OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Americans Come!

THE AMERICANS COME!
Permission of Munsey's Magazine, New York
"What is the cheering, my little one? Oh, that my blinded eyes could see! Hasten, my boy, to the window run, And see what the noise in the street may be.
"I hear the drums and the marching feet; Look and see what it's all about! Who can it be that our people greet With cheers and laughter and joyous shout?"
"There are men, my father, brown and strong, And they carry a banner of wondrous hue; With a mighty tread they swing along; Now I see white stars on a field of blue!"
"You say that you see white stars on blue? Look, are there stripes of red and white? It must be—yes, it must be true! Oh, dear God, if I had my sight!
"Hasten, son, fling the window wide; Let me kiss the staff our flag swings from And salute the Stars and Stripes with pride, For, God be praised, the Americans come!"
—Elizabeth A. Wilbur
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Conversation Book

THE CONVERSATION BOOK
I 'ave a conversation book: I brought it out from 'ome, It tells the French for knife and fork, an' likewise brush and comb; It learns you 'ow to ast the time, the names of all the stars, An' 'ow to order oysters an' 'ow to buy cigars.
But there ain't no shops to shop in, there ain't no grand hotels, When you spend your days in dugouts doin' 'olesale trade in shells; It's nice to know the proper talk for theaters an' such— But when it comes to talkin', why, it doesn't 'elp you much.
There's all them friendy kind o' things you'd naturally say, When you meet a fellow casual-like an' pass the time o' day— Them little things as breaks the ice an' kind o' clears the air, Which, when you turn the phrase book up, why, them things isn't there!
I met a chap the other day a-roostin' in a trench, 'E didn't know a word of ours nor me a word o' French; ​An' 'ow it was we managed, well, I cannot understand, But I never used the phrase book though I 'ad it in my 'and.
I winked at 'im to start with; 'e grinned from ear to ear; An' 'e says "Tipperary" an' I says "Souvenir," 'E 'ad my only Woodbine, I 'ad 'is thin cigar, Which set the ball a'rollin', an' so—well, there you are!
I showed 'im next my wife an' kids, 'e up and showed me 'is. Them funny little Frenchy kids with 'air all in a fizz; "Annette," 'e says, "Louise," 'e says, an' 'is tears began to fall; We was comrades when we parted, but we'd 'ardly spoke at all.
'E'd 'ave kissed me if I'd let 'im; we 'ad never met before, An' I've never seen the beggar since, for that's the way o' war; An' tho we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same If 'e'll ever see them kids of 'is—I never ast 'is name!
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Belgian Flag

THE BELGIAN FLAG
Red for the blood of soldiers, Black, yellow and red— Black for the tears of mothers, Black, yellow and red— And yellow for the light and flame Of the fields where the blood is shed!
To the glorious flag, my children, Hark! the call your country gives, To the flag in serried order! He who dies for Belgium lives!
Red for the purple of heroes, Black, yellow and red— Black for the veils of widows Black, yellow and red— And yellow for the shining crown Of the victors who have bled!
To the flag, the flag, my children, Hearken to your country's cry! Never has it shone so splendid, Never has it flown so high!
Red for the flames in fury, Black, yellow and red— ​Black for the mourning ashes, Black, yellow and red— And yellow of gold, as we proudly hail The spirits of the dead!
To the flag, my sons! Your country With her blessing "Forward" cries! Has it shrunken? No, when smallest, Larger, statelier, it flies! Is it tattered? No, 'tis stoutest When destruction it defies!
—From the French of E. Cammaerts
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Flag

THE FLAG
Permission of the author
O some sing Tipperary, Some sing the Marseillaise, And some prefer God Save the King, Or other martial lays; Give me the Spangled Banner, With its stars now fifty fold, I love our Spangled Banner, For we sang that song of old.
Some love the brave tricolor, And some the Union Jack, Some hail the flag of Italy, Or the yellow, red and black; They're all our friends and allies, Stout men, alert and bold, But I love the Spangled Banner, 'Tis the flag we waved of old.
Flag of our faith and freedom, Flag for which we've bled! Flag of our home and happiness, Flag of our honored dead! No tyrant's sword shall wound thee, No alien hand shall hold Our loved Star Spangled Banner, The flag we loved of old.
—Dr. Felix E. Schelling
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Comb Band

THE COMB BAND
Permission of the author
Oh we love the gay canned music in the watches of the night And we sit about and listen to its records with delight, And we like to hear the music of the regimental band While the leader juggles gayly with the baton in his hand, But the melody that's sweetest as we linger in the gloam Is the harmony extracted from a fine-tooth comb.
Yes, we get some tissue-paper and some combs from out our kit And we gather in the squad tent where the lantern shadows flit, And we play a bunch of rag-time with a lot of vim and go In a sort of jazz-band rhythm—all the latest stuff we know; Tunes that set your shoulders swaying, while your thoughts are light as foam, To the sound of syncopation on a fine-tooth comb.
​It's a crazy sort of music which would drive a critic mad But it makes the evenings shorter, and it really ain't so bad, And it often kind of "gets you" when the boys start in to play For I've seen some homesick fellows wipe a tear or two away To the strains of "Suwanee River" and "My Old Kentucky Home," As they float in wistful minors from a fine-tooth comb.
When this cruel war is over—and I hope I'll last it through And we beat the German army—as we all intend to do, When the slaughtering is finished and the final fight we win, And with flags and pennons flying we go marching through Berlin, I would like to tramp in triumph past the kaiser's palace dome, Playing "Stars and Stripes Forever!" on a fine-tooth comb!
—Berton Braley
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Eyes of War

THE EYES OF WAR
Permission of the author
Like a gauzy speck in the pearling dawn, We drift through the silent skies, Over No-Man's-Land, where the smoke balls spawn And the deadly gases rise. We mark the spot where the battery stands— Where sappers toil in the trench-scarred height. We map each mile of a hostile land, Where millions writhe in battle-blight.
No silvery bugle to speed our flight, Nor the flutter of banners gay; Not a war steed's stamping for the fight, As we rise at break of day. Only the song of the wind in the planes— A thrill that lives in the day-dawn's glow— A shifting vision of country lanes, That wave like ribbons below.
—Chart Pitt
# Poems (David)/Tarpeia

TARPEIA.
In the days of Romulus, when Rome was beseiged by the Sabines under the leadership of Tatius, the city was difficult of access, and under the command of Tarpeius, father of Tarpeia, the citadel being on the site of the capitol. Tarpeia being charmed with the golden bracelets of the Sabines, betrayed the capitol to them, on condition of their being given to her. These bracelets were worn on the left arm, and, to grudge her nothing, Tatius bid his men to give, according to her wish, what they wore on their left arms. They obeyed, throwing on her not only their bracelets, but their shields, and Tarpeia was crushed beneath them.
# Poems (Barrett)/The Lay of the Brown Rosary

THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY.
# Poems (Barrett)/The Dead Pan

The Dead Pan.
Excited by Schiller's "Gotter Griechenlands," and partly founded on a well-known tradition mentioned in a treatise of Plutarch ("De Oraculorum Defectu"), according to which, at the hour of the Saviour's agony, a cry of "Great Pan is dead!" swept across the waves in the hearing of certain mariners,—and the oracles ceased.
It is in all veneration to the memory of the deathless Schiller that I oppose a doctrine still more dishonouring to poetry than to Christianity.
As Mr. Kenyon's graceful and harmonious paraphrase of the German poem was the first occasion of the turning of my thoughts in this direction, I take advantage of the pretence to indulge my feelings (which overflow on other grounds) by inscribing my lyric to that dear friend and relative, with the earnestness of appreciating esteem as well as of affectionate gratitude.—E. B. B.
THE END.
# Poems (Douglas)/Lines to the Memory of Rev. Chas. Campbell, D.D.

Lines
TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. CHARLES CAMPBELL, D.D, LATE VICAR OF NEWRY.
# Poems (Douglas)/Life's Reverses

LIFE'S REVERSES.
# Poems (Douglas)/In Memoriam

In Memoriam,
WRITTEN AT AYR ON THE DAY OF THE INTERMENT OF THE DEEPLY LAMENTED EARL OF EGLINTON AND WINTON.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/The Epic

POEMS.
THE EPIC.
At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,— The game of forfeits done—the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away— The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk, How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bump'd the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners, Now hawking at Geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro' the world, "at home was little left, And none abroad: there was no anchor, none, To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by him." "And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl." "Why yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way At college: but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic of King Arthur in the fire!" And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing—that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows—he has a mint of reasons: ask.
It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, "Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models rather than the life? And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth) Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." "But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, And have it: keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears, For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Freshmen: then at my request He brought it, and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/St. Agnes

ST. AGNES.
i.
Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.
ii.
To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.
iii.
The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity. One sabbath deep and wide— A light upon the shining sea— The Bridegroom with his bride!
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/The Beggar Maid

THE BEGGAR MAID.
Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way: "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."
As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ancles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"
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 (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/The Poet's Song

THE POET'S SONG.
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town, and out of the street; A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet.
The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey,
And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away."
the end.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/The Skipping Rope

THE SKIPPING-ROPE.
Sure never yet was Antelope Could skip so lightly by. Stand off, or else my skipping-rope Will hit you in the eye. How lightly whirls the skipping-rope! How fairy-like you fly! Go, get you gone, you muse and mope— I hate that silly sigh. Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, Or tell me how to die. There, take it, take my skipping-rope, And hang yourself thereby.
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 (1898)/Vagrant

This poem was not included in Mrs. Coates' collected Poems (1916, in 2 vols.).
VAGRANT
The love that has no memories and no hope, Is like the weed that blossoms for an hour; That putting forth its one imperfect flower, Straightway doth languish. It can neither cope With the strong tempest, nor with the mild power Of mellow sunlight, nor with the soft shower.
It has no root in nature, and it dies, Leaving no fragrance and no fruit behind; And none lament it, nor return to find Its bed when, beaten low, it bruisèd lies: Unfriended, and forsaken of its kind, It blows about, at mercy of the wind.
# Poems (1898)/Veiled

VEILED
Is the promise of day merely darkness, Is sleep full fruition for strife, Is the grave compensation for sorrow, Is Nirvana the answer to life?
Is there no unobscured revelation The evil of Earth to explain,— No word of compassion to soften The terrible riddle of pain?
In cold, imperturbable silence The planets revolve in their course, And Nature is deaf to entreaty, Untroubled by doubt or remorse;
The snows, far outspread on her mountains, Dissolve, nor her mandate gainsay, And the cloud is consumed at her bidding, And vanisheth quickly away.
And man?—shall he fade like the cloud-wreath, And waste, unresisting, like snow, Nor learn of the place whence he journeyed, Nor guess whereunto he must go?
​Alas! after nights spent in searching, After days and years, what can he tell,— What imagine of mysteries higher Than heaven, and deeper than hell?
At end of the difficult journey, With restless inquiries so rife, He knows what his spirit discovered At the shadowy threshold of life;
He feels what the tenderness beaming From eyes bending, wistful, above, Revealed to his heart when an infant,— The care, unforgetting, of love!
The hawk toward the south her wings stretcheth, The eagle ascendeth the sky; They know not the Guide who conducts them, Yet onward, unerring, they fly:
In the desert the dew falleth gently,— In the desert where no man is; And the herb wisteth not who hath sent it, But the herb and the dew,—both are His!
# Poems (1898)/Wings

WINGS
That Love has wings the poets say; White wings where lights and shadows play, Swift wings, that sail from shore to shore, From sea to sea, or lightly soar To happy Edens far away.
Where'er they gleam the world grows gay, December smiles, and rosy May With fluttering transport feels once more That Love has wings.
But Youth is fond, and hearts are clay, And faults deceive, and doubts betray, And some forget the winning lore That drew the blessing to their door, And learn too late—ah, well-a-day!— That Love has wings.
# Poems (1898)/True Love

TRUE LOVE
True love is not a conquest won, But a perpetual winning, A tireless service bravely done And ever new-beginning;
Gold will not buy it for to-day Nor keep it for to-morrow, From Pleasure's paths it turns away, To make its bed with Sorrow.
White, Aphrodite, are thy doves, But 'neath their snows are burning Undying flames, and he who loves Aspires with flame-like yearning;
Aspires unto a far-off bliss Whose vision makes him younger, And moved to rapture by thy kiss, Still for thy soul doth hunger!
# Poems (1898)/Unconquered

UNCONQUERED
Deem not, O Pain, that thou shalt vanquish me, Who know each treacherous pang, each last device Whereby thou barr'st the way to Paradise! Inured to suffer constantly Thy joyless fellowship, I gain The lessons only taught by Pain, And know, though broken, that my will Subdues thee still!
Man was not born the slave of things like thee And thy companion, Death: the livelong day He valiant strives, and holds ye still at bay; And when he can no longer see For thick'ning shadows, faint and spent He bears his standards to his tent And yields ye seeming victory; But—he is free!
# Poems (1898)/Wouldst Thou Learn?

WOULDST THOU LEARN
Wouldst thou learn what coldness is, Seek it not where Hebrus flows, Shuddering, to the abyss; Nor where Hermon's gleaming snows, On its frozen heights, repose; But on such a morn as this, When no blade of grass is dumb, When the birds, low-twittering, build, And Earth's heart is passion-thrill'd,— Come to Love's deserted home!
# Poems (1898)/Victory

VICTORY
Peace! for the silver bugles play, And the glad fifes, with shriller sound; The drum beats fast, and, far away, Awakens joy profound.
From dawn unto the setting sun We battled, and our foes have lost; O heart, my heart, the day is won,— Break thou, and pay the cost!
# Poems (1898)/Water Lilies

WATER LILIES
I gathered them—the lilies pure and pale, The golden-hearted lilies, virgin fair, And in a vase of crystal, placed them where Their perfumes might unceasingly exhale. High in my lonely tent above the swale, Above the shimmering mere and blossoms there, I solaced with their sweetness my despair, And fed with dews their beauteous petals frail. But when the aspens felt the evening breeze, And shadows 'gan across the lake to creep, When hermit-thrushes to the Oreades Sang vesper orisons, from cloisters deep,— My lilies, lulled by native sympathies, Upfolded their white leaves and fell asleep.
# Poems (Acton)

* related portals: English literature, Poetry.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
POEMS.
BY
HARRIET AND ROSE ACTON.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHORS,
BY JOSEPH ROGERSON, 24, NORFOLK-STREET, STRAND.
1846.
TO
MISS CAMILLA TOULMIN,
AS A SIMPLE TRIBUTE OF THE HIGHEST ADMIRATION OF HER TALENTS
AS AN AUTHORESS,
AND WARMEST ESTEEM
AS A FRIEND,
THESE POEMS ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHORS.
London, December, 1846.
CONTENTS.
LONDON:
Printed by Joseph Rogerson, 24, Norfolk Street, Strand.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/To Eva

TO EVA
O fair and stately maid, whose eyes Were kindled in the upper skies At the same torch that lighted mine; For so I must interpret still Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, A sympathy divine.
Ah! let me blameless gaze upon Features that seem at heart my own; Nor fear those watchful sentinels, Who charm the more their glance forbids, Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids, With fire that draws while it repels.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/To Rhea

TO RHEA
Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes, Not with flatteries, but truths, Which tarnish not, but purify To light which dims the morning's eye. I have come from the spring-woods, From the fragrant solitudes;— Listen what the poplar-tree And murmuring waters counselled me.
If with love thy heart has burned; If thy love is unreturned; Hide thy grief within thy breast, Though it tear thee unexpressed; For when love has once departed From the eyes of the false-hearted, And one by one has torn off quite The bandages of purple light; Though thou wert the loveliest Form the soul had ever dressed, Thou shalt seem, in each reply, A vixen to his altered eye; ​Thy softest pleadings seem too bold, Thy praying lute will seem to scold; Though thou kept the straightest road, Yet thou errest far and broad.
But thou shalt do as do the gods In their cloudless periods; For of this lore be thou sure,— Though thou forget, the gods, secure, Forget never their command, But make the statute of this land. As they lead, so follow all, Ever have done, ever shall. Warning to the blind and deaf, 'T is written on the iron leaf, Who drinks of Cupid's nectar cup Loveth downward, and not up; He who loves, of gods or men, Shall not by the same be loved again; His sweetheart's idolatry Falls, in turn, a new degree. When a god is once beguiled By beauty of a mortal child And by her radiant youth delighted, He is not fooled, but warily knoweth His love shall never be requited. And thus the wise Immortal doeth,— 'T is his study and delight To bless that creature day and night; ​From all evils to defend her; In her lap to pour all splendor; To ransack earth for riches rare, And fetch her stars to deck her hair: He mixes music with her thoughts, And saddens her with heavenly doubts: All grace, all good his great heart knows, Profuse in love, the king bestows, Saying, 'Hearken! Earth, Sea, Air! This monument of my despair Build I to the All-Good, All-Fair. Not for a private good, But I, from my beatitude, Albeit scorned as none was scorned, Adorn her as was none adorned. I make this maiden an ensample To Nature, through her kingdoms ample, Whereby to model newer races, Statelier forms and fairer faces; To carry man to new degrees Of power and of comeliness. These presents be the hostages Which I pawn for my release. See to thyself, O Universe! Thou art better, and not worse.'— And the god, having given all, Is freed forever from his thrall.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Unity

UNITY
Space is ample, east and west, But two cannot go abreast, Cannot travel in it two: Yonder masterful cuckoo Crowds every egg out of the nest, Quick or dead, except its own; A spell is laid on sod and stone, Night and Day were tampered with, Every quality and pith Surcharged and sultry with a power That works its will on age and hour.