OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Written in Germany

IX.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY,
ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.
A fig for your languages, German and Norse! Let me have the song of the Kettle; And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff; But her pulses beat slower and slower: The weather in Forty was cutting and rough, And then, as Heaven knows, the Glass stood low enough; And now it is four degrees lower.
​Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature,—perhaps A child of the field, or the grove; And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, And he creeps to the edge of my stove.
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains Which this comfortless oven environ! He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall, And now on the brink of the iron.
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed; The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the East and the West, and the South and the North; But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide.
See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh; His eye-sight and hearing are lost; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze Are glued to his sides by the frost.
​No Brother, no Friend has he near him—while I Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love; As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, And woodbines were hanging above.
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds, And back to the forests again.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Weak is the will of Man

IV.
"Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind; "Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; "Heavy is woe;—and joy, for human-kind, "A mournful thing,—so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined: 'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine Flower Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/When looking

XXII.
October, 1803.
When, looking on the present face of things, I see one Man, of Men the meanest too! Raised up to sway the World, to do, undo, With mighty Nations for his Underlings, The great events with which old story rings Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing great; Nothing is left which I can venerate; So that almost a doubt within me springs Of Providence, such emptiness at length Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God! I measure back the steps which I have trod; And tremble, seeing, as I do, the strength Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime I tremble at the sorrow of the time.
# Poems (Nora May French)/The Spanish Girl—Part II

PART II
# Poems (Nora May French)/The Spanish Girl—Part III

PART III
THE END
# Poems (Nora May French)/The Spanish Girl—Part I

THE SPANISH GIRL
PART I
# Poems of Passion/Courage

There is a courage, a majestic thing  That springs forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,  Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known, And all the threatening future yet may bring; Crowned with the helmet of great suffering;  Serene with that grand strength by martyrs shown,  When at the stake they die and make no moan, And even as the flames leap up are heard to sing:
A courage so sublime and unafraid,  It wears its sorrows like a coat of mail;  And Fate, the archer, passes by dismayed, Knowing his best barbed arrows needs must fail To pierce a soul so armored and arrayed  That Death himself might look on it and quail.
# Poems of Passion/Beppo

Why art thou sad, my Beppo? But last eve,  Here at my feet, thy dear head on my breast, I heard thee say thy heart would no more grieve  Or feel the olden ennui and unrest.
What troubles thee? Am I not all thine own?—  I, so long sought, so sighed for and so dear? And do I not live but for thee alone?  "Thou hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year!"
Well, what of that? Last year is naught to me—  'Tis swallowed in the ocean of the past. Art thou not glad 'twas Lippo, and not thee,  Whose brief bright day in that great gulf was cast. Thy day is all before thee. Let no cloud,  Here in the very morn of our delight, Drift up from distant foreign skies, to shroud  Our sun of love whose radiance is so bright.
"Thou art not first?" Nay, and he who would be  Defeats his own heart's dearest purpose then. No truer truth was ever told to thee—  Who has loved most, he best can love again.
If Lippo (and not he alone) has taught  The arts that please thee, wherefore art thou sad? Since all my vast love-lore to thee is brought,  Look up and smile, my Beppo, and be glad.
# Poems of Passion/Change

Changed? Yes, I will confess it—I have changed.  I do not love in the old fond way. I am your friend still—time has not estranged  One kindly feeling of that vanished day.
But the bright glamour which made life a dream,  The rapture of that time, its sweet content, Like visions of a sleeper's brain they seem—  And yet I cannot tell you how they went.
Why do you gaze with such accusing eyes  Upon me, dear? Is it so very strange That hearts, like all things underneath God's skies  Should sometimes feel the influence of change?
The birds, the flowers, the foliage of the trees,  The stars which seem so fixed and so sublime, Vast continents and the eternal seas—  All these do change with ever-changing time.
The face our mirror shows us year on year  Is not the same; our dearest aim or need, Our lightest thought or feeling, hope or fear,  All, all the law of alteration heed.
How can we ask the human heart to stay  Content with fancies of Youth's earliest hours? The year outgrows the violets of May,  Although, maybe, there are no fairer flowers.
And life may hold no sweeter love than this,  Which lies so cold, so voiceless, and so dumb. And shall I miss it, dear? Why, yes, we miss  The violets always—till the roses come!
# Poems of Passion/Conversion

I have lived this life as the skeptic lives it;  I have said the sweetness was less than the gall; Praising, nor cursing, the Hand that gives it,  I have drifted aimlessly through it all. I have scoffed at the tale of a so-called heaven;  I have laughed at the thought of a Supreme Friend; I have said that it only to man was given  To live, to endure; and to die was the end.
But I know that a good God reigneth,  Generous-hearted and kind and true; Since unto a worm like me he deigneth  To send so royal a gift as you. Bright as a star you gleam on my bosom,  Sweet as a rose that the wild bee sips; And I know, my own, my beautiful blossom,  That none but a God could mould such lips.
And I believe, in the fullest measure  That ever a strong man's heart could hold, In all the tales of heavenly pleasure  By poets sung or by prophets told; For in the joy of your shy, sweet kisses,  Your pulsing touch and your languid sigh I am filled and thrilled with better blisses  Than ever were claimed for souls on high.
And now I have faith in all the stories  Told of the beauties of unseen lands; Of royal splendors and marvellous glories  Of the golden city not made with hands For the silken beauty of falling tresses,  Of lips all dewy and cheeks aglow, With—what the mind in a half trance guesses  Of the twin perfection of drifts of snow;
Of limbs like marble, of thigh and shoulder  Carved like a statue in high relief— These, as the eyes and the thoughts grow bolder,  Leave no room for an unbelief. So my lady, my queen most royal,  My skepticism has passed away; If you are true to me, true and loyal,  I will believe till the Judgment-day.
# Poems of Passion/Bleak Weather

Dear Love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew The white snows are falling; And all through the woods where I wandered with you The loud winds are calling; And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune, Neath the oak, you remember, O'er hill-top and forest has followed the June And left us December.
He has left like a friend who is true in the sun And false in the shadows; He has found new delights in the land where he's gone, Greener woodlands and meadows. Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea, Let it drift on the heather; We can sing through it all: I have you, you have me. And we'll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die and a new year be born That is bleaker and colder: It cannot dismay us; we dare it, we scorn, For our love makes us bolder. Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea, You friend in fair weather! But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee, By two warm hearts together.
# Poems of Passion/Communism

When my blood flows calm as a purling river,  When my heart is asleep and my brain has sway, It is then that I vow we must part forever,  That I will forget you, and put you away Out of my life, as a dream is banished  Out of the mind when the dreamer awakes; That I know it will be, when the spell has vanished,  Better for both of our sakes.
When the court of the mind is ruled by Reason,  I know it is wiser for us to part; But Love is a spy who is plotting treason,  In league with that warm, red rebel, the Heart. They whisper to me that the King is cruel,  That his reign is wicked, his law a sin; And every word they utter is fuel  To the flame that smoulders within.
And on nights like this, when my blood runs riot  With the fever of youth and its mad desires, When my brain in vain bids my heart be quiet,  When my breast seems the centre of lava-fires, Oh, then is the time when most I miss you,  And I swear by the stars and my soul and say That I will have you and hold you and kiss you,  Though the whole world stands in the way.
And like Communists, as mad, as disloyal,  My fierce emotions roam out of their lair; They hate King Reason for being royal;  They would fire his castle, and burn him there. Oh, Love! they would clasp you and crush you and kill you,  In the insurrection of uncontrol. Across the miles, does this wild war thrill you  That is raging in my soul?
# Poems of Passion/At Eleusis

I, at Eleusis, saw the finest sight,  When early morning's banners were unfurled.  From high Olympus, gazing on the world, The ancient gods once saw it with delight. Sad Demeter had in a single night  Removed her sombre garments! and mine eyes  Beheld a 'broidered mantle in pale dyes Thrown o'er her throbbing bosom. Sweet and clear There fell the sound of music on mine ear.  And from the South came Hermes, he whose lyre  One time appeased the great Apollo's ire. The rescued maid, Persephone, by the hand He led to waiting Demeter, and cheer And light and beauty once more blessed the land.
# Poems of Passion/Attraction

The meadow and the mountain with desire Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest Surged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast, And all the mountain's fissures ran with fire.
A mighty river rolled between them there. What could the mountain do but gaze and burn? What could the meadow do but look and yearn, And gem its bosom to conceal despair?
Their seething passion agitated space, Till, lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook, The river fled, the meadow leaped and took The leaning mountain in a close embrace.
# Poems of Passion/Beyond

It seemeth such a little way to me  Across to that strange country—the Beyond; And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be  The home of those of whom I am so fond, They make it seem familiar and most dear, As journeying friends bring distant regions near.
So close it lies that when my sight is clear  I think I almost see the gleaming strand. I know I feel those who have gone from here  Come near enough sometimes to touch my hand. I often think, but for our veiled eyes, We should find Heaven right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem a day to dread,  When from this dear earth I shall journey out To that still dearer country of the dead,  And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about. I love this world, yet shall I love to go And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above a bier and see  The seal of death set on some well-loved face But that I think, "One more to welcome me  When I shall cross the intervening space Between this land and that one 'over there'; One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair."
And so for me there is no sting to death,  And so the grave has lost its victory. It is but crossing—with a bated breath  And white, set face—a little strip of sea To find the loved ones waiting on the shore, More beautiful, more precious than before.
# Poems of Passion/But One

The year has but one June, dear friend;  The year has but one June; And when that perfect month doth end, The robin's song, though loud, though long,  Seems never quite in tune.
The rose, though still its blushing face  By bee and bird is seen, May yet have lost that subtle grace— That nameless spell the winds know  Which makes it garden's queen.
Life's perfect June, love's red, red rose,  Have burned and bloomed for me. Though still youth's summer sunlight glows; Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find  I have no heart for thee.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1827/The Distant Ship

THE DISTANT SHIP.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
I.
The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast,
 Shoots like a glancing star,
While the red radiance of the west
 Spreads kindling fast and far;
And yet that splendour wins thee not,—
 Thy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark, distant spot
 Of all the main and sky.
II.
Look round thee!—o'er the slumbering deep
 A solemn glory broods;
A fire hath touched the beacon-steep,
 And all the golden woods:
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
 Burn with the amber light;—
What spell, from that rich pageantry,
 Chains down thy gazing sight?
III.
A chastening thought of human cares,
 A feeling, linked to earth!
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears
 The loved of many a hearth?
Oh! do not hope, and grief, and fear,
 Crowd her frail world even now,
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear
 Follow her venturous prow?
IV.
Bright are the floating clouds above,
 The glittering seas below;
But we are bound by cords of love
 To kindred weal and woe!
Therefore, amidst this wide array
 Of glorious things and fair,
My soul is on that bark's lone way,
 For human hearts are there.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/Ancient Song of Victory

* THE RETURN OF A VICTORIOUS ARMAMENT
* TO A GREEK CITY
* Painted by William Linton Esq.Engraved by Edward Goodall
ANCIENT SONG OF VICTORY.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.
Byron.
I. Io! they come, they come!
 Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home;
 Bring roses, pour ye wine!
II.
Swell, swell the Dorian flute
 Thro' the blue, triumphal sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
 The Sons of Victory!
III.
With the offering of bright blood,
 They have ransomed hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;—
 Io! they come, they come!
IV.
Sing it where olives wave,
 And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave,—
Sing, sing, the land is free!
V. Mark ye the flashing oars,
 And the spears that light the deep?
How the festal sunshine pours
 Where the lords of battle sweep!
VI.
Each hath brought back his shield;—
 Maid, greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,
 Io! thy son is come!
VII.
Who murmured of the dead?
 Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head
 Lies in its glory low.
VIII.
Breathe not those names to-day!
 They shall have their praise ere long,
And a power all hearts to sway,
 In ever-burning song.
IX.
But now shed flowers, pour wine,
 To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine—
 Io! they come, they come!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1827/Corinna at the Capitol

CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carriere bien peu de sorts qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aimee et d'une mere heureuse." Madame de Stael.
I.
 Daughter of the' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath rolled
Where the conqueror's passed of old;
And the festal sun that shone
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,* Makes thy day of glory bright
With a shower of golden light.
II.
 Now thou tread'st the' ascending road
Freedom's foot so proudly trod;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,
Touched with many a gem-like stain.
III.
 Thou hast gained the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;—
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre;—
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may Woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!
IV.
 Now afar it rolls—it dies,
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone,
In its thrilling powers alone;
And thy lyre's deep, silvery string,
Touched as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.
V.
 All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,—
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;—
And the burning words of song
From thy lips flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.
VI.
 Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crowned of Rome!—oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?—
Happier, happier far, than thou
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1827/The Breeze from Shore

This poem was added to later editions of The Forest Sanctuary and Songs of the Affections.
THE BREEZE FROM SHORE.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
As when to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the Blessed.
Milton.
I. Joy is upon the lonely seas
 When Indian forests pour
Forth to the billow and the breeze
 Their odours from the shore;
Joy, when the soft air's fanning sigh
Bears on the breath of Araby.
II.
Oh! welcome are the winds that tell
 A wanderer of the deep,
Where far away the jasmines dwell,
 And where the myrrh-trees weep!
Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam,
Are tidings of the citron's home!
III.
The sailor at the helm they meet,
 And hope his bosom stirs,
Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet
 The fair earth's messengers,
That woo him, from the moaning main,
Back to her glorious bowers again.
IV.
They woo him, whispering lovely tales
 Of many a flowering glade,
And fount's bright gleam in island-vales
 Of golden-fruited shade;
Across his lone ship's wake they bring
A vision and a glow of spring.
V.
And, oh! ye masters of the lay,
 Come not even thus your songs,
That meet us on life's weary way,
 Amidst her toiling throngs?
Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.
VI.
Their power is from the brighter clime
 That in our birth hath part;
Their tones are of the world, which Time
 Sears not within the heart;
They tell us of the living light
 In its green places ever bright.
VII.
They call us, with a voice divine,
 Back to our early love,—
Our vows of youth at many a shrine,
 Whence far and fast we rove:
Welcome high thought, and holy strain,
That make us truth's and heaven's again!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1828

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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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.
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Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1828
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Madeline
* The Wings of the Dove
* Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure
* The Voice of Home
* Ancient Song of Victory
* The Memory of the Dead
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1827

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 Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1827
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Breeze from Shore
* The Better Land
* Ivan the Czar
* Corinna at the Capitol
* The Distant Ship
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1826/The Wreck

THE WRECK.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Her sails are draggled in the brine.
 That gladdened late the skies;
And her pennon, that kissed the fair moonshine,
Down man; a fathom lies.
Wilson
I. All night the booming minute-gun
 Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
 Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark, from India's coral strand,
 Before the rushing blast,
Had vailed her topsails to the sand,
 And bowed her noble mast.
II.
The queenly ship!—brave hearts had striven,
 And true ones died with her!
We saw her mighty cable riven,
 Like floating gossamer!
We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
 A star once o'er the seas,
Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,—
 And sadder things than these!
III.
We saw her treasures cast away;
 The rocks with pearl were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
 Flashed out o'er fretted stone;
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
 Like ashes by a breeze,
And gorgeous robes,—but oh! that shore
 Had sadder sights than these!
IV.
We saw the strong man, still and low,
 crushed reed thrown aside!
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
 Not without strife he died!
And near him on the sea-weed lay,
 Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say,
 That there a mother slept;
V. For her pale arms a babe had pressed*  With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp!
Her very tresses had been flung
 To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their wet, long streamers clung,
 All tangled by the storm.
VI.
And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,
 Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like Slumber's, trustingly serene,
 In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
 With half-shut violet eye;—
He had known little of her dread,
 Nought of her agony!
VII.
Oh, human love! whose yearning heart
 Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part,
 Its passionate adieu!
Surely thou hast another lot,
 There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
 The moaning of the sea!