OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Veil and other poems/The Familiar

THE FAMILIAR
'ARE you far away?'
'Yea, I am far—far;
Where the green wave shelves to the sand,
And the rainbows are;
And an ageless sun beats fierce
From an empty sky:
There, thou Shadow forlorn,
Is the wraith of thee, I.'   'Are you happy, most Lone?'
'Happy, forsooth!
Who am eyes of the air; voice of the foam;
Ah, happy in truth.
My hair is astream, this cheek
Glistens like silver, and see.
As the gold to the dross, the ghost in the mirk,
I am calling to thee.'
'Nay, I am bound.
And your cry faints out in my mind.
Peace not on earth have I found,
Yet to earth am resigned.
Cease thy shrill mockery, Voice,
Nor answer again.'
'O Master, thick cloud shuts thee out
And cold tempests of rain.'
# The Veil and other poems/The Last Coachload

THE LAST COACHLOAD
(To Colin)
CRASHED through the woods that lumbering
Coach. The dust
Of flinted roads bepowdering felloe and hood.
Its gay paint cracked, its axles red with rust,
It lunged, lurched, toppled through a solitude
Of whispering boughs, and feathery, nid-nod grass.
Plodded the fetlocked horses. Glum and mum,
Its ancient Coachman recked not where he was, Nor into what strange haunt his wheels were come.
Crumbling the leather of his dangling reins;
Worn to a cow's tuft his stumped, idle whip;
Sharp eyes of beast and bird in the trees' green lanes
Gleamed out like stars above a derelict ship.
'OId Father Time—Time—Time!' jeered twittering throat.
A squirrel capered on the leader's rump,
Slithered a weasel, peered a thieflike stoat,
In sandy warren beat on the coney's thump.   Mute as a mammet in his saddle sate
The hunched Postilion, clad in magpie trim;
Buzzed the bright flies around his hairless pate;
Yaffle and jay squawked mockery at him.
Yet marvellous peace and amity breathed there.
Tranquil the labyrinths of this sundown wood.
Musking its chaces, bloomed the brier-rose fair;
Spellbound as if in trance the pine-trees stood.
Through moss, and pebbled rut, the wheels rasped on;
That Ancient drowsing on his box. And still
The bracken track with glazing sunbeams shone;
Laboured the horses, straining at the hill. . . .   But now — a verdurous height with eve-shade sweet;
Far, far to West the Delectable Mountains glowed.
Above, Night's canopy; at the horses' feet
A sea-like honied waste of flowers flowed.
There fell a pause of utter quiet. And—
Out from one murky window glanced an eye,
Stole from the other a lean, groping hand,
The padded door swung open with a sigh.   And—Exeunt Omnes! None to ask the fare—
A myriad human Odds in a last release
Leap out incontinent, snuff the incensed air;
A myriad parched-up voices whisper, 'Peace.'   On, on, and on — a stream, a flood, they flow.
wondrous vale of jocund buds and bells!
Like vanishing smoke the rainbow legions glow.
Yet still the enravished concourse sweeps and swells.   All journeying done. Rest now from lash and spur—
Laughing and weeping, shoulder and elbow—'twould seem
That Coach capacious all Infinity were, And these the fabulous figments of a dream.
Mad for escape; frenzied each breathless mote,
Lest rouse the Old Enemy from his death-still swoon,
Lest crack that whip again—they fly, they float,
Scamper, breathe—'Paradise!' abscond, are gone. . . .
# The Veil and other poems/The Corner Stone

THE CORNER STONE
STERILE these stones
By time in ruin laid.
Yet many a creeping thing
Its haven has made
In these least crannies, were falls
Dark's dew, and noonday shade.   The claw of the tender bird
Finds lodgment here;
Dye-winged butterflies poise;
Emmet and beetle steer
Their busy course; the bee
Drones, laden, near.   Their myriad-mirrored eyes
Great day reflect.
By their exquisite farings
Is this granite specked;
Is trodden to infinite dust;
By gnawing lichens decked.
Toward what eventual dream
Sleeps its cold on,
When into ultimate dark
These lives shall be gone,
And even of man not a shadow remain
Of all he has done?
# The Veil and other poems/The Fairy in Winter

THE FAIRY IN WINTER
(For a drawing by Dorothy Puvis Lathrop)
THERE was a Fairy—flake of winter—
Who, when the snow came, whispering, Silence,
Sister crystal to crystal sighing,
Making of meadow argent palace,
Night a star-sown solitude,
Cried 'neath her frozen eaves, 'I burn here!'
Wings diaphanous, beating bee-like,
Wand within fingers, locks enspangled,
Icicle foot, lip sharp as scarlet,
She lifted her eyes in her pitch-black hollow—
Green as stalks of weeds in water—
Breathed: stirred.
Rilled from her heart the ichor, coursing,
Flamed and awoke her slumbering magic.
Softlier than moth's her pinions trembled;
Out into blackness, light-like, she flittered,
Leaving her hollow cold, forsaken.
In air, o'er crystal, rang twangling night-wind.
Bare, rimed pine-woods murmured lament.
# The Veil and other poems/The Galliass

THE GALLIASS
'TELL me, tell me,
Unknown stranger,
When shall I sight me
That tall ship
On whose flower-wreathed counter is gilded,
Sleep?'
'Landsman, landsman, Lynx nor kestrel
Ne'er shall descry from
Ocean steep
That midnight-stealing, high-pooped galliass, Sleep.'   'Promise me, Stranger,
Though I mark not
When cold night-tide's
Shadows creep,
Thou wilt keep unwavering watch for Sleep.'   'Myriad the lights are,
Wayworn landsman,
Rocking the dark through
On the deep:
She alone burns none to prove her Sleep.'
# The Veil and other poems/The Imp Within

First poem of The Veil and other poems.
THE IMP WITHIN
'ROUSE now, my dullard, and thy wits awake; 'Tis first of the morning. And I bid thee make— No, not a vow; we have munched our fill of these From crock of bone-dry crusts and mouse-gnawn cheese— Nay, just one whisper in that long, long ear— Awake; rejoice. Another Day is here:—
'A virgin wilderness, which, hour by hour, Mere happy idleness shall bring to flower. Barren and arid though its sands now seem, Wherein oasis becks not, shines no stream. Yet wake—and lo, 'tis lovelier than a dream.   'Plunge on, thy every footprint shall make fair Its thirsty waste; and thy foregone despair Undarken into sweet birds in the air, Whose coursing wings and love-crazed summoning cries
Into infinity shall attract thine eyes.
'No . . . ? Well, lest promise in performance faint, A less inviting prospect will I paint. I bid thee adjure thy Yesterday, and say: "As thou wast, Enemy, so be To-day.— Immure me in the same close narrow room; Be hated toil the lamp to light its gloom; Make stubborn my pen; sift dust into my ink; Forbid mine eyes to see, my brain to think. Scare off the words whereon the mind is set. Make memory the power to forget. Constrain imagination; bind its wing; Forbid the unseen Enchantresses to sing. Ay, do thy worst!"
'Vexed Spectre, prythee smile. Even though that yesterday was bleak and sour. Art thou a slave beneath its thong to cower? Thou hast survived. And hither am I—again, Kindling with mockery thy o'erlaboured brain. Though scant the moments be wherein we meet, Think, what dark months would even one make sweet.
'Thy quill? Thy paper? Ah, my dear, be true. Come quick To-morrow. Until then, Adieu.'
# The Veil and other poems/The Decoy

THE DECOY
'TELL us, pilgrim, what strange She
Lures and decoys your wanderings on?
Cheek, eye, brow, lip, you scan each face,
Smile, ponder—and are gone.
'Are we not flesh and blood? Mark well.
We touch you with our hands. We speak
A tongue that may earth's secrets tell:
Why further will you seek?'   'Far have I come, and far must fare.
Noon and night and morning-prime,
I search the long road, bleak and bare,
That fades away in Time.   'On the world's brink its wild weeds shake, And there my own dust, dark with dew,
Burns with a rose that, sleep or wake,
Beacons me—"Follow true!" '
'Her name, crazed soul? And her degree?
What peace, prize, profit in her breast?'
'A thousand cheating names hath she;
And none fore-tokens rest.'
# The Veil and other poems/The Flower

THE FLOWER
HORIZON to horizon, lies outspread
The tenting firmament of day and night;
Wherein are winds at play; and planets shed
Amid the stars their gentle gliding light.   The huge world's sun flames on the snow-capped hills;
Cindrous his heat burns in the sandy plain;
With myriad spume-bows roaring ocean swills
The cold profuse abundance of the rain.   And man—a transient object in this vast,
Sighs o'er a universe transcending thought,
Afflicted by vague bodings of the past,
Driven toward a future, unforeseen, unsought.   Yet, see him, stooping low to naked weed
That meeks its blossom in his anxious eye,
Mark how he grieves, as if his heart did bleed,
And wheels his wondrous features to the sky;
As if, transfigured by so small a grace,
He sought Companion in earth's dwelling-place.
# The Veil and other poems/The Hour-Glass

THE HOUR-GLASS
THOU who know'st all the sorrows of this earth—
I pray Thee, ponder, ere again Thou turn
Thine hour-glass over again, since one sole birth.
To poor clay-cold humanity, makes yearn
A heart at passion with life's endless coil.
Thou givest thyself too strait a room therein.
For so divine a tree too poor a soil.
For so great agony what small peace to win.
Cast from that Ark of Heaven which is Thy home
The raven of hell may wander without fear;
But sadly wings the dove o'er floods to roam, Nought but one tender sprig his eyes to cheer.
Nay, Lord, I speak in parables. But see!
'Tis stricken Man in Men that pleads with Thee.
# The Wendigo
### Contents

* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
* Chapter 8
* Chapter 9
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1951, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 72 years or less. 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
# The Wendigo/Chapter 3
### Chapter 3

Thus, it seemed to him, at least. Yet it was true that the lap of the water, just beyond the tent door, still beat time with his lessening pulses when he realized that he was lying with his eyes open and that another sound had recently introduced itself with cunning softness between the splash and murmur of the little waves.
And, long before he understood what this sound was, it had stirred in him the centers of pity and alarm. He listened intently, though at first in vain, for the running blood beat all its drums too noisily in his ears. Did it come, he wondered, from the lake, or from the woods?...
Then, suddenly, with a rush and a flutter of the heart, he knew that it was close beside him in the tent; and, when he turned over for a better hearing, it focused itself unmistakably not two feet away. It was a sound of weeping; Défago upon his bed of branches was sobbing in the darkness as though his heart would break, the blankets evidently stuffed against his mouth to stifle it.
And his first feeling, before he could think or reflect, was the rush of a poignant and searching tenderness. This intimate, human sound, heard amid the desolation about them, woke pity. It was so incongruous, so pitifully incongruous—and so vain! Tears—in this vast and cruel wilderness: of what avail? He thought of a little child crying in mid-Atlantic.... Then, of course, with fuller realization, and the memory of what had gone before, came the descent of the terror upon him, and his blood ran cold.
"Défago," he whispered quickly, "what's the matter?" He tried to make his voice very gentle. "Are you in pain—unhappy—?" There was no reply, but the sounds ceased abruptly. He stretched his hand out and touched him. The body did not stir.
"Are you awake?" for it occurred to him that the man was crying in his sleep. "Are you cold?" He noticed that his feet, which were uncovered, projected beyond the mouth of the tent. He spread an extra fold of his own blankets over them. The guide had slipped down in his bed, and the branches seemed to have been dragged with him. He was afraid to pull the body back again, for fear of waking him.
One or two tentative questions he ventured softly, but though he waited for several minutes there came no reply, nor any sign of movement. Presently he heard his regular and quiet breathing, and putting his hand again gently on the breast, felt the steady rise and fall beneath.
"Let me know if anything's wrong," he whispered, "or if I can do anything. Wake me at once if you feel—queer."
He hardly knew what to say. He lay down again, thinking and wondering what it all meant. Défago, of course, had been crying in his sleep. Some dream or other had afflicted him. Yet never in his life would he forget that pitiful sound of sobbing, and the feeling that the whole awful wilderness of woods listened....
His own mind busied itself for a long time with the recent events, of which this took its mysterious place as one, and though his reason successfully argued away all unwelcome suggestions, a sensation of uneasiness remained, resisting ejection, very deep-seated—peculiar beyond ordinary.
# The Warrior

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Warrior."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Warrior, a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
* The Warrior, a poem by John McCrae
# The Warrior (Letitia Elizabeth Landon)

* From The Literary Gazette, October 1823, as Sketch
* From The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems (1824)
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Anti-Irish Irishman

THE ANTI-IRISH IRISHMAN
From polar seas to torrid climes, Where'er the trace of man is found, What common feeling marks our kind, And sanctifies each spot of ground? What virtue in the human heart The proudest tribute can command? The dearest, purest, holiest, best, The lasting love of Fatherland!
Then who's the wretch that basely spurns The ties of country, kindred, friends— That barters every nobler aim For sordid views—for private ends? ​One slave alone on earth you'll find Through Nature's universal span, So lost to virtue—dead to shame, The anti-Irish Irishman
Our fields are fertile, rich our floods, Our mountains bold, majestic, grand; Our air is balm, and every breeze Wings health around our native land. But who despises all her charms, And mocks her gifts where'er he can? Why, he, the Norman's sneaking slave, The anti-Irish Irishman.
The Norman—spawn of fraud and guile! Ambitious sought our peaceful shore, And, leagued with native guilt, despoiled, And deluged Erin's fields with gore! Who gave the foe-man footing here? What wretch unholy led her van? The prototype of modern slaves, An anti-Irish Irishman!
For ages rapine ruled our plains, And slaughter raised "his red right hand," And virgins shriek'd!—and roof-trees blaz'd! And desolation swept the land! And who would not those ills arrest, Or aid the patriotic plan To burst his country's galling chains? The anti-Irish Irishman!
But now too great for fetters grown, Too proud to bend a slavish knee, Loved Erin mocks the tyrant's thrall, And firmly vows she shall be free! But mark yon treacherous stealthy knave That bends beneath his country's ban; Nor let him dash a nation's hopes, The anti-Irish Irishman!
​Hurrah! "the sun burst!"—Once again Our oriflamme is on the gale, With shamrock wreaths encircling The blazon'd glorious words "Repeal!" The coward slave that quits his post, Let Argus eyes the traitor scan, And infamy, eternal, brand The anti-Irish Irishman!
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Coquette

THE COQUETTE.
TO ———
"The love we have lost is never renewed. On that dread vacuum of the breast, the temple and the garden rise no more—that feeling, be it hatred, be it scorn, be it indifference, which replaces love, endures to the last."—Bulwer.
I.
I lov'd thee—yes, I lov'd thee—oh! how deeply and how well, The heart that loves alone can feel—what words can ever tell, Too long I dream'd—I vainly dream'd—affection could reside, Within that breast of ice and steel—of cold and cutting pride.
II.
But now my bosom thrills no more, as once for thee it thrill'd— I see the dark and chilly cloud my fancy strove to gild— The tints that Passion round thee threw—the rays of Love depart— I know thee, as thou falsely wert—and as thou truly art.
III.
Yes, where the sons of Folly bow, at Fashion's empty shrine, Go, bring thy flimsy heart to sale—it ne'er was formed for mine— I loathe the idol of the past—I spurn it with disgust— 'Tis shivered into fragments—and trampled into dust!
IV.
Yet no.—I cannot hate thee, tho' thy love no more I prize— We hate not, as we love not, where we only can despise— Then crawl in safety, for to me the thought of thee is such, As of a reptile we would kill, could we but bear to touch!
# The Spirit of the Nation/Sonnet

SONNET.
TRANSLATED FOR THE "NATION," FROM "ZAPPI," BY E. N. SHANNON, ESQ., THE TRANSLATOR OF DANTE, AUTHOR OF "TALES OLD AND NEW.")
In fair, delightful Cyprus, by the Main, A lofty, royal seat, Love's dwelling stands: Thither I went, and gave into his hands An humble scroll, his clemency to gain. Sire, said the writing, Thyrsis, who in pain Has served thee hitherto, this boon demands— His freedom—neither should his suit be vain, After six lustres' service in thy bands. He took the scroll, and seemed to pore thereon: But he was blind, and could not read the case. Seeming to feel his grievous want full sore— Wherefore, with stern and frowning air, anon, He said, and flung my writing in my face— Give it to DEATH—we two will talk it o'er.
# The Spirit of the Nation/Steady

STEADY.
"Courage—your most necessary virtue—consists not in blind resistance, but in knowing when to forbear."—The Nation, June 17.
Steady! Host of Freeedom, steady! Ponder, gather, watch, mature; Tranquil be, though ever ready— Prompt to act—and to endure.
Aimless, rage you not, insanely, Like a maniac with his chain, Struggling madly, therefore vainly, And lapsing back to bonds again.
But, observe, the clouds o'er Keeper Long collect their awful ire— Long they swell more dark and deeper; When they burst, all heaven's on fire.
​Freedom's barque to port is running, But beware the lurking shelves; And would you conquer tyrants' cunning, Brethren, conquer first yourselves.
Though thy cheek insulted burn— Though they call thee coward-slave— Scoff nor blow shalt thou return: Trust me, this is more than brave.
Fortitude hath shackles riven, More than spear or flashing gun; Freedom, like the thrones of heaven, Is by suff'ring virtue won.
Though thy brother still deride thee, Yield thou love for foolish hate: He'll, perhaps, ere long, beside thee, Proudly, boldly, share thy fate.
Discord! may kind angels chase thee Far from hapless Erin's shores, And the deepest hell embrace thee, Where no fouler demon roars!
Steady! steady! ranks of Freedom, Pure and holy are our bands; Heaven approves, and angels lead them, For truth and justice are our brands!
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Arms of '82

THE ARMS OF EIGHTY-TWO.
I.
They rose to guard their fatherland— In stern resolve they rose— In bearing firm—in purpose grand— To meet the world as foes. They rose as brave men ever do; And, flashing bright, They bore to light The Arms of "Eighty-two!"
II.
Oh! 'twas a proud and solemn sight To mark that broad array, Come forth to claim a nation's right 'Gainst all who dared gainsay; And despots shrunk, appall'd to view The men who bore From shore to shore, The Arms of "Eighty-two!"
III.
They won her right—they passed away Within the tomb they rest— And coldly lies the mournful clay Above each manly breast; But Ireland still may proudly view What that bright host Had cherished most— The Arms of "Eighty-two!"
IV.
Time-honoured comrades of the brave— Fond relics of their fame, Does Ireland hold one coward slave Would yield you up to shame? One dastard who would tamely view The alien's hand Insulting brand The Arms of "Eighty-two?"
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Battle of Beal-an-ath-Buidh

THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH.
A.D. 1598.
I.
By O'Nial beleagur'd, the spirits might droop Of the Saxon—three hundred shut up in their coop, Till Bagenal drew forth his Toledo, and swore, On the sword of a soldier, to succour Portmore.
II.
His veteran troops, in the foreign wars tried— Their features how bronz'd, and how haughty their stride— Stept steadily on; it was thrilling to see That thunder-cloud brooding o'er Beal-an-atha-buidh.
III.
The flash of their armour, inlaid with fine gold— Gleaming matchloks and cannons that mutteringly roll'd— With the tramp and the clank of those stern cuirassiers, Dyed in blood of the Flemish and French cavaliers.
IV.
And are the mere Irish, with pike and with darts— With but glibb-cover'd heads, and but rib-guarded hearts— Half-naked, half-fed, with few muskets, no guns— The battle to dare against England's stout sons?
V.
Poor Bonnochts, and wild Gallowglasses, and Kerns— Let them war with rude brambles, sharp furze, and dry ferns; Wirrastrue for their wives—for their babes ochanie, If they wait for the Saxon at Beal-an-atha-buidh.
VI.
Yet O'Nial stands firm—few and brief his commands— "Ye have hearts in your bosoms, and pikes in your hands; Try how far ye can push them, my children, at once; Fag-a-bealaċ!—and down with horse, foot, and great guns.
VII.
They have gold and gay arms—they have biscuit and bread; Now, sons of my soul, we'll be found and be fed;" ​And he clutch'd his claymore, and—"look yonder," laughed he, "What a grand commissariat for Beal-an-atha-buidh."
VIII.
Near the chief, a grim tyke, an O'Shanaghan stood, His nostril dilated seemed snuffing for blood; Rough and ready to spring, like the wiry wolf-hound Of Ternè, who, tossing his pike with a bound,
IX.
Cried, "My hand to the Sassenach! ne'er may I hurl Another to earth if I call him a churl! He finds me in clothing, in booty, in bread— My Chief, won't O'Shanaghan give him a bed?"
X.
"Land of Owen, aboo!" and the Irish rush'd on— The foe fir'd but one volley—their gunners are gone, Before the bare bosoms the steel-coats have fled, Or, despite casque or corslet, lie dying and dead.
XI.
And brave Harry Bagenal, he fell while he fought, With many gay gallants—they slept as men ought: Their faces to heaven—there were others, alack! By pikes overtaken, and taken aback.
XII.
And my Irish got clothing, coin, colours, great store, Arms, forage, and provender—plunder galor! They munch'd the white manchets—they champ'd the brown chine, Fillelue! for that day, how the natives did dine!
XIII.
O'Nial looked on, when O'Shanaghan rose, And cried, hearken Tyrone! I've a health to propose— "To our Sassenach hosts!" and all quaff'd in huge glee. With Cead mile failte go, Beal-an-atha-buidh!