OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Cheer/The Land of Content

I set out for the Land of Content,  By the gay crowded pleasure-highway, With laughter, and jesting, I went  With the mirth-loving throng for a day;  Then I knew I had wandered astray, For I met returned pilgrims, belated, Who said, "We are weary and sated, But we found not the Land of Content."
I turned to the steep path of fame,  I said, "It is over yon height - This land with the beautiful name -  Ambition will lend me its light."  But I paused in my journey ere night, For the way grew so lonely and troubled; I said--my anxiety doubled - "This is not the road to Content."
Then I joined the great rabble and throng  That frequents the moneyed world's mart; But the greed, and the grasping and wrong,  Left me only one wish--to depart.  And sickened, and saddened at heart, I hurried away from the gateway, For my soul and my spirit said straightway. "This is not the road to Content."
Then weary in body and brain,  An overgrown path I detected, And I said "I will hide with my pain  In this byway, unused and neglected."  Lo! it led to the realm God selected To crown with His best gifts of beauty, And through the dark pathway of duty I came to the land of Content.
# Poems of Cheer/The Past

Originally published in Maurine And Other Poems.
Fling my past behind me, like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendour, or complain That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric far more durable. Subdued, It may be, in the blending of its hues, Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a fadeless lustre lies, And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, My new robe shall be richer than the old.
# Poems of Cheer/The Punished

Not they who know the awful gibbet's anguish,  Not they who, while sad years go by them, in The sunless cells of lonely prisons languish,  Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.
'Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected,  Yet with grim fear for ever at their side, Who hug the corpse of some sin undetected,  A corpse no grave or coffin-lid can hide -
'Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted  By thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude, And sit down, uninvited and unwanted,  And make a nightmare of the solitude.
# Poems of Cheer/Snowed Under

Of a thousand things that the Year snowed under -  The busy Old Year who has gone away - How many will rise in the Spring, I wonder,  Brought to life by the sun of May? Will the rose-tree branches, so wholly hidden  That never a rose-tree seems to be, At the sweet Spring's call come forth unbidden,  And bud in beauty, and bloom for me?
Will the fair green Earth, whose throbbing bosom  Is hid like a maid's in her gown at night, Wake out of her sleep, and with blade and blossom  Gem her garments to please my sight? Over the knoll in the valley yonder  The loveliest buttercups bloomed and grew; When the snow has gone that drifted them under,  Will they shoot up sunward, and bloom anew?
When wild winds blew, and a sleet-storm pelted,  I lost a jewel of priceless worth; If I walk that way when snows have melted,  Will the gem gleam up from the bare brown Earth? I laid a love that was dead or dying,  For the year to bury and hide from sight; But out of a trance will it waken, crying,  And push to my heart, like a leaf to the light?
Under the snow lie things so cherished -  Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men - Faces that vanished, and trusts that perished,  Never to sparkle and glow again. The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder,  And covered it over and hurried away: Of the thousand things that he did, I wonder  How many will rise at the call of May? O wise Young Year, with your hands held under  Your mantle of ermine, tell me, pray!
# Poems of Cheer/The Unattained

A vision beauteous as the morn,  With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming, Slow glided o'er a field late shorn  Where walked a poet idly dreaming. He saw her, and joy lit his face,  "Oh, vanish not at human speaking," He cried, "thou form of magic grace,  Thou art the poem I am seeking.
"I've sought thee long! I claim thee now -  My thought embodied, living, real." She shook the tresses from her brow.  "Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal. I am the phantom of desire -  The spirit of all great endeavour, I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,'  That calls men up and up for ever.
"'Tis not alone thy thought supreme  That here upon thy path has risen; I am the artist's highest dream,  The ray of light he cannot prison. I am the sweet ecstatic note  Than all glad music gladder, clearer, That trembles in the singer's throat,  And dies without a human hearer.
"I am the greater, better yield,  That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbour, For me he bravely tills the field  And whistles gaily at his labour. Not thou alone, O poet soul,  Dost seek me through an endless morrow, But to the toiling, hoping whole  I am at once the hope and sorrow.
"The spirit of the unattained,  I am to those who seek to name me, A good desired but never gained:  All shall pursue, but none shall claim me."
# Poor Icarus

"Poor Icarus!—to soar so high"
* Coates, Florence Earle (1912), "Poor Icarus" in The Unconquered Air, and Other Poems (1912).
* Coates, Florence Earle (1916), "Poor Icarus" in Poems II.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/September 28
## September 28th. (1)

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God's sake go to the jeweller's, and tell him that, after all, he need not make the pearl and emerald earrings. Monsieur Bwikov says that they will cost him too much, that they will burn a veritable hole in his pocket. In fact, he has lost his temper again, and declares that he is being robbed. Yesterday he added that, had he but known, but foreseen, these expenses, he would never have married. Also, he says that, as things are, he intends only to have a plain wedding, and then to depart. "You must not look for any dancing or festivity or entertainment of guests, for our gala times are still in the air." Such were his words. God knows I do not want such things, but none the less Bwikov has forbidden them. I made him no answer on the subject, for he is a man all too easily irritated. What, what is going to become of me?
B. D.

## September 28th. (2)

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--All is well as regards the jeweller. Unfortunately, I have also to say that I myself have fallen ill, and cannot rise from bed. Just when so many things need to be done, I have gone and caught a chill, the devil take it! Also I have to tell you that, to complete my misfortunes, his Excellency has been pleased to become stricter. Today he railed at and scolded Emelia Ivanovitch until the poor fellow was quite put about. That is the sum of my news.
No--there is something else concerning which I should like to write to you, but am afraid to obtrude upon your notice. I am a simple, dull fellow who writes down whatsoever first comes into his head--Your friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/September 29
## September 29th.

MY OWN BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Today, dearest, I saw Thedora, who informed me that you are to be married tomorrow, and on the following day to go away--for which purpose Bwikov has ordered a post-chaise....
Well, of the incident of his Excellency, I have already told you. Also I have verified the bill from the shop in Gorokhovaia Street. It is correct, but very long. Why is Monsieur Bwikov so out of humour with you? Nay, but you must be of good cheer, my darling. I am so, and shall always be so, so long as you are happy. I should have come to the church tomorrow, but, alas, shall be prevented from doing so by the pain in my loins. Also, I would have written an account of the ceremony, but that there will be no one to report to me the details. . . .
Yes, you have been a very good friend to Thedora, dearest. You have acted kindly, very kindly, towards her. For every such deed God will bless you. Good deeds never go unrewarded, nor does virtue ever fail to win the crown of divine justice, be it early or be it late. Much else should I have liked to write to you. Every hour, every minute I could occupy in writing. Indeed I could write to you forever! Only your book, "The Stories of Bielkin", is left to me. Do not deprive me of it, I pray you, but suffer me to keep it. It is not so much because I wish to read the book for its own sake, as because winter is coming on, when the evenings will be long and dreary, and one will want to read at least SOMETHING.
Do you know, I am going to move from my present quarters into your old ones, which I intend to rent from Thedora; for I could never part with that good old woman. Moreover, she is such a splendid worker. Yesterday I inspected your empty room in detail, and inspected your embroidery-frame, with the work still hanging on it. It had been left untouched in its corner. Next, I inspected the work itself, of which there still remained a few remnants, and saw that you had used one of my letters for a spool upon which to wind your thread. Also, on the table I found a scrap of paper which had written on it, "My dearest Makar Alexievitch I hasten to--" that was all. Evidently, someone had interrupted you at an interesting point. Lastly, behind a screen there was your little bed. . . . Oh darling of darlings!!! . . . Well, goodbye now, goodbye now, but for God's sake send me something in answer to this letter!
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
# Poor Jenny

"Poor Mary" or "Poor Jenny" is an English language nursery rhyme and singing game. It has a Roud Folk Song Index number of 1377.
* "What are you weeping for?" in Dorsetshire Children's Games, &c by John Symonds Udal (The Folk-Lore Journal, 1889)
* "Poor Jenny is a-weeping" in The Street Games of Children by Frances H. Low (The Strand Magazine, 1891)
# Poor Law Guardians (Ireland) (Women) Act 1896

* related portals: Parliament of the United Kingdom.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Layout 2 From the The Public General Statutes (1986),
CHAPTER 5.
[31st March 1896.]
BE it enacted by the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:
Women to be eligible as poor law guardians1. No person otherwise qualified to be elected and to be a guardian for a poor law union in Ireland, shall be disqualified by sex or marriage for being elected or being such guardian, anything contained in any Act to the contrary notwithstanding.
Short title. This Act may be cited as the Poor Law Guardians (Ireland) (Women) Act, 1896.
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Mask of Gaiety

CHAPTER XII.
LADY MARCHMONT'S JOURNAL.
'Tis strange to think, if we could fling aside
The mask and mantle many wear from pride,
How much would be, we now so little guess,
Deep in each heart's undreamed, unsought recess!
The careless smile, like a bright banner borne;
The laughlike merriment; the lip of scorn;
And for a cloak, what is there that can be
So difficult to pierce as gaiety?
Too dazzling to be scanned, the gloomy brow
Seems to hide something it would not avow;
But mocking words, light laugh, and ready jest,
These are the bars, the curtains to the breast.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE MASK OF GAIETY
From A Girl at her Devotions in The Troubadour
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Sick Room

CHAPTER XX.
THE SICK-ROOM.
'Tis midnight, and a starry shower
Weeps its bright tears o'er life and flower;
Sweet, silent, beautiful the night,
Sufficing for her own delight.
But other lights than sky and star,
From yonder casement gleam afar;
The lamp subdued to the heart's gloom
Of suffering, and of sorrow's room.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE SICK ROOM
Adapted from The Queen of Cyprus in The Golden Violet
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Young Poet’s Fate

CHAPTER XXXVI.
A REQUEST.
Trace the young poet's fate
Fresh from his solitude—the child of dreams,
His heart upon his lip, he seeks the world
To find him fame and fortune, as if life
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led
The way before him; flatteries fill his ear,
And he seems happy in so many friends.
What marvel if he somewhat overrate
His talents and his state!
Blanchard’s title is:
THE YOUNG POET’S FATE
Adapted from The History of the Lyre in The Venetian Bracelet
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Future

THE FUTURE
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FÊTE.
Not to the present is our hour confined,
The great and shadowy future is assigned
To be the glorious empire of the mind.
The past was once the future, and it wrought
In the high presence of on-looking thought;
All that we have, was by its efforts brought.
To-day creates to-morrow, and the tree
Of good or ill grows in past hours, what we
Make for the future—certain is to be.
Not in Blanchard
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Poor

CHAPTER V.
THE FÊTE AT SIR ROBERT WALPOLE'S.
Few, save the poor, feel for the poor:
 The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful food
 And needful rest debarred.
Their paths are paths of plenteousness,
 They sleep on silk and down;
And never think how heavily
 The weary head lies down.
They know not of the scanty meal,
 With small pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold damp hearth
 When snow is on the ground.
They never by the window lean,
 And see the gay pass by;
Then take their weary task again,
 But with a sadder eye.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE POOR
From The Widow’s Mite in Fisher’s Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
In The New York Mirror (17th February 1838), as The Rich and the Poor
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Power of Words

CHAPTER XXX.
THE CHALLENGE,
'Tis a strange mystery, the power of words!
Life is in them, and death. A word can send
The crimson colour hurrying to the cheek,
Hurrying with many meanings; or can turn
The current cold and deadly to the heart.
Anger and fear are in them; grief and joy
Are on their sound; yet slight, impalpable:—
A word is but a breath of passing air.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE POWER OF WORDS
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Fearful Trust

CHAPTER XXVII.
A DISCOVERY.
It is a fearful trust, the trust of love.
In fear, not hope, should woman's heart receive
A guest so terrible. Ah! never more
Will the young spirit know its joyous hours
Of quiet hopes and innocent delights;
Its childhood is departed.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE FEARFUL TRUST
In The New Yorker (24th March 1838), as Trust of Love
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Littleness of Life

CHAPTER III.
THE INFLUENCE OF AN INVITATION.
Life is so little in its vanities,
So mean, and looking to such worthless aim,
Truly the dust, of which we are a part,
Predominates amid mortality.
Great crimes have something of nobility;
Mighty their warning, vast is their remorse:
But these small faults, that make one half of life
Belong to lowest natures, and reduce
To their own wretched level nobler things.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE LITTLENESS OF LIFE
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Poet’s Past

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE USUAL DESTINY OF THE IMAGINATION.
Remembrance makes the poet: 'tis the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men,
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes
That were, and are not; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things;
The more his power, the greater is his grief.
Are we then fallen from some noble star,
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse;
And we feel capable of happiness
Only to know it is not of our sphere?
Blanchard’s title is:
THE POET’S PAST
From The History of the Lyre in The Venetian Bracelet
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume III/The Ruined Mind

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.
Ah! sad it is to see the deck
Dismasted of some noble wreck;
And sad to see the marble stone
Defaced, and with gray moss o'ergrown;
And sad to see the broken lute
For ever to its music mute.
But what is lute, or fallen tower,
Or ship sunk in its proudest hour,
To awe and majesty combined
In their worst shape—the ruined mind?
Blanchard’s title is:
THE RUINED MIND
In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838), as The Ruined Mind
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/The Wings of the Dove

Included in the 1829 edition of The Forest Sanctuary, and Other Poems
THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"Oh! that I had the wing a of a Dove, that I might flee away and be at rest!"
I.  Oh! for thy wings, thou dove!
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
 That borne like thee above,
I too might flee away, and be at rest!
II.
 Where wilt thou fold those plumes,
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird?
 In what rich leafy glooms,
By the sweet voice of hidden water stirred?
III.  Over what blessed home,
What roof with dark, deep summer-foliage crowned,
 O fair as Ocean's foam!
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?
IV.
 Or seek'st thou some old shrine
Of nymph or saint, no more by Votary wooed,
 Tho' still, as if divine,
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude?
V.
 Yet wherefore ask thy way?
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art!
 Unto the greenwood spray
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart!
VI.
 No echoes that will blend
A sadness with the rustlings of the grove;
 No memory of a friend
Far off, or dead, or chang'd to thee, thou Dove!
VII.
 Oh! to some cool recess
Take, take me with thee on the summer-wind!
 Leaving the weariness,
And all the fever of this life behind:
VIII.
 The aching and the void
Within the heart whereunto none reply,
 The early hopes destroyed—
Bird! bear me with thee thro' the sunny sky.
IX.
 —Wild wish, and longing vain,
And brief upspringing to be glad and free!
 Go to thy woodland reign!
My soul is bound and held—I may not flee.
X.
 For even by all the fears
And thoughts that haunt my dreams—untold, unknown,
 And by the woman's tears
Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone;
XI.
 Had I thy wings, thou Dove!
High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar,
 Soon the strong cords of love
Would draw me earthwards—homewards—yet once more!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/The Memory of the Dead

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Forget them not!—tho' now their name
 Be but a mournful sound,
Tho' by the hearth its utterance claim
 A stillness round.
Tho' for their sakes this earth no more
 As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never marked before,
 Brood o'er each tree;
And tho' their image dim the sky,
 Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, where their love and life went by,
 Forsake the spot!
They have a breathing influence there,
 A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad—yet it sanctifies the air,
 The stream—the ground.
Then, tho' the wind an altered tone
 Through the young foliage bear,
Tho' every flower, of something gone,
 A tinge may wear;
Oh! fly it not!—no fruitless grief
 Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
 There, where they dwelt.
Still trace the path which knew their tread,
 Still tend their garden-bower,
And call them back, the holy Dead,
 To each lone hour!
The holy Dead!—oh! blest we are,
 That we may name them so,
And to their spirits look afar,
 Through all our woe!
Blest, that the things they loved on earth,
 As relics we may hold,
Which wake sweet thoughts of parted worth, By springs untold!
Blest, that a deep and chastening power
 Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
 Yet all for Heaven!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1830

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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Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1830
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Magic Glass
* The Sisters of Scio
* The Mirror in the Deserted Hall
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure

Included in the 1829 edition of The Forest Sanctuary, and Other Poems
* PSYCHE
* BORNE BY THE ZEPHYRS TO THE ISLAND OF PLEASURE
* Painted by John WoodEngraved by F. Engleheart
PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE ISLAND OF PLEASURE.
I.
 Fearfully and mournfully
 Thou bid'st the earth farewell,
And yet thou'rt passing, loveliest one!
 In a brighter land to dwell.
II.
 Ascend, ascend rejoicing!
 The sunshine of that shore
Around thee, as a glorious robe,
 Shall stream for evermore.
III.
 The breezy music wandering
 There through the' Elysian sky,
Hath no deep tone that seems to float
 From a happier time gone by:
IV.
 And there the day's last crimson
 Gives no sad memories birth;
No thought of dead or distant friends,
 Or partings—as on earth.
V.
 Yet fearfully and mournfully
 Thou bid'st that earth farewell,
Altho' thou 'rt passing, loveliest one!
 In a brighter land to dwell.
VI.
 A land where all is deathless—
 The sunny wave's repose,
The wood, with its rich melodies,
 The summer and its rose.
VII.
 A land that sees no parting,
 That hears no sound of sighs,
That waits thee with immortal air—
 Lift, lift those anxious eyes!
VIII.
 Oh! how like thee, thou trembler!
 Man's spirit fondly clings,
With timid love, to this, its world
 Of old familiar things!
IX.
 We pant, we thirst for fountains
 That gush not here below;
On, on we toil, allured by dreams
 Of the living water's flow:
X.
 We pine for kindred natures,
 To mingle with our own;
For communings more full and high
 Than aught by mortal known:
  XI.
 We strive with brief aspirings
 Against our bounds in vain;
Yet summoned to be free at last,
 We shrink—and clasp our chain!
XII.
 And fearfully and mournfully
 We bid the earth farewell,
Tho' passing from its mists, like thee,
 In a brighter world to dwell.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/The Voice of Home

Included in the 1829 edition of The Forest Sanctuary, and Other Poems
THE VOICE OF HOME.
To the Prodigal.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
I.
Oh! when wilt thou return
 To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
 To the stillness of the groves?
II.
The summer-birds are calling,
 Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling,
 With sweet laughter in their sound.
III.
And a thousand bright-veined flowers,
 'Midst the banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours—
 —But when wilt thou return?
IV.
Oh! thou hast wandered long
 From thy home without a guide,
And thy native woodland song
 In thine altered heart hath died.
V. Thou hast flung the wealth away,
 And the glory of thy spring,
And to thee the leaves' light play
 Is a long-forgotten thing.
VI. —But when wilt thou return?  Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower within whose urn
 Too fiercely gazed the noon.
VII.
O'er the image of the sky
 Which the lake's clear bosom wore,
Darkly may shadows lie—
 But not for evermore.
VIII. Give back thy heart again
 To the gladness of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
 To the mountain-solitudes!
IX.
—But when wilt thou return?
 Along thine own free air,
There are young sweet voices borne—
 Oh! should not thine be there?
X.
Still at thy father's board
 There is kept a place for thee.
And by thy smile restored,
 Joy round the hearth shall be.
XI.
Still hath thy mother's eye,
 Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,
 Tender, and gravely sweet.
XII.
Still, when the prayer is said.
 For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed—
—Oh! when wilt thou return?