OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems upon Several Occasions/2

WHEN join'd in One, the Good, the Fair, the Great, Descend to view the Muses humble Seat, Tho' in mean Lines they their vast Joys declare,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ Yet for Sincerity and Truth, they dare With your own Tasso's mighty self compare.
Then, bright and merciful as Heav’n, receive From them such Praises, as to Heav’n they give, Their Praises for that gentle Influence, Which those auspicious Lights, your Eyes, dispense. Those radiant Eyes, whose irresistless Fame Strikes Envy dumb, and keeps Sedition tame: They can to gazing Multitudes give Law, Convert the Factious, and the Rebel awe: They conquer for the Duke; where-e'er you tread, Millions of Proselytes behind are led, Thro' Crowds of new-made Converts still you go, Pleas'd and triumphant at the glorious Show!
Happy that Prince, who has by you attain'd A greater Conquest than his Arms e'er gain'd: With all War’s Rage he may abroad o'ercome, But Love’s a gentler Victory at home. Securely here, he on that Face relies, Lays by his Arms, and conquers with your Eyes; And all the glorious Actions of his Life Thinks well rewarded, blest with such a Wife.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/20

In Praise of Myra.
I.
What Nymph, what Queen, what Goddess wilt thou chuse? Whose Praises sing? what Charmer's Name Transmit immortal down to Fame? Strike, strike thy Strings; let Echo take the Sound, And bear it far, to all the Mountains round: Pindus again shall hear, again rejoice, And Hamus too, as when th' enchanting Voice Of tuneful Orpheus charm'd the Grove, Taught Oaks to dance, and made the Cedars move.
II.
Myra is Venus, and Diana too; All that was feign'd of them, apply'd to her, is true: Then sing, my Muse, let Myra be our Theme. As when the Shepherds wou'd a Garland make, They search with Pains the fragrant Meadows round, Plucking but here and there, and only take The sweetest Flowers, with which some Nymph is crown'd: In framing Myra so divinely fair, Nature has taken the same Care,
All that is lovely, noble, good, we see, All, beauteous Myra, all bound up in thee.
III.
Th' Arcadian Pastures, and the Cyprian Grove, When Myra walks, so charming is her Meen, In ev'ry Motion ev'ry Grace is seen: When Myra speaks, so just's the Sense and strong, So sweet the Voice, 'tis like the Muses Song. Place me on Mountains of eternal Snow, Where all is Ice, all Winter Winds that blow, Or cast me underneath the burning Line, Where everlasting Sun does shine, Where all is scorch'd—Whatever you decree, Ye Gods! where ever I shall be, Myra shall still be lov'd, and still ador'd by me.
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Heart’s Omens

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE TRUTH OF PRESENTIMENTS.
I felt my sorrow ere it came,
 As storms are felt on high,
Before a single cloud denote
 Their presence on the sky.
The heart has omens deep and true,
 That ask no aid from words;
Like viewless music from the harp,
 With none to wake its chords.
Strange, subtle, are these mysteries,
 And linked with unknown powers,
Marking mysterious links that bind
 The spirit world to ours.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE HEART’S OMENS
In The New York Mirror (24th March 1838) under the chapter heading.
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Influence of the Dead

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE INFLUENCE OF THE DEAD.
Who are the Spirits watching by the dead?
Faith, from whose eyes a solemn light is shed;
And Hope, with far-off sunshine on the head.
The influence of the dead is that of Heaven;
To it a majesty of power is given,
Working on earth with a diviner leaven.
To them belongs all high and holy thought:
The mind, whose mighty empire they have wrought;
And grief, whose comfort was by angels brought.
And gentle Pity comes, and brings with her
Those pensive dreams that their own light confer;
While Love stands watching by the sepulchre.
In Blanchard
In The New York Mirror (24th March 1838), as The Kind Spirits
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Lost

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A FRIEND AT COURT.
I did not know till she was lost,
 How much she was beloved;
She knows it in that better world
 To which she is removed.
I feel as she had only sought
 Again her native skies;
I look upon the heavens, and seem
 To meet her angel eyes.
Pity, and love, and gentle thoughts,
 For her sake, fill my mind;
They are the only part of her
 That now is left behind.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE LOST
In The New York Mirror (24th March 1838), as Sorrow for the Departed
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Last Night with the Dead

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE LAST NIGHT WITH THE DEAD.
How awful is the presence of the dead!
The hours rebuked, stand silent at their side;
Passions are hushed before that stern repose;
Two, and two only, sad exceptions share—
Sorrow and love,—and these are paramount.
How deep the sorrow, and how strong the love!
Seeming as utterly unfelt before.
Ah! parting tries their depths. At once arise
Affection's treasures, never dreamed till then.
Death teaches heavy lessons, hard to bear;
And most it teaches us what we have lost,
In losing those who loved us.
In Blanchard
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Rose

CHAPTER XV.
Why, what a history is on the rose!
A history beyond all other flowers;
But never more, in garden or in grove,
Will the white queen reign paramount again.
She must content her with remembered things,
When her pale leaves were badge for knight and earl;
Pledge of a loyalty which was as pure,
As free from stain, as those white depths her leaves
Unfolded to the earliest breath of June.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE ROSE
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Temple Garden

CHAPTER XX.
The fountain's low singing is heard on the wind,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Away in the distance is heard the far sound
From the streets of the city that compass it round,
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call:
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.
The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide
Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards a world at its side;
And dark the horizon with mast and with sail
Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the gale;
While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears,
Where England has garnered—the glories of years.
There are lights in the casement—how weary the ray
That asks from the night time the toils of the day!
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page,
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age;
What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been.
Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green!
Blanchard’s title is:
THE TEMPLE GARDEN
From The Middle Temple Gardens in The Vow of the Peacock
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Poet’s First Essay

CHAPTER IX.
A FIRST NIGHT.
It is a fearful stake the poet casts,
When he comes forth from his sweet solitude
Of hopes, and songs, and visionary things,
To ask the iron verdict of the world.
Till then his home has been in fairyland,
Sheltered in the sweet depths of his own heart;
But the strong need of praise impels him forth;
For never was there poet but he craved
The golden sunshine of secure renown.
That sympathy which is the life of fame,
It is full dearly bought: henceforth he lives
Feverish and anxious, in an unkind world,
That only gives the laurel to the grave.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE POET’S FIRST ESSAY
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Fête

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE FÊTE.
There was a feast that night,
And coloured lamps sent forth their odorous light
Over gold carvings, and the purple fall
Of tapestry; and around each stately hall
Were statues pale, and delicate, and fair,
As all of beauty, save her blush, were there;
And, like light clouds floating around each room,
The censers sent their breathings of perfume;
And scented waters mingled with the breath
Of flowers that died as they rejoiced in death.
The tulip, with its globe of rainbow light;
The red rose, as it languished with delight;
The bride-like hyacinth, drooping as with shame,
And the anemone, whose cheek of flame
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun,
In his noon hour, most loved to look upon.
At first the pillared halls were still and lone,
As if some fairy palace, all unknown
To mortal eye or step:—this was not long—
Wakened the lutes, and rose the sound of song;
And the wide mirrors glittered with the crowd
Of changing shapes: the young, the fair, the proud,
Came thronging in.
In Blanchard
This poem has appeared as The Banquet
In the Bouquet (1846), under (Parsley) Apium petroselinum as Feasting, Entertainment
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Marriage Vow

CHAPTER XVI.
THE CHURCH.
The altar, 'tis of death! for there are laid
The sacrifice of all youth's sweetest hopes.
It is a dreadful thing for woman's lip
To swear the heart away; yet know that heart
Annuls the vow while speaking, and shrinks back
From the dark future that it dares not face.
The service read above the open grave
Is far less terrible than that which seals
The vow that binds the victim, not the will;
For in the grave is rest.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE MARRIAGE VOW
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Past

CHAPTER XI.
THE PAST.
Weep for the love that fate forbids;
 Yet loves, unhoping, on,
Though every light that once illumed
 Its early path be gone.
Weep for the love that must resign
 The soul's enchanted dream,
And float, like some neglected bark,
 Adown life's lonely stream!
Weep for the love that cannot change;
 Like some unholy spell,
It hangs upon the life that loved
 So vainly and so well.
Weep for the weary heart condemned
 To one long, lonely sigh, Whose lot has been in this cold world,
 To dream, despair, and die!
In Blanchard
Altered from Mardale Head in Fisher’s Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 35/October 1889/Obituary Notes

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Dr. C. Jessen, naturalist, formerly professor at Greifswald, and more recently at Berlin, has lately died, in his sixty-ninth year.
Prof. Elias Loomis, LL.D., of the Munson chair of Natural Philosophy and Astronomy in Yale University, died August 15th, in his seventy-ninth year. He was graduated from Yale College in 1830, and three years later became a tutor there. He and Prof. A. C. Twining, of West Point, together began the first observations made in this country to determine the altitude of shooting-stars. In 1835 he discovered Halley's comet on its return by means of his own computations of the elements of its orbit. He was the author of text-books covering the whole range of mathematical subjects; of popular treatises on natural philosophy, astronomy, and meteorology; and of many contributions to scientific journals.
Dr. John Percy, a distinguished English metallurgist, died June 20th, aged about seventy-two years. He was appointed Professor of Metallurgy in the School of Mines in 1851, and held the office till 1879. He began his great work on metallurgy in 1861, and continued it in 1864, 1870, and 1880. He received the Bessemer medal of the Iron and Steel Institute for his researches in metallurgy, particularly in iron and steel, in 1877. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1847, and President of the Iron and Steel Institute in 1886. He was also distinguished for labors in practical ventilation.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 23

Scans
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# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Thoughts connected with Trees

X.
THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.
Trees, gracious trees! how rich a gift ye are, Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, Linked with your forms and kindly whisperings rise! How the whole picture of a childhood lies Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep! Till gazing through them up the summer skies As hushed we stand, a breeze perchance may creep And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world Where memory coils—and lo! at once unfurled The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight, Spreads clear! while gushing from their long-sealed urn Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return, And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To Silvio Pellico on Reading his "Prigione,"

IX.
TO SILVIO PELLICO ON READING HIS "PRIGIONE."
There are who climb the mountain's heathery side, Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge The bark's fleet rushing through the crested surge, Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride Over the green savannas, gleaming wide By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea, Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free, Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified By thy brave suffering—Thou from its dark cell Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, Filling the dedicated solitude With God; and where His spirit deigns to dwell, Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie, There—throned in peace divine is liberty!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To an Aged Friend

XVII.
TO AN AGED FRIEND.
Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, Servant of God!—thy day is almost done— The charm now hung upon thy look and word Is that which lingers round the setting sun, A power which bright decay hath meekly won Still from revering love. Yet both the sense Of life immortal—progress but begun— Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline; And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell, Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touched with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of Heaven.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To Venus

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.
Book I. Ode XXX.
TO VENUS.
Oh! leave thine own loved isle, Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores!  And here on Glycera's fair temple smile, Where vows and incense lavishly she pours.
 Waft here thy glowing son, Bring Hermes, let the nymphs thy path surround,  And youth unlovely till thy gifts be won, And the light graces with the zone unbound.
Original of the foregoing.
O Venus, regina Gnidi Paphique, Sperne dilectam Cypron, et, vocantis Ture te multo, Glyceræ decoram Transfer in ædem. Fervidus tecum puer, et solutis Gratiæ zonis, properentque Nymphæ, Et, parum comis sine te, Juventas, Mercuriusque.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To a Picture of the Madonna

TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.
Ave Maria! May our spirits dare Look up to thine, and to thy Son's above? Byron.
Fair vision! thou'rt from sunny skies, Born where the rose hath richest dyes; To thee a southern heart hath given That glow of Love, that calm of Heaven, And round thee cast th' ideal gleam, The light that is but of a dream.
Far hence, where wandering music fills The haunted air of Roman hills, Or where Venetian waves of yore Heard melodies, they hear no more, Some proud old minster's gorgeous aisle Hath known the sweetness of thy smile.
Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine, 'Mid forests of the Apennine, Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell Pass like a floating anthem-swell, Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way Shed blessings with their gentle ray.
Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, Perchance thine island-chapel stood, Where from the blue Sicilian sea, The sailor's hymn hath risen to thee, And bless'd thy power to guide, to save. Madonna! watcher of the wave!
Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, Forth from those lips of beauty flow! Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, The conflicts, and the pangs of years, Which, at thy secret shrine reveal'd, Have gush'd from human hearts unseal'd!
Surely to thee hath woman come, As a tired wanderer back to home! Unveiling many a timid guest, And treasured sorrow of her breast, A buried love—a wasting care— Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer?
And did the poet's fervid soul To thee lay bare its inmost scroll? Those thoughts, which pour'd their quenchless fire And passion o'er th' Italian lyre, Did they to still submission die, Beneath thy calm, religious eye?
And hath the crested helmet bow'd Before thee, 'midst the incense-cloud? Hath the crown'd leader's bosom lone, To thee its haughty griefs made known? Did thy glance break their frozen sleep, And win the unconquer'd one to weep?
Hush'd is the anthem—closed the vow— The votive garland wither'd now; Yet holy still to me thou art, Thou that hast soothed so many a heart! And still must blessed influence flow From the meek glory of thy brow.
Still speak to suffering woman's love, Of rest for gentle hearts above; Of Hope, that hath its treasure there, Of Home, that knows no changeful air! Bright form, lit up with thoughts divine, Ave! such power be ever thine!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To Delius

Book II. Ode III.
TO DELIUS.
Firm be thy soul!—serene in power,  When adverse Fortune clouds the sky; Undazzled by the triumph's hour,  Since, Delius, thou must die!
Alike if still to grief resigned,  Or if through festal days 'tis thine To quaff, in grassy haunts reclined,  The old Falernian wine:
Haunts where the silvery poplar-boughs  Love with the pine's to blend on high, And some clear fountain brightly flows  In graceful windings by.
There be the rose, with beauty fraught  So soon to fade, so brilliant now,
There be the wine, the odours brought,  While Time and Fate allow!
For thou, resigning to thine heir,  Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store, Must leave that home, those woodlands fair,  On yellow Tyber's shore.
What then avails it if thou trace  From Inachus thy glorious line? Or, sprung from some ignoble race,  If not a roof be thine?
Since the dread lot for all must leap  Forth from the dark revolving urn, And we must tempt the gloomy deep,  Whence exiles ne'er return.
Original of the foregoing.
Æquam memento rebus in arduis Servare mentem, non secus in bonis  Ab insolenti temperatam  Lætitia; moriture Delli, Seu mœstus omni tempore vixeris, Seu te in remoto gramine per dies  Festos reclinatum beâris  Interiore notâ Falerni. Qua pinus ingens, albaque populus, Umbram hospitalem consociare amant  Ramis, et obliquo laborat  Lympha fugax trepidare rivo; Huc vina, et unguenta, et nimium brevis Flores amœnos ferre jube rosæ,  Dum res, et ætas, et sororum Fila trium patiuntur atra.
Cedes coëmtis saltibus, et domo, Villâque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit:  Cedes; et exstructis in altum  Divitiis potietur heres. Divesne prisco natus ab Inacho, Nil interest, an pauper et infimâ  De gente, sub divo moreris,  Victima nil miserantis Orci. Omnes eodem cogimur: omnium Versatur urnâ, serius, ocius  Sors exitura, et nos in æternum  Exsilium impositura cymbæ.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To Faunus

Book III. Ode XVIII.
TO FAUNUS.
Faunus! who lov'st the flying Nymphs to chase,  O let thy steps with genial influence tread My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace,  Left on my nursling groves, and borders shed.
If, at the mellow closing of the year,  A tender kid in sacrifice be thine; Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear;  Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine.
Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays,  When the December feast returns to thee; Calmly the ox along the pasture strays,  With festal villagers from toil set free.
Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat,  Then shower the woods to thee their foliage round;
And the glad labourer triumphs that his feet  In triple dance have struck the hated ground.
Original of the foregoing.
Faune, Nympharum fugieutum amator, Per meos fines et aprica rura Lenis incedas, abeasque parvis Æquus alumnis; Si tener pleno cadit hædus anno, Largo nec desunt, Veneris sodali, Vina crateræ, vetus ara multo Fumat odore. Ludit herboso pecus omne campo, Cum tibi Nonæ redeunt Decembres: Festus in pratis vacat otioso Cum bove pagus: Inter audaces lupus errat agnos: Spargit agrestes tibi silva frondes; Gaudet invisam pepulisse fossor Ter pede terram.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To a Wandering Female Singer

TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER.
Thou hast loved and thou hast suffered!  Unto feeling deep and strong, Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string—  I know it by thy song!
Thou hast loved—it may be vainly—  But well—oh! but too well— Thou hast suffered all that woman's breast  May bear—but must not tell.
Thou hast wept and thou hast parted,  Thou hast been forsaken long, Thou hast watched for steps that came not back—  I know it by thy song!
By the low clear silvery gushing  Of its music from thy breast, By the quivering of its flute-like swell—  A sound of the heart's unrest.
By its fond and plaintive lingering,  On each word of grief so long, Oh! thou hast loved and suffered much—  I know it by thy song!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Wish

THE WISH.
Come to me, when my soul Hath but a few dim hours to linger here;  When earthly chains are as a shrivell'd scroll, Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near!
That I may look once more Into thine eyes, which never changed for me;  That I may speak to thee of that bright shore Where, with our treasure, we have longed to be.
Thou friend of many days! Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth!  Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise The trembling pinions of my hope from earth?
By every solemn thought Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by,  From the deep voices of the mountains caught, Or all th' adoring silence of the sky;
By every solemn theme Wherein, in low-toned reverence we have spoken  By our communion in each fervent dream That sought from realms beyond the grave a token;
And by our tears for those Whose loss hath touch'd our world with hues of death;  And by the hopes that with their dust repose, As flowers await the south-wind's vernal breath:
Come to me in that day— The one—the sever'd from all days—O friend!  Even then, if human thought may then have sway, My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend.
Nor then, nor there alone: I ask my heart if all indeed must die;  All that of holiest feelings it hath known? And my heart's voice replies—Eternity!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To a Distant Scene

IX.
TO A DISTANT SCENE.
Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off grassy dell?—and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake the vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet—the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and round my beechen tree Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? —Oh! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face! —My being's tide of many-coloured thought Hath passed from thee, and now, rich, leafy place! I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadowed by what hath been.