goes by with quickened tread.
They dare not pause to hear the grind Of shadowy stone on stone; The plashing of a water-wheel Where wheel there now is none.
Has not a cry of pain been heard Above the clattering mill? The pawing of an unseen horse, Who waits his mistress still?
Yet never to the listener’s eye Has sight confirmed the sound; A wavering birch line marks alone The vacant pasture ground.
No ghostly arms fling up to heaven The agony of prayer; No spectral steed impatient shakes His white mane on the air.
The meaning of that common dread No tongue has fitly told; The secret of the dark surmise The brook and birches hold.
What nameless horror of the past Broods here forevermore? What ghost his unforgiven sin Is grinding o’er and o’er?
Does, then, immortal memory play The actor’s tragic part, Rehearsals of a mortal life And unveiled human heart?
God’s pity spare a guilty soul That drama of its ill, And let the scenic curtain fall On Birchbrook’s haunted mill!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Burial of Barber

BURIAL OF BARBER
Thomas Barber was shot December 6, 1855, near Lawrence, Kansas.
Bear him, comrades, to his grave; Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep, In the ages yet to come, When the millions in our room, What we sow in tears, shall reap.
Bear him up the icy hill, With the Kansas, frozen still As his noble heart, below, And the land he came to till With a freeman’s thews and will, And his poor hut roofed with snow!
One more look of that dead face, Of his murder’s ghastly trace! One more kiss, O widowed one! Lay your left hands on his brow, Lift your right hands up, and vow That his work shall yet be done.
Patience, friends! The eye of God Every path by Murder trod Watches, lidless, day and night; And the dead man in his shroud, And his widow weeping loud, And our hearts, are in His sight.
Every deadly threat that swells With the roar of gambling hells, Every brutal jest and jeer, Every wicked thought and plan Of the cruel heart of man, Though but whispered, He can hear!
We in suffering, they in crime, Wait the just award of time, Wait the vengeance that is due; Not in vain a heart shall break, Not a tear for Freedom’s sake Fall unheeded: God is true.
While the flag with stars bedecked Threatens where it should protect, And the Law shakes hands with Crime, What is left us but to wait, Match our patience to our fate, And abide the better time?
Patience, friends! The human heart Everywhere shall take our part, Everywhere for us shall pray; On our side are nature’s laws, And God’s life is in the cause That we suffer for to-day.
Well to suffer is divine; Pass the watchword down the line, Pass the countersign: “Endure.” Not to him who rashly dares, But to him who nobly bears, Is the victor’s garland sure.
Frozen earth to frozen breast, Lay our slain one down to rest; Lay him down in hope and faith, And above the broken sod, Once again, to Freedom’s God, Pledge ourselves for life or death,
That the State whose walls we lay, In our blood and tears, to-day, Shall be free from bonds of shame, And our goodly land untrod By the feet of Slavery, shod With cursing as with flame!
Plant the Buckeye on his grave, For the hunter of the slave In its shadow cannot rest; And let martyr mound and tree Be our pledge and guaranty Of the freedom of the West!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Daniel Neall

DANIEL NEALL
Dr. Neall, a worthy disciple of that venerated philanthropist, Warner Mifflin, whom the Girondist statesman, Jean Pierre Brissot, pronounced “an angel of mercy, the best man he ever knew,” was one of the noble band of Pennsylvania abolitionists, whose bravery was equalled only by their gentleness and tenderness.
I
Friend of the Slave, and yet the friend of all; Lover of peace, yet ever foremost when The need of battling Freedom called for men To plant the banner on the outer wall; Gentle and kindly, ever at distress Melted to more than woman’s tenderness, Yet firm and steadfast, at his duty’s post Fronting the violence of a maddened host, Like some gray rock from which the waves are tossed! Knowing his deeds of love, men questioned not The faith of one whose walk and word were right; Who tranquilly in Life’s great task-field wrought, And, side by side with evil, scarcely caught A stain upon his pilgrim garb of white: Prompt to redress another’s wrong, his own Leaving to Time and Truth and Penitence alone.
II
Such was our friend. Formed on the good old plan, A true and brave and downright honest man!
He blew no trumpet in the market-place, Nor in the church with hypocritic face Supplied with cant the lack of Christian grace; Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful will What others talked of while their hands were still; And, while “Lord, Lord!” the pious tyrants cried, Who, in the poor, their Master crucified, His daily prayer, far better understood In acts than words, was simply doing good. So calm, so constant was his rectitude, That by his loss alone we know its worth, And feel how true a man has walked with us on earth.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Burning Drift-Wood

BURNING DRIFT-WOOD
Before my drift-wood fire I sit, And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it, And folly’s unlaid ghosts return.
O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft The enchanted sea on which they sailed, Are these poor fragments only left Of vain desires and hopes that failed?
Did I not watch from them the light Of sunset on my towers in Spain, And see, far off, uploom in sight The Fortunate Isles I might not gain?
Did sudden lift of fog reveal Arcadia’s vales of song and spring, And did I pass, with grazing keel, The rocks whereon the sirens sing?
Have I not drifted hard upon The unmapped regions lost to man, The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John, The palace domes of Kubla Khan?
Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers, Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills? Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers, And gold from Eldorado’s hills?
Alas! the gallant ships, that sailed On blind Adventure’s errand sent, Howe’er they laid their courses, failed To reach the haven of Content.
And of my ventures, those alone Which Love had freighted, safely sped, Seeking a good beyond my own, By clear-eyed Duty piloted.
O mariners, hoping still to meet The luck Arabian voyagers met, And find in Bagdad’s moonlit street, Haroun al Raschid walking yet,
Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams, The fair, fond fancies dear to youth. I turn from all that only seems, And seek the sober grounds of truth.
What matter that it is not May, That birds have flown, and trees are bare, That darker grows the shortening day, And colder blows the wintry air!
The wrecks of passion and desire, The castles I no more rebuild, May fitly feed my drift-wood fire, And warm the hands that age has chilled.
Whatever perished with my ships, I only know the best remains; A song of praise is on my lips For losses which are now my gains.
Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost; No wisdom with the folly dies. Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust Shall be my evening sacrifice!
Far more than all I dared to dream, Unsought before my door I see; On wings of fire and steeds of steam The world’s great wonders come to me,
And holier signs, unmarked before, Of Love to seek and Power to save,— The righting of the wronged and poor, The man evolving from the slave;
And life, no longer chance or fate, Safe in the gracious Fatherhood. I fold o’er-wearied hands and wait, In full assurance of the good.
And well the waiting time must be, Though brief or long its granted days, If Faith and Hope and Charity Sit by my evening hearth-fire’s blaze.
And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared, Whose love my heart has comforted, And, sharing all my joys, has shared My tender memories of the dead,—
Dear souls who left us lonely here, Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom We, day by day, are drawing near, Where every bark has sailing room.
I know the solemn monotone Of waters calling unto me; I know from whence the airs have blown That whisper of the Eternal Sea.
As low my fires of drift-wood burn, I hear that sea’s deep sounds increase, And, fair in sunset light, discern Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/By their Works

BY THEIR WORKS
Call him not heretic whose works attest His faith in goodness by no creed confessed. Whatever in love’s name is truly done To free the bound and lift the fallen one Is done to Christ. Whoso in deed and word Is not against Him labors for our Lord. When He, who, sad and weary, longing sore For love’s sweet service, sought the sisters’ door, One saw the heavenly, one the human guest, But who shall say which loved the Master best?
# The Biographical Dictionary of America/Volume 6

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| | Volume 6 | Volume 6 |
| Jack–Lockwood | | |
| [Missing entries] Kendall, Edward Hale Kendall, Ezra Otis Kendall, George Wilkins [Missing entries] |
# The Biographical Dictionary of America/Volume 10

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| | Volume 10 | Volume 10 |
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| [Missing entries] Woods, William Burnham Woodward, Joseph Janvier Woodworth, Samuel [Missing entries] |
# The Biographical Dictionary of America/Volume 5

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| | Volume 5 | Volume 5 |
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| [Missing entries] Hahn, Michael [Missing entries] Hayes, Augustus Allen [Missing entries] |
# The Australian Girl

Aka "An Australian Girl"
"She's pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with; And pleasant, too, to think on."  Sir John Suckling.
She has a beauty of her own, A beauty of a paler tone  Than English belles. The Southern sun and Southern air, Have kissed her cheeks until they wear, The dainty tints that oft appear  On rosy shells.
Her frank, clear eyes, bespeak a mind Old-world traditions fail to bind.  She is not shy Or bold, but simply self-possessed; Her independence adds a zest Unto her speech, her piquant jest,  Her quaint reply.
O'er classic volumes she will pore With joy; and true scholastic lore  Will often gain. In sports she bears away the bell— Rides, rows, sings ; nor, 'neath music's spell, To dance divinely, flirt as well,  Does she disdain.
This work is in the public domain in Australia because it was created in Australia and the term of copyright has expired. According to Australian Copyright Council - Duration of Copyright, the following works are public domain:
* published non-government works whose author died before January 1, 1955,
* anonymous or pseudonymous works and photographs published before January 1, 1955, and
* government works published more than 50 years ago (before January 1, 1974).
This work is also in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in Australia on the URAA date (January 1, 1996). This is the combined effect of Australia having joined the Berne Convention in 1928, and of 17 USC 104A with its critical date of January 1, 1996.
Because the Australian copyright term in 1996 was 50 years, the critical date for copyright in the United States under the URAA is January 1, 1946.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
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