OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Address to the Deity

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre: Source of all good, oh! teach my voice to sing, Thee, from whom nature's genuine beauties spring; Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to Chaos, "let the earth arise." Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year, Love, truth, and mercy, in thy works appear: Within their orbs the planets dost thou keep, And even hast limited the mighty deep. Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise! Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note; To thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing Thee, God of mercy,—heav'n's immortal king. Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire; Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire: With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to thee ascend. Yes! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire!" And when to thee my youth, my life, I've giv'n, Raise me, to join Eliza, blest in heav’n.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Ceba

CEBA.
AN INDIAN LOVE SONG.
Smooth the ocean's glassy breast,  The winds and waves are lull'd to rest;  Zephyr, breathing soft and calm,  Whispers through the grove of palm:
Haste, my Ceba to the bower,  Love demands one social hour;  Here the tamarind waves its head, And weeping gums their spicy riches shed.
 Come listen to the pleasing sound  Of all the dashing falls around;  Of all the birds that sweetly sing,  While the mountain-echoes ring:  To me their carols seem to say,  "Lovely Ceba, haste away."  Here the tamarind waves its head, And weeping gums their amber riches shed.
 Come, repose my lovely maid,  Beneath the arching plaintain's shade;  Hasten Ceba, hasten here,  Fragrant lemons blossom near;  Long lianas, blue and red,  Fringing o'er the rocks are spread;  Here the tamarind waves its head, And weeping gums their balmy riches shed.  Hasten, hasten, then my love,  To the arbour, to the grove.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Evening, on the Seashore

EVENING, ON THE SEA SHORE;
Sweet evening hour! thy gale is balm,  And fragrant are thy pearly dews; Thine is the mild and genial calm,  Belov'd by zephyr and the muse.
With fading smile the rosy day,  Now lingers in the radiant west; The breezes o'er the water play,  The summer waves are lull'd to rest.
I love to mark the glowing skies,  Reflected in the glassy deep; To watch the star of evening rise,  When all the ocean seems to sleep.
But see! the twilight mantle gray,  O'er all the fading view is spread; The glowing skies are pass'd away,  The bright and purple clouds are fled.
While memory loves unseen to mourn,  Alone to shed the sacred tear; Still to the muse thy blest return,  Oh! pensive twilight, shall be dear.
Now let me pour the soothing lay,  And hear the waves that murmuring glide; And wander till the moonlight ray,  Serenely trembles on the tide.
Come, gentle Fancy, rove with me,  At this thy favourite shadowy hour; Awake soft music, from the sea,  And call the fairies by thy power.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Flora to Claude, on his Plucking a Rose

FLORA TO CLAUDE, ON HIS PLUCKING A ROSE.
Ah! you thoughtless cruel boy, 'Tis all your pleasure to destroy; Fairer was my blushing rose, Than any fragrant flower that blows. Already, lo! it droops and dies, And all its lovely crimson flies. 'Twas I who breath'd the sweet perfume, I shed the rich luxuriant bloom;
And when the bud in embryo lay, I chased the nipping blight away. ’Twas I the silken texture spun: Now my work is all undone; And now I mourn my fairest flower, The glory of my summer bower.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Christmas

CHRISTMAS.
The sunbeams glitter on the mountain snow, And o'er the summit cast a transient glow; Now silver frost adorns the drooping bower, My favourite seat in summer's happy hour. 'Twas there, when spring the mantling blossoms shed, The sweet liburnum cluster'd o'er my head; And there the robin form'd a mossy nest, And gaily caroll'd in retirement blest; Still memory loves to paint the glowing scene, When autumn tints enrich'd the foliage green.
Even yet the bower is lovely in decay, Gilt by the "sunbeam of a winter's day;" For now the frost befringes every thorn, And sparkles to the radiant smile of morn: The lucid ice has bound the mountain rill, No more it murmurs by the cheerful mill. I hear the village bells upon the gale; And merry peasants wander thro' the vale; In gay convivial bands they rove along, With genuine pleasure and inspiring song; I meet the rustic troop, and love to trace The smile of health in every rosy face.
Oh! Christmas, welcome to thy happy reign, And all the social virtues in thy train; The Cambrian harper hails thy festal time, With sportive melody and artless rhyme: Unlike the bards who sung in days of old, And all the legends of tradition told; In gothic castles deck'd with banners gay, At solemn festivals they pour'd the lay: Their poor descendant wanders thro' the vales, And gains a welcome by his artless tales; He finds a seat in every humble cot, And hospitality in every spot; 'Tis now he bids the sprightly harp resound, To bless the hours with genial plenty crown'd. And now the gay domestic joys we prove, The smiles of peace, festivity, and love. "Oh! Christmas, welcome to thy hallow'd reign, And all the social virtues in thy train;" Compassion listening to the tale of grief, Who seeks the child of sorrow with relief; And every muse with animating glee, Congenial mirth and cordial sympathy.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/A Prayer

A PRAYER.
Oh! God, my father and my friend, Ever thy blessings to me send; Let me have virtue for my guide, And wisdom always at my side; Thus cheerfully thro' life I'll go, Nor ever feel the sting of woe; Contented with the humblest lot, Happy, tho' in the meanest cot. F. D. B. aged 9.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Astre de la Nuit

ASTRE DE LA NUIT.
(Par ANNA COXE, agée de douze ans et demi.)
Belle astre de la nuit charmante, Aimable et clairvoyante; Que je t'aime, que je t'adore, Quand tu disparais avant l'aurore.
Rivale timide de la lune modeste, Encore plus belle, et plus celeste; Brillante avec eclat dans l'air, Parmi le doux atmosphere.
Continue oh! belle astre luisante, De guider mes pas errants; Et de soirée en soirée, Eclairer mes promenades égarées.
TRANSLATION.
Heavenly star of lovely night,  Glittering in the azure sky, How I love thy halo bright,  When stealing from Aurora's eye.
Rival of Phoebe's placid gleam,  Still more celestial is thy beam; How brilliant is thy lustre clear,  Amidst the balmy atmosphere.
Continue lucent shining star,  To guide my wandering steps afar; And still each evening as I stray,  Shed o'er my walk thy silver ray. F. D. B.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Fairy Song

FAIRY SONG.
All my life is joy and pleasure, Sportive as my tuneful measure; In the rose's cup I dwell, Balmy sweets perfume my cell; My food the crimson luscious cherry, And the vine's luxurious berry; The nectar of the dew is mine; Nectar from the flowers divine. And when I join the fairy band, Lightly tripping hand in hand, By the moonlight's quivering beam, In concert with the dashing stream; Then my music leads the dance, When the gentle fays advance; And oft my numbers on the green, Lull to rest the fairy queen. "All my life is joy and pleasure, "Sportive as my airy measure."
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/A Tribute to the Genius of Robert Burns

A TRIBUTE
TO THE GENIUS OF ROBERT BURNS.
As in the lone sequester'd grove,  The woodlark on the bending spray, Attunes to liberty and love The sportive lay:
'Twas thus in mountain scenes retir'd,  That Scotia's minstrel, nature's child, Would sing, by ardent genius fir'd, His carol wild.
In poverty his generous heart,  With freedom and with fancy glow'd; And native strains untaught by art, Spontaneous flow'd.
Oh! Burns, to every feeling breast,  To every gentle mind sincere, By love and tender pity blest, Thy song is dear.
Sweet bard! 'twas thine to soar on high,  With inspiration and the muse; To claim from beauty's radiant eye Compassion's dews;
To raise the smile of social glee,  The patriot's manly heart to fire; Or wake the tear of sympathy, With plaintive lyre.
Sweet bard! for thee the muses mourn,  In melting lays they sing thy name; And twine, to deck thy sacred urn, The wreath of fame.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Chanson

CHANSON.
(WRITTEN IN LONDON.)
Quand j'etois en Galles, ce pays charmant,  Avec mes oiseaux,  Pres de mes ruisseaux; Mes ruisseaux si transparens;  Parmis les vallées  Humides de rosée;  De doux eglantiers,  Je fus couronnée: Oh! que je me trouvois toujours gaie. F. D. B.
# Paradise Lost (1668)

This is the 1668 edition of Paradise Lost, first published in 1667 in ten books. Notably, Milton added two news sections—The Argument and The Verse—that sought to introduce his reader to his work and poetic style.
* Paradise lost.
* A
* POEM
* IN
* TEN BOOKS.
* The Author
* JOHN MILTON.
* LONDON,
* Printed by S. Simmons, and to be sold by S. Thomson at
* the Bishops-Head in Duck-lane, H. Mortlack at the
* White Hart in Westminster Hall, M. Walker under
* St. Dunstans Church in Fleet-street, and R. Boulter at
* the Turks-Head in Bishopsgate street, 1668.
* The Argument
* The Verse
* Book I
* Book II
* Book III
* Book IV
* Book V
* Book VI
* Book VII
* Book VIII
* Book IX
* Book X
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
# Paradise Lost (1668)/The Verse

​THe Measure is English Heroic Verse without Rime, as that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin; Rime being no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse, in longer Works especially, but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter; grac't indeed since by the use of some Famous modern Poets, carried away by Custom, but much to thir own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse then else they would have exprest them. Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish Poets of prime note have rejected Rime both ​in longer and shorter Works, as have also long since our best English Tragedies, as a thing of it self, to all judicious eares, triveal and of no true musical delight; which consists only in apt Numbers, fit quantity of Syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one Verse into another, not in the fingling sound of like endings, a fault avoyded by the learned Ancients both in Poetry and all good Oratory. This neglect then of Rime so little is to be taken for a defect, though it may seem so perhaps to vulgar Readers, that it rather is to be esteem'd an example set, the first in English, of ancient liberty recover'd to Heroic Poem from the troublesom and modern bondage of Rimeing.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/A Ballad of Bath

A BALLAD OF BATH.
Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep, Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours, Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creep Soft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep, Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers. Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers, Touch not thee, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears, Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives grace, Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres: Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Dawn whereof we know not, and noon whose fruit we reap, Garnered up in record of years that fell like flowers, Sunset liker sunrise along the shining steep Whence thy fair face lightens, and where thy soft springs leap, Crown at once and gird thee with grace of guardian powers Loved of men beloved of us, souls that fame inspheres, All thine air hath music for him who dreams and hears; Voices mixed of multitudes, feet of friends that pace, Witness why for ever, if heaven's face clouds or clears, Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Peace hath here found harbourage mild as very sleep: Not the hills and waters, the fields and wildwood bowers, Smile or speak more tenderly, clothed with peace more deep, Here than memory whispers of days our memories keep
Fast with love and laughter and dreams of withered hours. Bright were these as blossom of old, and thought endears Still the fair soft phantoms that pass with smiles or tears, Sweet as roseleaves hoarded and dried wherein we trace Still the soul and spirit of sense that lives and cheers: Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
City lulled asleep by the chime of passing years, Sweeter smiles thy rest than the radiance round thy peers; Only love and lovely remembrance here have place. Time on thee lies lighter than music on men's ears; Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/A Jacobite's Exile

A JACOBITE'S EXILE.
1746.
The weary day rins down and dies, The weary night wears through: And never an hour is fair wi' flower, And never a flower wi' dew.
I would the day were night for me, I would the night were day: For then would I stand in my ain fair land, As now in dreams I may.
O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, And loud the dark Durance: But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne Than a' the fields of France;
And the waves of Till that speak sae still Gleam goodlier where they glance.
O weel were they that fell fighting On dark Drumossie's day: They keep their hame ayont the faem, And we die far away.
O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, But night and day wake we; And ever between the sea-banks green Sounds loud the sundering sea.
And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, But sweet and fast sleep they; And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them Is e'en their country's clay; But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day.
Strange as night in a strange man's sight, Though fair as dawn it be: For what is here that a stranger's cheer Should yet wax blithe to see?
The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, The fields are green and gold: The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, As ours at home of old.
But hills and flowers are nane of ours, And ours are oversea: And the kind strange land whereon we stand, It wotsna what were we Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, To try what end might be.
Scathe, and shame, and a waefu' name, And a weary time and strange, Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing Can die, and cannot change.
Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, Though sair be they to dree: But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, Mair keen than wind and sea.
Ill may we thole the night's watches, And ill the weary day: And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, A waefu' gift gie they; For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, The morn blaws all away.
On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, The burn rins blithe and fain: There's nought wi' me I wadna gie To look thereon again.
On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide; There sounds nae hunting-horn That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat Round banks where Tyne is born.
The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, The bents and braes give ear; But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, And strange is a' thing near.
The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see.
But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed That haps my sires at hame!
We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, And the sweet grey gleaming sky,
And the lordly strand of Northumberland, And the goodly towers thereby: And none shall know but the winds that blow The graves wherein we lie.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/A Jacobite's Farewell

A JACOBITE'S FAREWELL.
1716.
There's nae mair lands to tyne, my dear, And nae mair lives to gie: Though a man think sair to live nae mair, There's but one day to die.
For a' things come and a' days gane, What needs ye rend your hair? But kiss me till the morn's morrow, Then I'll kiss ye nae mair.
O lands are lost and life's losing, And what were they to gie? Fu' mony a man gives all he can, But nae man else gives ye.
Our king wons ower the sea's water, And I in prison sair: But I'll win out the morn's morrow, And ye'll see me nae mair.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Two Leaders

Previously printed in The Athenæum, January 8th, 1876, p. 54.
TWO LEADERS.
βᾶτε δόμον, μεγάλοι φιλοτίμοι Νυκτὸς παῖδες ἄπαιδες, ὑπ’ εὔφρονι πομπᾷ.
i.
One the last flower of Catholic love, that grows Amid bare thorns their only thornless rose, From the fierce juggling of the priests' loud mart Yet alien, yet unspotted and apart From the blind hard foul rout whose shameless shows Mock the sweet heaven whose secret no man knows With prayers and curses and the soothsayer's art; One like a storm‑god of the northern foam Strong, wrought of rock that breasts and breaks the sea And thunders back its thunder, rhyme for rhyme Answering, as though to outroar the tides of time
And bid the world's wave back—what song should be Theirs that with praise would bring and sing you home?
ii.
High souls that hate us; for our hopes are higher, And higher than yours the goal of our desire, Though high your ends be as your hearts are great. Your world of Gods and kings, of shrine and state, Was of the night when hope and fear stood nigher, Wherein men walked by light of stars and fire Till man by day stood equal with his fate. Honour not hate we give you, love not fear, Last prophets of past kind, who fill the dome Of great dead Gods with wrath and wail, nor hear Time's word and man's: 'Go honoured hence, go home, Night's childless children; here your hour is done; Pass with the stars, and leave us with the sun.'
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Victor Hugo in 1877

VICTOR HUGO IN 1877.
'Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?'
Above the spring‑tide sundawn of the year, A sunlike star, not born of day or night, Filled the fair heaven of spring with heavenlier light, Made of all ages orbed in one sole sphere Whose light was as a Titan's smile or tear; Then rose a ray more flowerlike, starry white, Like a child's eye grown lovelier with delight, Sweet as a child's heart‑lightening laugh to hear; And last a fire from heaven, a fiery rain As of God's wrath on the unclean cities, fell And lit the shuddering shades of half‑seen hell That shrank before it and were cloven in twain; A beacon fired by lightning, whence all time Sees red the bare black ruins of a crime.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)

Layout 2
POEMS AND BALLADS
THIRD SERIES
POEMS AND BALLADS
THIRD SERIES
BY
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1889
PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON
TO
WILLIAM BELL SCOTT
POET AND PAINTER
I DEDICATE THESE POEMS
IN MEMORY OF MANY YEARS
Contents
PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON
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
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/A Baby's Epitaph

A BABY'S EPITAPH
April made me: winter laid me here away asleep. Bright as Maytime was my daytime; night is soft and deep: Though the morrow bring forth sorrow, well are ye that weep.
Ye that held me dear beheld me not a twelvemonth long: All the while ye saw me smile, ye knew not whence the song Came that made me smile, and laid me here, and wrought you wrong.
Angels, calling from your brawling world one undefiled, Homeward bade me, and forbade me here to rest beguiled: Here I sleep not: pass, and weep not here upon your child.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/A Lyke-wake Song

A LYKE-WAKE SONG.
Fair of face, full of pride, Sit ye down by a dead man's side.
Ye sang songs a' the day: Sit down at night in the red worm's way.
Proud ye were a' day long: Ye'll be but lean at evensong.
Ye had gowd kells on your hair: Nae man kens what ye were.
Ye set scorn by the silken stuff: Now the grave is clean enough.
Ye set scorn by the rubis ring: Now the worm is a saft sweet thing.
Fine gold and blithe fair face, Ye are come to a grimly place.
Gold hair and glad grey een, Nae man kens if ye have been.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/A Reiver's Neck-Verse

A REIVER'S NECK-VERSE
Some die singing, and some die swinging, And weel mot a' they be: Some die playing, and some die praying, And I wot sae winna we, my dear, And I wot sae winna we.
Some die sailing, and some die wailing, And some die fair and free: Some die flyting, and some die fighting, But I for a fause love's fee, my dear, But I for a fause love's fee.
Some die laughing, and some die quaffing, And some die high on tree:
Some die spinning, and some die sinning, But faggot and fire for ye, my dear, Faggot and fire for ye.
Some die weeping, and some die sleeping, And some die under sea: Some die ganging, and some die hanging, And a twine of a tow for me, my dear, A twine of a tow for me.
# Poems (Follen)/The Serenade

THE SERENADE.
To F. B., who, just as I was speaking of her, late at night, with a friend, began to sing under the window. There were two ladies with her, dressed in white. As soon as we spoke to them, they disappeared. They sang The Swiss Boy, Fidolino, and a German love song.
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Irreparable

The Irreparable.
Can we suppress the old Remorse  Who bends our heart beneath his stroke, Who feeds, as worms feed on the corse,  Or as the acorn on the oak? Can we suppress the old Remorse?
Ah, in what philtre, wine, or spell,  May we drown this our ancient foe, Destructive glutton, gorging well,  Patient as the ants, and slow? What wine, what philtre, or what spell?
Tell it, enchantress, if you can,  Tell me, with anguish overcast, Wounded, as a dying man,  Beneath the swift hoofs hurrying past. Tell it, enchantress, if you can,
To him the wolf already tears  Who sees the carrion pinions wave This broken warrior who despairs  To have a cross above his grave— This wretch the wolf already tears.
Can one illume a leaden sky,  Or tear apart the shadowy veil Thicker than pitch, no star on high,  Not one funereal glimmer pale? Can one illume a leaden sky?
Hope lit the windows of the Inn,  But now that shining flame is dead; And how shall martyred pilgrims win  Along the moonless road they tread? Satan has darkened all the Inn!
Witch, do you love accursèd hearts?  Say, do you know the reprobate? Know you Remorse, whose venomed darts  Make souls the targets for their hate? Witch, do you love accursèd hearts?
The Might-have-been with tooth accursed  Gnaws at the piteous souls of men, The deep foundations suffer first,  And all the structure crumbles then Beneath the bitter tooth accursed.
II.
Often, when seated at the play,  And sonorous music lights the stage, I see the frail hand of a Fay  With magic dawn illume the rage Of the dark sky. Oft at the play
A being made of gauze and fire  Casts to the earth a Demon great. And my heart, whence all hopes expire,  Is like a stage where I await, In vain, the Fay with wings of fire!
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Sky

The Sky.
Where'er he be, on water or land,
Under pale suns or climes that flames enfold; One of Christ's own, or of Cythera's band, Shadowy beggar or Crœsus rich with gold;
Citizen, peasant, student, tramp, whate'er His little brain may be, alive or dead; Man knows the fear of mystery everywhere, And peeps, with trembling glances, overhead.
The heaven above? A strangling cavern wall; The lighted ceiling of a music-hall Where every actor treads a bloody soil—
The hermit's hope; the terror of the sot; The sky: the black lid of the mighty pot Where the vast human generations boil!