OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Africa

AFRICA.
Land of the wise!—where science broke
 Like morning from chaotic deeps,
Where Moses, holy prophet, woke,
 Where Parsons, youthful martyr, sleeps;—
Land of the brave!—where Carthage rear'd
 'Gainst haughty Rome a warrior's crest,
Where Cato, like a god revered,
 Indignant pierced his patriot breast;—
Land of the scorn'd, the exiled race,
 Who fainting 'neath oppressive toil,
With never-ceasing sighs retrace
 Their palm-tree's shade, their fathers' soil;
Shall blest Benevolence extend
 Her angel reign from sea to sea,
Nor yet one glance of pity bend
 Deserted Africa! on thee?—
Did Nature bid the torrid skies
 Glare fiercely o'er thy desert glade?—
In heathen gloom benight thine eyes
 And cloud thy brow with ebon shade?—
And must thy brother's hatred find
 A doom that Nature never gave?—
A curse Creation ne'er design'd,—
 The fetter, and the name of slave?—
Haste! lift from Afric's wrongs the veil,
 Ere the Eternal Judge arise,
To list the helpless prisoner's wail,
 And count the tears from misery's eyes.
Oh! ere the flaming heavens reveal
 That frown which none can meet and live,
Teach her before the Throne to kneel
 And like her Saviour pray,—"Forgive."
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Ancient Tradition from the Island of Lesbos

ANCIENT TRADITION FROM THE ISLAND OF LESBOS.
It is asserted in this tradition, that the Mithymnians gained from Apollo, the gift of a genius for poetry and music, as a reward for hanging in his temple the lyre of Orpheus, and burying his dissevered head, when they came floating down the waters of the Hebrus.
When Orpheus' limbs by Thracian madness torn
On the cold Hebrus' rapid waves were borne,
The sever'd head in tuneful measures sigh'd,
And murmuring music charm'd the tossing tide.
Thus as it roved, complaining and distrest,
Mithymnia's bands beheld the approaching guest,
Rush'd with indignant grief, and shuddering bore
The injured victim to their verdant shore.—
With fragrant balm the golden locks they lave,
And gently cleanse them from the dripping wave,
With purest flowers the polish'd brows entwine,
And bathe the quivering lips with generous wine,
Restore it kindly to the earth's green breast,
And with sad dirges lull its woes to rest.—
—Next, from the floating surge his lyre they gain,
And reverent, place it in Apollo's fane.
Round its slight frame, the freshest garlands bind,
And mourn its master to the earth consign'd.—
—But o'er its chords when evening breezes sweep,
Soft tones arise, and murmuring voices weep,
"Eurydice!"—in trembling grief they sigh,—
"Eurydice!"—the lofty aisles reply:
And through the temple roves in echoes slow,
The cherish'd burden of remember'd wo.—
The list'ning trains, with sudden awe inspired, With all Apollo's soul of song were fired;—
The tuneful god, this gift celestial made
To those whose pious rites appeased his votary's shade.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Anna Boleyn

ANNA BOLEYN.
The Axe, with which Anna Boleyn was beheaded, is still preserved in the Tower of London.
Stern minister of Fate severe!
 Who, drunk with beauty's blood,
 Defying time, dost linger here,
 And frown with ruffian visage drear,
 Like beacon on destruction's flood:
 Say!—when ambition's giddy dream
 First lured thy victim's heart aside,
 Why like a serpent didst thou hide
 Mid clustering flowers, and robes of pride
 Thy warning gleam?
 Had'st thou but once arisen in vision dread,
From glory's fearful cliff her startled step had fled.
 Ah! little she reck'd when St Edward's crown
 So heavily press'd her tresses fair,
 That with sleepless wrath, its thorns of care
 Would rankle within her couch of down!
 To the tyrant's bower,
 In her beauty's power,
 She came,—as a lamb to the lion's lair,
 As the light bird cleaves the fields of air,
And carols blithe and sweet, while Treachery weaves its snare.
Think!—what were her pangs as she traced her fate
 On that changeful monarch's brow of hate?
 What were the thoughts, which in misery's hour
 Throng'd o'er her soul, in her dungeon tower?
 Regret, with pencil keen,
 Retouch'd the deep'ning scene:
 Delightful France, whose genial skies
 Bade her gay childhood's pleasures rise;
 Earl Percy's love,—his youthful grace,
 Her gallant brother's fond embrace,
 Her stately father's feudal halls,
Where proud heraldic annals deck'd the ancient walls.
 Wrapt in the scaffold's gloom,
 Brief tenant of that living tomb
 She stands!—the life blood chills her heart,
 And her tender glance from earth does part;
 But her infant daughter's image fair,
 In the smile of innocence is there,
 It clings to her soul mid its last despair;
 And the desolate queen is doom'd to know
How far a mother's grief transcends a martyr's wo.
 Say! did prophetic light
 Illume her darkening sight,
 Painting the future island-queen
 Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising,
 Bright from blood-stain'd ashes rising,
 Wise, energetic, bold, serene?
 Ah no! the scroll of time
 Is seal'd;—and hope sublime
Rests, but on those far heights, which mortals may not climb.
The dying prayer, with trembling fervor speeds,
 For that false monarch, by whose will she bleeds;
 For him, who listening on that fatal morn
 Hears her death signal o'er the distant lawn
 From the deep cannon speaking,
 Then springs to mirth and winds his bugle-horn,
 And riots while her blood is reeking;—
 For him she prays, in seraph tone,
 "Oh!—be his sins forgiven!
 Who raised me to an earthly throne,
 And sends me now, from prison lone,
 To be a saint in heaven."
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Autumn Winds

AUTUMN WINDS.
Sweep on, rude winds, and rend the leafy crown
That withering Autumn loves,—and lift the sea
Up in loud wrath, and crest the foaming waves,
And make the tall ship own herself a reed.—
Go forth and vex the mariner, and give
Perchance his riches to the faithless deep:—
And then return, and sigh yourselves away
With such a syren guile, as if ye scarce
Could shut the sleeping rose.—This is your wont,
Ye boist'rous whisperers of your Maker's wrath,
Who vaunt yourselves amid the troubled clouds
One awful moment, and the next are gone
Ye know not whither.—
—Man is like to you.—
His whirlwind passions nerve him, and he tears
The realm of nature,—marks his path with wrecks,
And chasms, and sepulchres,—and then returns
From war's dire game,—perchance to sigh away
His soul in love like the soft summer gale
On Beauty's cheek,—and then lies down to mix
With the same dust that soil'd his chariot wheels.—
—Oh Thou! who holdest in Thy powerful hand
Both the wild tempests, and the breath that moves
This mass of clay,—let us not madly trust
Our treasure to the winds, and weep at last
The harvest, when the whirlwind wasteth it:—
Nor let the blossom of our nurtured hopes
Which we have sown on earth with tears and prayers
Go up as chaff on the Dividing Day.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Birth-Day of both my Parents

BIRTH-DAY OF BOTH MY PARENTS.
Hail hallow'd morn!—made sacred by their birth,
Who fondly o'er my waking dream of life,
Like guardian angels hung. Serene thou bear'st
Upon thy radiant wing the vivid trace
Of years departed, weaving round those forms
For whom this lay of filial love I breathe,
The tissued robe of recollected joy.—
—Bright o'er those mists and shadows which involve
This vestibule of being, they dispensed
Light, like that star which lifts her gentle lamp
O'er dewy dawn, fair herald of the day.
Amid the doubtful bliss of infancy,
Its mingled smile and tear, its lisping tone,
And faltering step, and claim on sleepless love,
I see their ministry. Mid brighter scenes,
The wild, loud laugh of childhood, the gay smile
With which exulting youth hastes forth to prove
The charms of nature, and the arts of man,
Through every change when pain or pleasure breathed
Its spirit too intensely o'er a heart
Wayward and full of hope,—I mark them still
Bending with tireless sympathy. The hand
That labor 'd for my good,—the eye that wept
My slight adversity,—the soul whose chord
Vibrated to my touch,—the tuneful hymn,
The holy prayer that bless'd our evening couch,
Were theirs;—the uncancell'd, everlasting debt
Of gratitude be mine.—Oh Guides revered!
Though with too fond idolatry ye clung
Around your only one,—too oft transform'd
By love's most subtle alchymy, her faults
To fancied virtues,—yet your faithful voice
Has warn'd from error, and your dreaded glance
Darted repentance to her heart, when vice
Had overtaken it, and still ye toil'd
To train her as a servant of your Lord.
—Together now, with lingering steps ye tread
That steep, declining path of life which leads
Down to the flood of Jordan.—Oh my God!
Now in the feebleness of hoary hairs
Forsake them not. On this their natal day
Lift up the glory of thy countenance,
And bid their childless home, their lonely breasts,
Glow with that cheering radiance which now gilds
Yon chambers of the east.—Whate'er they need,
The gift of healing, or the light of faith, Or confidence of prayer, vouchsafe to grant;
And all that measureless and priceless love
Which o'er my earthly journey they have strewn,
Shed thou again on them. Hast thou not said
A mother's kindness to her new-born babe,
Weigh'd with thy mercy to the trusting soul,
Was but forgetfulness?—Therefore I rest
My cause with thee,—for thou hast been their trust
Onward from blooming youth, and years mature
To weary age. What is a daughter's prayer
Though steep'd in all the agony of tears, Compared with the compassions of a God!
—Be still, my soul!—and at the altar's foot
Kneel in adoring gratitude, nor fear
To trust that wisdom which hath never err'd, That love which guides the wounded sparrow's fall, And that eternal truth on which the arch
Of heaven is rear'd, and heaven's rejoicing host
Hang all their fulness of immortal bliss.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Burial of Mazeen

BURIAL OF MAZEEN. THE LAST OF THE ROYAL LINE OF THE MOHEGAN NATION.
Mid the trodden turf is an open grave,
And a funeral train where the wild flowers wave,
For a manly sleeper doth seek his bed
In the narrow house of the sacred dead,
And the soil hath scantily drank of the tear,
For the red-brow'd few are the mourners here.
They have lower'd the prince to his resting spot,
The deep prayer hath swell'd, but they heed it not,
Their abject thoughts mid his ashes grope,
And quench'd in their souls is the light of hope,—
Know ye their pangs who turn away
The vassal foot from a monarch's clay?—
With the dust of kings in this noteless shade,
The last of a royal line is laid,
In whose stormy veins that red current roll'd
Which curb'd the chief and the warrior bold,
Yet pride still burns in their humid clay,
Though the pomp of the sceptre hath pass'd away.
They spake, —and the war-dance wheel'd its round,
Or the wretch to the torturing stake was bound;
They lifted their hand,—and the eagle fell
From his sunward flight, or his cloud-wrapt cell;
They frown'd,—and the tempest of battle arose,
And streams were stain' d with the blood of their foes.
Be silent O Earth!—o'er thy hoarded trust, And smother the voice of the royal dust,
The ancient pomp of their council-fires,
Their simple trust in our pilgrim sires,
The wiles that blasted their withering race,
Hide,—hide them deep in thy darkest place.
Till the rending caverns shall yield their dead, Till the skies as a burning scroll are red, Till the wondering slave from his fetters shall spring,
And to falling mountains the tyrant cling,
Bid all their woes with their relics rest
And bury their wrongs in thy secret breast.
But when aroused at the trump of doom
Ye shall start, bold kings, from your lowly tomb,
When some bright-wing'd seraph of mercy shall bend
Your stranger eye on the Sinner's friend,
Kneel,—kneel at His throne whose blood was spilt,
And plead for your pale-brow'd bothers' guilt.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Burial of the Young

BURIAL OF THE YOUNG.
There was an open grave,—and many an eye
Look'd down upon it. Slow the sable hearse
Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare
The young, unwearied form to that cold couch,
Which age and sorrow render sweet to man.
—There seem'd a sadness in the humid air,
Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds
Where slumber multitudes.—
 —There was a train
Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom,
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came,
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit,
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach
Of their companion. She was wont to fly,
And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring,
Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers.
And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came
With movements fashion'd to the deep-toned bell:—
She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend, And tears of those who at her side were nursed
By the same mother.
 Ah! and one was there,
Who, ere the fading of the summer rose,
Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death
Arose between them. The pale lover watch'd
So close her journey through the shadowy vale,
That almost to his heart, the ice of death
Enter'd from hers. There was a brilliant flush
Of youth about her,—and her kindling eye
Pour'd such unearthly light, that hope would hang
Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropp'd
Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil'd
For that slight breath which held her from the tomb,
Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun
Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast,
Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light.
——Oft o'er the musings of her silent couch,
Came visions of that matron form which bent
With nursing tenderness, to sooth and bless
Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand
In trembling prayer she raised—that He who saved
The sainted mother, would redeem the child.
Was the orison lost?—Whence then that peace
So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved
Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile
With which the allurements of a world so dear
Were counted and resign'd? that eloquence
So fondly urging those whose hearts were full
Of sublunary happiness, to seek
A better portion? Whence that voice of joy,
Which from the marble lip in life's last strife
Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home?
—Cold reasoners! be convinced. And when ye stand
Where that fair brow and those unfrosted locks
Return to dust,—where the young sleeper waits
The resurrection morn,—Oh! lift the heart
In praise to Him, who gave the victory.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Caroline Matilda, to Christian the Seventh of Denmark

CAROLINE MATILDA, TO CHRISTIAN THE SEVENTH OF DENMARK.
From gloomy Zell, where shades usurp the day,
Where hopeless grief in secret pines away,
To Denmark's distant clime these lays I send,
To seek the husband, not to find the friend.—
—How hard my fate! although to power allied,
A monarch's daughter, and a monarch's bride,
Torn from those joys that strew'd my path with bloom,
And sternly coffin'd in a living tomb.—
——Oh! by the memory of that love which bore
My early youth from Albion's sacred shore,
By that first ardour guiltless and divine,
Which moved to leave a parent's arms for thine,
By all the hopes that lured my trusting mind,
By all thy vows, if vows thy soul can bind,
Bend to my woes!—but ah, how vain the plea
That summons pity or remorse from thee.—
—Cold as the icy girdle of thy shores,
Deaf as the storm that o'er thy mountains pours,
I see thee wield the sceptre, scourge and chain,
And rule despotic o'er a trembling train.—
—Unfading traces of thy cruel sway
Glare in my soul and fright mild sleep away,—
Thy victim's throng,—I mark the ghastly train,
Their straining eye-balls start with bloodshot pain,
The brave Struensee!—say,—what crime had he
To kindle hatred or revenge in thee?—
He mounts the scaffold,— dark with curdled gore;
He falls,—he bleeds,—his bosom heaves no more;
And I,—alas!—but stay thou fleeting line,
Why is Struensee's image link'd with mine?—
Think not that guilt this artless bond has wove
Nor blot my friendship with the name of love.—
——But me, sad victim of thy jealous strife,
Rent in my youth from all the joys of life,
My last retreat a mightier foe invades,
And darkly dooms me to impervious shades,
From my blanch'd cheek the color fades away, Mysterious bands my buoyant footsteps stay;
While Spring's young flowers that erst my path did strew,
Unnoticed wither in their fragrant dew,
Uncheer'd I view their graceful beauties wave
And start to gather what may deck my grave.—
—Unfeeling consort!—shroud my life with gloom,
Scorn, hate, condemn, and curse me in the tomb,
Wreak all thy malice on my wretched name,
But spare my infant,—spare thy daughter's fame,
Spare the fond babe who foster'd in my breast,
Smiles at my tears, or sinks in balmy rest,
Marks not the anguish on my brow that preys,
Nor shares the grief that blasts her mother's days.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Death of Jefferson

DEATH OF JEFFERSON.
july 4, 1826.
Turn from yon mountain-height and weep
 Thou philosophic maid!
 Who erst on Pindus' hallow'd steep
 The lore of heaven survey'd.
From Monticello's sacred shade
 So long thy loved abode,
 Where in harmonious sway
 Wisdom with the Graces trod,
 Turn pensive Muse away!
 There 's mourning in yon classic halls
 Which near Rivanna's rapid tide,
 Rear high their consecrated walls
 In attic pride.
 Virginia there
 Like matron fair,
 To Science yields her darling care,
Sighs o'er her ancient fame and breathes to hope the prayer.
 She bids her embryo statesmen rise,
 Genius sparkling in their eyes,  To bless with grateful tears, the Sage,
The founder of their dome, the star on history's page.
 Forth from his pen of might
 Burst that immortal scroll,
 Which gave a living soul
 To a young nation's shapeless clay,
 It said "let there be light!"
 And startled realms beheld a new-born day.—
 The waking world in long subjection held,
 Traced with astonish'd eye
 The question'd right of royalty,
 And fear'd the thunders of a vengeful sky,
 While Freedom from his storm-rock'd cradle came
 Scorning a monarch's name,
And with a daring hand the vaunted sceptre quell'd.
Say, —what was his reward who with the band
 Of constellated souls thus saved a threaten'd land?—
 To see the war-clouds fade away,
 And peace resume her blissful sway,—
 See liberty and equal law
Crush fell Discord's brood malign,
 From every clime of earth to draw
 Admiring pilgrims round his household shrine,—
 To amass from learning's store,
 The proudly treasured lore,  To see fair cities rise amid the uncultured waste,
 And in his mountain paradise to taste
 Those ripen'd fruits whose germ was sown in blood, And mark his country's flag wave high o'er Glory's flood.
 To wreath around his brow bright Honour's crown,
And find in weary age the love-smooth'd couch of down.
 But one desire remain'd,—to see
 His prosperous nation's Jubilee;—
 Forth came that glorious morn with radiant vest,  He caught its smile, and enter'd to his rest,
 From life's protracted banquet rose serene,
Earth's latest wish fulfill'd, and sought a higher scene.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Death of an Infant

DEATH OF AN INFANT.
Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dash'd it out.—There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip;—he touch'd the veins with ice,
And the rose faded.—Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness,—a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence
Alone can wear.—With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids
Forever.—There had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears.—The spoiler set
His seal of silence.—But there beam'd a smile
So fix'd and holy from that marble brow,—
Death gazed and left it there;—he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Death of Wolsey

DEATH OF WOLSEY.
At Leicester Abbey, November 29th, 1530.
The tint of Autumn's closing day,
 On Leicester-Abbey shone,
And pensively that fading ray
 Gleam'd o'er the fretted stone;
While slowly 'neath its portal arch
 The mitred Abbot came,
With crosier leading on the march
 Of all his ghostly train.
Each monk in sable stole appear'd,
 With studious care array'd,
For tramp of coursers' feet was heard
 To echo through the glade.
A martial band, with measured tread,
 Approach'd that lone abode,
And sad and silent at their head
 The prelate Wolsey rode.
He, at whose nod the noble blood
 Of *Buckingham was shed,
That princely peer, who boldly stood
 Next to the crowned head;
He, who with arrogance unblamed
 St. Peter's chair had eyed, Alike for wealth and learning famed,
 For policy and pride.
But where the silver cross, and plume?  The costly velvet pall? The gaudy train to cry, "make room
 For my lord cardinal!"
Why doth he, with dejected air,
 Thus bend on earth his eye?
And to the Abbot's greeting fair,
 Where is the prompt reply?
For faintly was he heard to say
 With voice of faultering sound,
"I come these weary bones to lay
 Within your hallow'd ground."
His sadness damp'd their welcome free,
 With folded arms they stood,
A broken-hearted man was he,
 Bereft of earthly good.
Then softly to his guarded cell
 The holy vesper stole,
But who the fatal strife may tell
 Which rack'd that mighty soul?
Ambition's rankling goad was there
 To break the dream of rest,
And death came on with dark despair
 To blanch the haughty breast.
What gleam'd upon his glazing sight?
 His proud cathedral-towers?
Or York-house, rich with golden light?
 Or Richmond's royal bowers?
Did visions of perverted powers
 Wake Penitence to pray
With streaming eyes o'er sinful hours?  Spirit of Mercy, say!
Suffolk and Norfolk, fiery peers,
 Their rival's exit blest,
And stern Northumberland with tears
 His vengeful joy exprest.
But bluff king Hal with vacant eye
 Gazed long on Ann Boleyne,
And in a deep and sorrowing sigh
 Forgot his spoused queen.
Yet light as air that monarch's wo,
 And lighter still his love,
And ah! how false his holiest vow
 The scaffold oft did prove.—
How vain that king who proudly swerves
 From paths by wisdom trod,
But vainer still, the man who serves
 His king before his God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Early Recollections

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.
Pleasure and wealth to our lot may be granted,—
 Love may a far-distant mansion endear, —
Yet who can forget the soft soil where were planted,
 Those first germs of bliss never wet with a tear?
Rude frowning rocks, Nature's loveliness spurning,
 May rise to disfigure the spot of our birth, But with rapture's warm thrill the glad wanderers returning
 Will press their fond lips to their dear native earth.
Green-house exotics may glow in our tresses,
 The pride of the florist expire on our breast,
But sweeter are these than the wild-flower that dresses
 The vale, by the sports of our infancy blest?
Music with pomp and expression may greet us,—
 Still Memory will cherish, melodious and free,
The song of the birds that would warble to meet us,
 In childhood's gay season, from thicket and tree.
The clouds may be rich, where the sun is reposing,—
 But soon must they shroud him in darkness forlorn, And the day of our life, though it brighten at closing,
 Can never restore the enchantments of morn.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Funeral of the Osage Warrior

FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR.
A mighty form lay stretch'd and cold
 Beside his last retreat,
The spear was in his mantle's fold,
 The quiver at his feet;
Grave, hoary men with stifled moan
 Moved on sedate and slow,
While woman's shrill, unheeded tone
 Broke forth in lawless wo.
Strange sight!—amid that funeral train
 A lofty steed stood nigh,
With arching neck and curling mane,
 With bold, yet wondering eye.—
But when the wail grew wild and loud,
 His fiery nostril spread,
As though he heard the war-whoop proud
 And rush'd to carnage red.—
"Steed of the winds!—thy lord doth roam
 Gay through the spirit's land, Where no pale tyrants eye shall come
 To frown on the happy band.
When o'er the night, like meteor streams
 The lamp of their revels free,
His hunting spear in lightning gleams,  And he waits, he calls for thee.
He must not at the chase be late,
 He, of the soul of fire, Haste! Haste!"—the death-shot seals his fate,
 With sharp and sudden ire.
One leap,—one groan,—and all was hush'd,—
 He bow'd his noble head,
And free the deep, red streamlet gush'd
 To lave his master's bed.
Sad groups to guard their chieftain's clay
 The tumulus prepare,
While low a weeping mourner lay
 With dark, dishevell'd hair.
And when the evening star is bright,
 Full oft her widow'd cry,
Goes forth upon the stilly night,
 "Why warrior,—didst thou die?"—