OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1827/Ivan the Czar

IVAN THE CZAR.*
BY MRS. HEMANS.
He sat in silence on the ground,
 The old and haughty Czar; Lonely, though princes girt him round,  And leaders of the war:
He had cast his jewelled sabre,
 That many a field had won
To the earth beside his youthful dead,
 His fair and first-born son.
With a robe of ermine for its bed,
 Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed,
 Through the rich tent made way:
And a sad and solemn beauty
 On the pallid face came down,
Which the lord of nations mutely watched
 In the dust with his renown.
Low tones at last of woe and fear
 From his full bosom broke;—
A mournful thing it was to hear
 How then the proud man spoke!
The voice that through the combat
 Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull hollow sounds,
 Burthened with agony.
"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
 And on thy lip no breath,
I call thee—and thou dost not speak—
 They tell me this is Death!
And fearful things are whispering
 That I the deed have done—
For the honour of thy father's name,
 Look up, look up, my son!
"Well might I know death's hue and mien,
 But on thine aspect, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen,
 Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle.
 And bravest there of all— How could I think a warrior's frame
 Thus like a flower should fall?
"I will not bear that still, cold look;—
 Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes!—I will brook
 All, save this calm, from thee.
Lift brightly up and proudly,
 Once more thy kindling eyes!
Hath my word lost its power on earth?
 I say to thee, arise!
"Didst thou not know I loved thee well?  Thou didst not! and art gone,
In bitterness of thought, to dwell
 Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!
 If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart,
 That seemed to thee so stern.
"Thou wert the first, the first fair child
 That in mine arms I pressed,—
Thou wert the bright one, that has smiled
 Like summer on my breast!
I reared thee as an eagle,
 To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse—
 I look upon thee—dead!
"Lay down my warlike banners here,
 Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,
 Chiefs! in my first-born's grave!
And leave me!—I have conquered,
 I have slain—my work is done:
Whom have I slain?—Ye answer not—
 Thou too art mute, my son!"
And thus his wild lament was poured
 Through the dark resounding night;
And the battle knew no more his sword,
 Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning
 In every wind that sighed;
From the searching stars of Heaven he shrank—
 Humbly the conqueror died.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1827/The Better Land

THE BETTER LAND.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
I.
"I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?—
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?—
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle-boughs?" —"Not there, not there, my child!"
II.
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?—
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
—"Not there, not there, my child?"
III. "Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?—
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand—
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
—"Not there, not there, my child!
IV.
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
—It is there, it is there, my child!"
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Song of Penitence

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.
UNFINISHED.
He pass'd from earth Without his fame,—the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not; And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him;—they were winged seed, Scattered afar, and, falling on the rock Of the world's heart, had perished. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls Of the kind few that loved him, with a love Faithful to even its disappointed hope, That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Full oft in low and reverential tones, Fill'd with the piety of tenderness, Is murmured to their children, when his name On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, Far from the world's rude voices, far away. Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.
 I come alone, and faint I come,  To nature's arms I flee;  The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to Thee?
 The earliest odour of the flower,  The bird's first song is thine;
Father in Heaven! my day-spring's hour Poured its vain incense on another shrine.
 Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene  Around me faded lies;  Therefore, remembering what hath been, I ask, is this mine early paradise?
 It is, it is,—but Thou art gone,  Or if the trembling shade  Breathe yet of thee, with altered tone Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismayed.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Voice of Music

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. Childe Harold.
Whence is the might of thy master-spell? Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell! How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, Passionate visions of love and death!
How callest thou back, with a note, a sigh, Words and low tones from the days gone by— A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?— Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring In sudden gushes the tears to bring? Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee, Fountains of sorrow are stirred by thee!
Vain are those tears!—vain and fruitless all— Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall; For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells, Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells; Something that finds not its answer here— A chain to be clasped in another sphere.
Therefore a current of sadness deep, Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky— Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high!
Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught With vain remembrance and troubled thought;— Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth Links it with regions more bright than earth.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Same

The Same = Thoughts connected with Trees
XI.
THE SAME.
And ye are strong to shelter!—all meek things, All that need home and covert, love your shade! Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, And nun-like violets, by the wind betrayed. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath played With his first primrose-wealth:—there love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unuttered thought; And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, A refuge for her tears; and oft-times there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, A native temple, solemn, hushed, and dim; For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremors thrill The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still Confessed a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The River Clwyd in North Wales

VII.
THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.
O Cambrian river, with slow music gliding By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruined towers; Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding, Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers; Long flowed the current of my life's clear hours Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream, Though time and change, and other mightier powers, Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream! Art winding still thy sunny meads along, Murmuring to cottage and grey hall thy song, Low, sweet, unchanged: My being's tide hath passed Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain, If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Welcome to Death

THE WELCOME TO DEATH.
Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice!  My soul hath pined for thee; Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore  To wanderer on the sea. I hear thee in the rustling woods,  In the sighing vernal airs; Thou call'st me from the lonely earth,  With a deeper tone than theirs.
The lonely earth! Since kindred steps  From its green paths are fled, A dimness and a hush have lain  O'er all its beauty spread.
The silence of the unanswering soul  Is on me and around; My heart hath echoes but for thee,  Thou still, small, warning sound!
Voice after voice hath died away,  Once in my dwelling heard; Sweet household-name by name hath changed  To grief's forbidden word! From dreams of night on each I call,  Each of the far removed; And waken to my own wild cry—  "Where are ye, my beloved?"
Ye left me! and earth's flowers were dim  With records of the past: And stars poured down another light  Than o'er my youth they cast: Birds will not sing as once they sung,  When ye were at my side,
And mournful tones are in the wind,  Which I heard not till ye died!
Thou art welcome, O thou summoner!  Why should the last remain? What eye can reach my heart of hearts,  Bearing in light again? E'en could this be, too much of fear  O'er love would now be thrown— Away, away! from time, from change,  Once more to meet my own!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Return to Poetry

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.
I.
THE RETURN TO POETRY.
Once more the eternal melodies from far, Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star, Above the poet's world serenely burning, Thither my soul, fresh-winged by love, is turning, As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's unrest. —Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide Through the bright land!—that no brief gladness, found In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, May lure my footsteps from their aim aside: Their true, high quest—to seek, if ne'er to gain, The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Sea-song of Gavran

THE SEA-SONG OF GAVRAN.*
Watch ye well! The moon is shrouded On her bright throne; Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, Waves make wild moan. 'Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing, And gay songs and wine-cups flowing; But of winds, in darkness blowing O’er seas unknown!
In the dwellings of our fathers, Round the glad blaze, Now the festive circle gathers, With harps and lays; Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, Steps are bounding, bards are singing, —Ay! the hour to all is bringing Peace, joy, or praise!
Save to us, our night-watch keeping, Storm-winds to brave, While the very sea-bird sleeping, Rests in its cave! Think of us when hearths are beaming, Think of us when mead is streaming, Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming, On the dark wave!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Wanderer

THE WANDERER.
Translated from the German of Schmidt von Lubeck. "Ich komme vom Gebirge her," &c.
I come down from the hills alone, Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan! I wander on in thoughtful care, For ever asking, sighing—where?
The sunshine round seems dim and cold, And flowers are pale, and life is old, And words fall soulless on my ear— —Oh! I am still a stranger here.
Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own? Still sought for, long'd for, never known?
The land, the land of hope, of light, Where glow my roses freshly bright,
And where my friends, the green paths tread, And where in beauty rise my dead; The land that speaks my native speech, The blessed land I may not reach!
I wander on in thoughtful care, For ever asking, sighing—where? And spirit-sounds come answering this —"There, where thou art not, there is bliss!"
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 11

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# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Prologue to King John

PROLOGUE TO KING JOHN.
JUSTICE hath heaved a sword to plunge in Albion's breast; for Albion's sins are crimson-dyed, and the red scourge follows her desolate sons. Then Patriot rose; full oft did Patriot rise, when Tyranny hath stained fair Albion's breast with her own children's gore. Round his majestic feet deep thunders roll: each heart does tremble, and each knee grows slack. The stars of heaven tremble; the roaring voice of war, the trumpet, calls to battle. Brother in brother's blood must bathe, rivers of death. O land most hapless! O beauteous island, how forsaken! Weep from thy silver fountains, weep from thy gentle rivers! The angel of the island weeps! Thy widowed virgins weep beneath thy shades! Thy aged fathers gird themselves for war! The sucking infant lives to die in battle; the weeping mother feeds him for the slaughter! The husbandman doth leave his bending harvest! Blood cries afar! The land doth sow itself! The glittering youth of courts must gleam in arms! The aged senators their ancient ​swords assume! The trembling sinews of old age must work the work of death against their progeny; for Tyranny hath stretched his purple arm, and "Blood," he cries: "The chariots and the horses, the noise of shout, and dreadful thunder of the battle heard afar!" Beware, O proud! thou shalt be humbled; thy cruel brow, thine iron heart is smitten, though lingering Fate is slow. O yet may Albion smile again, and stretch her peaceful arms, and raise her golden head, exultingly! Her citizens shall throng about her gates, her mariners shall sing upon the sea, and myriads shall to her temples crowd! Her sons shall joy as in the morning! Her daughters sing as to the rising year!
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/My silks and fine array

SONG.
MY silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air
By love are driven away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was't given,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all-worshipp'd tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding sheet;
When I my grave have made
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Prologue intended for a dramatic piece of King Edward the Fourth

PROLOGUE
INTENDED FOE A DRAMATIC PIECE OF KING EDWARD THE FOURTH.
O FOR a voice like thunder, and a tongue To drown the throat of war! When the senses Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness, Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand? When the whirlwind of fury comes from the Throne of God, when the frowns of His countenance Drive the nations together, who can stand? When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle, And sails rejoicing in the flood of death; When souls are torn to everlasting fire, And fiends of hell rejoice upon the slain, O who can stand? O who hath caused this? O who can answer at the throne of God? The Kings and Nobles of the land have done it! Hear it not, Heaven, thy ministers have done it!
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/To Autumn

Other versions: To Autumn (Blake)
TO AUTUMN.
O AUTUMN, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof, there thou mayst rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
"The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
"Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and
"Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve,
"Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing,
"And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
"The spirits of the air live on the smells
"Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round
"The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/To Morning

TO MORNING.
OHOLY virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heaven's golden gates and issue forth;
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day.
O radiant morning, salute the sun,
Roused like a huntsman to the chase, and with
Thy buskin'd feet appear upon our hills.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/To Summer

other versions: To Summer
TO SUMMER.
O THOU who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven: beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/To Spring

other versions: To Spring
TO SPRING.
Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/To Winter

TO WINTER.
O WINTER! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathed In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes; For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and in his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal'st With storms, till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 13

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# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 12/November 1877/To the Ring Nebula

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* TO THE "RING NEBULA"
By J. L. STODDARD.
O PALLID spectre of the midnight skies!
"Whose phantom features in the dome of Night
Elude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes
Till amplest lenses aid the failing sight,
On heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire,
From thee, whose glories it would fain admire,
Must vision, baffled, in despair retire!
What art thou, ghostly visitant of flame?
Wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny dissolve In myriad suns that constellations frame,
Round which life-freighted satellites revolve, Like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creep In dim procession o'er the azure steep, As white-winged caravans the desert sweep?
Or art thou still an incandescent mass,
Acquiring form as hostile forces urge,
Through whose vast, length a million lightnings pass
As to and fro its fiery billows surge— Whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife
Where now chaotic anarchy is rife,
Shall yet become the fair abodes of life?
We know not; for the faint, exhausted rays
Which hither on Light's winged coursers come,
From fires which ages since first lit their blaze,
One instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb!
How strange the thought that, whatsoe'er we learn,
Our tiny globe no answer can return,
Since with but dull, reflected beams we burn!
Yet this we know: yon ring of spectral light,
Whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe,
Can ne'er escape in its majestic might
The firm control of omnipresent law.
This mote descending to its bounden place,
Those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace,
Alike obey the Power pervading space
# Poems (Toke)/E. J.

January, 1835.
# Poems (Toke)/Evening hymn

January 23, 1842,
# Poems (Toke)/Florence, sweet Florence! sainted, suffering child

January 30, 1853,
# Poems (Toke)/Farewell

February 20, 1834.
# Poems (Toke)/Flowers

August 16, 1836.
# Poems (Toke)/Christmas eve

December 24, 1835.
# Poems (Toke)/Daily service at st Paul's

March 23, 1846.
# Poems (Toke)/Christmas hymn

December 4, 1842.
# Poems (Toke)/Easter hymn

April 16, 1843.