OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Invocation to Greece

INVOCATION TO GREECE.
Hail holy clime!—where Science rear'd her throne,
And kindred arts like constellations shone,
Ere from her fostering wolf's caresses dread,
Rome, savage infant, rear'd her rival head;
Nurse of the bard, the hero, and the sage,
Too long the victim of oppression's rage;
Enslaved and fetter'd by the Paynim throng,
Sworn foes of science, and unknown to song;
In mockery crown'd with persecution's thorn,
And crush'd till courage from despair was born:
We see thee bursting from thy lingering trance,
Snatch the dark helm, and poise the quivering lance;
From gather'd rust thine ancient armour clear,
And with thy clarion wake the warrior's ear.—
—Rear, as at Salamis, thy lofty crest!
Pluck the red garland from Platea's breast!
Still Marathon that victor-shout retains,
Whose earthquake echo shook a thousand plains;
Still for thy temples Leuctra's laurel blooms,
And buried heroes rend their vaulted tombs;
With lightning glance thy fields of blood explore,
And stalk impervious where the life-tides pour:
With awful smile the impetuous souls survey,
With airy shield protect their dauntless way;
Their whisper'd voice unearthly rage inspires,
And bids the sons be worthy of their sires.—
—Lo! peaceful shades from blest Elysium throng,
In spectral ranks to guard the land of song;
Predict with withering curse its foemen's doom,
And blend the crescent with the Persian plume.—
—Dark frowns the Stagyrite;—with brow of thought
Glides the meek martyr from his hemlock draught;
The vine-clad Tean rears his sparkling bowl,
And quaffs deep vengeance on the Moslem soul;
Indignant Pericles, with haughty pain,
Marks the usurping mosque, and turban'd train;—
Fast by the Parthenon sad Phidias sighs.
And scornful Homer rolls his sightless eyes,
Hurls tuneful curses on the insulting foe,
And bids anew the flames of Ilion glow.
—Hail land sublime!—array'd in classic robe,
Mankind thy pupil, and thy school the globe!
Throngs taught by thee, in trembling ardour wait
Thy doubtful struggle with disastrous fate.—
—Yet one* there was, who not with passive song,
Beheld thy conflict, or bemoan'd thy wrong;—
Bold to thine aid the lyre and sword he brought,
And doubly arm'd, thy front of danger sought;
Rear'd thy red banner o'er the Egean wave,
Unseal'd his coffers, and his spirit gave.
Cold rests his heart within thy hallow'd bowers,
And Helle's maidens wreath its shrine with flowers.—
—Genius of Greece! who drank his latest sigh,
Raise toward the Queen of Isle's thy mourning eye;
She marks the sons who round her sceptre crowd, Stern to their sins, but of their talents proud:
Say, "for my sake thy wayward bard forgive, Since, bound with mine, his deathless name shall live;
Breathe o'er his filial urn one sorrowing sigh,
And in his glory let his frailties die."
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Joy Purchased by Sorrow

JOY PURCHASED BY SORROW.
"The Pascal-lamb was eaten with bitter herbs, to shew us that there is no arriving at joy, but through the gate of sorrow." Pascal.
The joy of love,—which like the sun,
 Gilds the brief cloud of wo,—
How may that halcyon gift be won?—
 Go! ask of those who know.—
They say, that on the slippery steep
 The flowret grew,
And hearts that throb, and eyes that weep
 Win it, bright with morning dew,—
That sleepless souls with jealous care
Must guard it from the nipping air,—
 That sighs will flow.—
And the fond breast be sick with fears,
Lest the rude breath of fleeting years
 Might lay its idol low.—
The joy of wealth!—'tis built on pride;
 Yet they who win can tell,
Of dangers 'neath the golden tide,
 Of heights whence thousands fell, Of quicksands 'neath the treacherous wave,
 Of labors in some baneful clime
 Which waste of health the balmy prime,  Or ope the untimely grave.
The joy of knowledge!—Ask the sage
 The worth of all his toil, The watching o'er the midnight oil
 Gave youth the hue of age.
Perchance disease his strength impairs,
 Or memory trembles on her throne:
Haste!—ask the price of all his cares,
 Alas!—the treasure 's gone.
The joy of heaven!—'Tis bought with prayers,
 With deeds that shun the view, With penitential tears and cares
 Which worldlings never knew:—
When earth-born pleasures spread their wings,
 Or hide them in the tomb,
From the damp soil of sorrow springs
 The bud of deathless bloom.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Epitaph on the Mausoleum of John Viscomti, Lord of Milan

EPITAPH
ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF JOHN VISCOMTI, LORD OF MILAN,
WHO DIED IN 1354.
Traveller! slow pausing on thy thoughtful way,
Would'st thou the amount of human good survey,
The weight of honour, and the worth of gold?
Learn what I was,—and what I am, behold.
—Treasures were mine, immense as man's desires, Cities superb, and domes where pomp retires.
Rome, queen of earth, confess'd my rising fame,
And all Italia trembled at my name.
—Yet what avails it now? I sleep in clay,
To stone a prisoner, and of worms the prey.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Lake Thrasymene

LAKE THRASYMENE.
Sleep on, in shadowy rest, bold, beauteous lake!—
Sleep calmly on, as if thou ne'er hadst drank
The richest blood of Carthage and of Rome.—
Dream on beneath Cortona's sheltering hills,
And lend thy freshness to the olive groves
Which bending kiss thy brow,—as if thy care
To nurse the plant of peace, might deftly hide
From nature's all-pervading eye, the stain
Of thy blood-guiltiness.—But she who rests
Her tablet on the wing of time, and flies
With him o'er every region of the earth,
Hath written of thee with her diamond pen,
And told thy secret to each passing age.—
—Shrank not thy placid waters from the plunge
Of Hannibal's plumed helmet, when he sought
To slake his battle-thirst? He heeded not
The awful redness of thy breast,—but drank
Free, as he pour'd that day, the priceless blood
Of shuddering Italy.—Rememberest thou
The rush of those firm cohorts, when the earth,
Trampled and trembling,—and the echoing hills
Attested the dire onset?—With deep groans
A mighty earthquake rent the rocks, and made
Cities an heap,—yet smote not their mad ear
Who mid the clash of sword and buckler fought, With hatred horrible.—
 —Man's passions mock
The strife of nature.—Her worst deluge spared
The righteous household.—The storm-stricken main
In wrath remembereth mercy,—wrecks not all
That to its bosom cling.—
 —Vesuvius saves
Even in the height of his mad victory, The little Hermitage that timid asks
Mercy of him, and bids his molten fires
Ripen to richer zest its vineyards green.—
—But the blind haste, and headlong rage of war,
What know they of compassion?—Bid him speak,
Who in thy dark and watery deep doth rest,—
The stern Flaminius,—he who saw defeat
The eagle standard quell, and fled to hide
His burning shame with thee, holding the frown
And grasp of pitiless Death, less terrible
Than Rome's upbraiding eye.—
 In earth he dream'd
To strike a root eternal, and to hang
Unfading garlands on the fickle sky
Of stormy honour.—Even then was spread
Thy bulrush pall for him,—and from their cells
Thy scaly monsters throng'd at his approach
To gaze upon him.—
So farewell, pure Lake!—
I am thy debtor for this musing hour
Of fancy's sway,—for the bright pageantry
Of other days,—the men of mighty soul
Which thou hast call'd around.—Oh Italy!—
The beautiful,—the fallen,—the worshipp'd one,—
The loved of Nature!—whose aspiring cliffs,
And caverns hoar, dart inspiration's rays
Into the traveller's soul.—Yet what avail
The burning glory of thy sunset beam,
Thy cataracts rainbow-crown'd,—the hallow'd domes
Of thine eternal city,—or the throng
Of countless pilgrims kneeling on thy breast,
While like the mutilated kings who fed
At Agag's table,—thou dost bow thee low
Beneath a proud hierarchy, and lay
The birthright of thy sons at papal feet.—
—Bethink thee of the past,—thou glorious land!—
And purge that dark "Mal'aria" which doth blast
Thy moral beauty;—
 —So shalt thou be found
A second Paradise,—by serpent's wile,
And vengeful sword of flame menaced no more.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Memory and Conscience

MEMORY AND CONSCIENCE.
When shall scenes of other days
Bright with Hope's unclouded rays,
Rising, meet us, and restore
Pleasures now possess'd no more?—
When, those joys with backward flight,
Thronging, press upon our sight?—
When, from cold oblivion's bourne
Our long-buried hours return?—
When the lamp of life is broke,
When its ray is quench'd in smoke,
When the dreams of hope are fled,
When the beating pulse is dead,
When the shrivell'd skies shall burn,
Shall those buried hours return,—
Wake from their oblivious bed,
Meet us at the bar of dread—
Come they then in smiles or tears,
Dark with frowns, or pale with fears?—
Search in Memory's treasure-cell,
Question her, for she can tell.—
Is her boasted colouring pale?—
Sighs she o'er a broken tale?—
Does her footstep shrink to climb
All the slippery steeps of time?—
Ask of Conscience!—She can bring
Waters from the deepest spring,
Touch the nerve of keenest thrill,
Stir the dregs of latent ill;—
And her tablets never fade
Though their trace seem lightly made,—
For each tint of bliss or wo
Through Eternity shall glow.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Mount Vernon

MOUNT VERNON.
Hail hallow'd dome, embosom'd deep in trees!
 The loved retreat of Freedom's glorious son,
Who 'neath your shade inhaled the balmy breeze,
 What time the day of deathful toil was done,
The din of battle o'er, the meed of victory won.
Fair terrace, where with brow serene he stray'd,
 Ye groves and gardens, once his rural pride,
How oft your blending beauties he survey'd,  When the spent sun, that toward his couch did glide,
To sparkling silver turn'd Potomac's mighty tide.
Why hastening, lead me to yon lowly grave?  Let no irreverent step imprint the sod!
Dark cypress boughs in mournful homage wave,  And holy seems the ground, as that where trod
Once, with unsandall'd feet, the chosen seer of God.
Hero! is this thy bed? who to the ground
 Of blood stain'd Monmouth, led with dauntless eye,
Cheer'd thy sad host at Trenton's leaguer'd bound,
 And woke on Yorktown's heights the clarion cry,
God saves the righteous cause! God gives the victory!
Methinks the obelisk should pierce the cloud,
 Where low in dust those honour'd limbs recline;
And far-seen banners warn a way-worn crowd
 Of kneeling pilgrims to surround the shrine,
And pay their solemn vows with gratitude divine.
Our sons shall learn thy deeds; and o'er the page
 Of history bending, or the poet's lyre,
To trace the godlike men of earlier age,
Of Greece, or Rome, or Ilion's walls of fire,
Shall yield the palm to thee, their fathers' friend and sire.
True, some like thee Oppression's front have braved,  Through clouds and tempests moved with equal mind,
Have even a realm beloved from bondage saved;
 But who, like thee, an empire's reins resign'd?
Turn'd to their sylvan home, and left a world behind?
Say ye he slumbers here? The wild flower sighs,
 And from his dewy pillow drinks its bloom,
And the hoarse evening blasts that murmuring rise,  Boast as they sweep the awful warrior's tomb,
Pause o'er his silent couch, and revel in the gloom.
Yet err ye not, to say he sleeps in death,
 Who lives undying in his country's breast?
Pours through each hero's heart inspiring breath,
 Gleams o'er the patriot's path, the sages rest, Of every glorious soul the model and the guest?
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Mourn ye the Righteous Dead?

MOURN YE THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD?
Yon pilgrim see, in vestments grey,
Whose bleeding feet bedew his way,
O'er arid sands, with want opprest,
Who toiling knows no place of rest:
Mourn ye, because the long sought shrine
He clasps in ecstacy divine,
And lays his load of sin and gloom
Repentant on his Saviour's tomb?—
—Behold yon ship with wrecking form
Which vails her proud mast to the storm,
Wild winds and waves with headlong force
Impel her on her dang'rous course;
The pallid crew their hope resign
And powerless view the foaming brine;
Mourn ye, because the tempest dies,
And in her haven moor'd she lies?—
—Emerging from the field of strife
Where slaughter'd throngs have sold their life,
Yon warrior see, with gushing veins,
Who scarce his noble steed restrains,
The death-mist swims before his eyes
As toward the well-known spot he flies, Where every fond affection lies.—
Mourn ye, because to home restored
Woman's white arms enwrap her lord,
While tears and smiles with varying grace,
Float o'er his cherub offspring's face? —Yet on his path of toil and wo
The pilgrim from his shrine must go,
The ship before the tempest strain, The warrior seek the field again,
But he, whose flesh the tomb hath found,
Whose spirit soars the ethereal round,
From him hath change and sorrow fled,—
—Why mourn ye then the righteous dead?—
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Ode on the Fiftieth Anniversary of American Independence

ODE ON THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE.
Adapted to the tune of "Scots! wha ha' wi' Wallace bled."
Clime! beneath whose genial sun
Kings were quell'd, and freedom won,
Where the dust of Washington
 Sleeps in glory's bed,
Heroes from thy sylvan shade,
Changed the plough for battle blade,
Holy men for thee have pray'd,
 Patriot martyrs bled.—
Homeless Judah mourns in gloom,
Greece scarce rises from the tomb,
Rome hath shorn her eagle plume,
 Lost her conquering name,
Youthful nation of the west,
Rise! with truer greatness blest,
Sainted ones from realms of rest,
 Mark thy path to fame.—
Empire of the brave and free!—
Stretch thy sway from sea to sea, Who shall bid thee bend the knee
 To a tyrant's throne?—
Knowledge is thine armour bright, Liberty thy beacon-light,
God himself thy shield of might,
 Bow to Him, alone.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Grave of the Mother of Washington

POEMS.
GRAVE OF THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.
Mother of him whose godlike fame
 The good throughout the world revere,
Ah! why, without a stone, or name,
 Thus sleep'st thou unregarded here?
Fair pensile branches o'er thee wave,
 And Nature decks the chosen dell;
Yet surely o'er thy hallow'd grave
 A nation's mournful sighs should swell!
Rome, with a burst of filial pride,
 The mother of her Gracchi view'd;
And why should we restrain the tide
 Of reverential gratitude?
She to sublime Volumnia paid
 Her tribute of enraptured tears,
When the dread chief that voice obey'd
 Which sternly curb'd his infant years.
Thou in the days of Sparta's might,
 Had'st high on her illustrious roll
Been rank'd, amidst those matrons bright,
 Who nobly nursed the great of soul.
For disciplined in Wisdom's school,
 The lofty pupil own'd thy sway;
And well might he be skill'd to rule,
 So early nurtured to obey.
No enervating arts refined
 To slumber lull'd his heaven-born might;
No weak indulgence warp'd thy mind,  To cloud a hero's path of light.
Say,—when upon thy shielding breast
 The saviour of his country hung, When his soft lip to thine was prest,  Wooing the accents from thy tongue,
Saw'st thou, prescient, o'er his brow.
 The shadowy wreath of laurel start?
Or, did thy nightly dream bestow
 High visions of his glorious part?
And when his little hands were taught
 By thee, in simple prayer to rise,
Say,—were thy own devotions fraught
 With heighten'd incense for the skies?
Well may that realm confiding rest,
 Heroes, and mighty chiefs to see,
Which finds its infant offspring blest
 With monitors and guides like thee.
A future age, than ours more just,
 With his, shall blend thy honor'd name,
And rear, exulting, o'er thy dust,
 The monument of deathless fame.
And thither bid young mothers wend,
 To bless thy spirit as they rove,
And learn, while o'er thy tomb they bend,
 For heaven to train the babes they love.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On a Question proposed at the Institution of the Abbe Sicard in Paris

ON A QUESTION PROPOSED
AT THE INSTITUTION OF THE ABBA SICARD, IN PARIS,"LES SOURDS-MUETS SE TROUVENT-ILS MALHERVREUX?"
Addressed to an interesting and intelligent little girl, deprived of the powers of speech and hearing.
Oh! could the kind inquirer gaze
 Upon thy brow with gladness fraught, Its smile, like inspiration's rays,
 Would give the answer to his thought.—
And could he see thy sportive grace
 Soft blending with submission due,—
Or note thy bosom's tenderness
 To every just emotion true;—
Or when some new idea glows,
 On the pure altar of the mind, Observe the exulting tear that flows
 In silent ecstacy refined;—
Thy active life,—thy look of bliss,
 The sparkling of thy magic eye,
Would all his sceptic doubts dismiss,
 And bid him lay his pity by,
To bless the ear that ne'er has known
 The voice of censure, pride, or art;
Nor trembled at that sterner tone,
 Which while it tortures, chills the heart;
To bless the lip that ne'er could tell
 Of human woes the vast amount,
Nor pour those idle words that swell
 The terror of our last account.—
For sure the stream of silent course
 May flow as deep, as pure, as blest,
As that which rolls in torrents hoarse,
 Or whitens o'er the mountain's breast,
As sweet a scene, as fair a shore,
 As rich a soil its tide may lave,
Then joyful and accepted pour
 Its tribute to the mighty wave.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On passing at Jamestown, Virginia, the Ruins of the most ancient Church in America

ON PASSING AT JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA, THE RUINS OF THE MOST ANCIENT CHURCH IN AMERICA.
Roll on, proud river, towards the mighty main,
 And glow, gay shores, with summer's fostering smile,
Your grandeur charms, your beauties lure in vain
 The traveller's eye from yonder ancient pile.
For there in solitary state it stands,
 While sheltering boughs involve its time-worn frame,
The earliest temple rear'd by christian hands
 To teach a heathen world Jehovah's name.
Thus gleam'd the altar, where the lonely ark
 Found for the patriarch's foot a place of rest, Ere from the wildering waste of waters dark
 The rescued planet raised its mournful breast.
Hail hallow'd dome! whence first was heard to flow
 That strain of praise which heavenly choirs repeat, While the stern savage stay'd his quivering bow
 From echo's voice to woo that cadence sweet.—
Here, her young babe, the pensive matron brought,
 Here, the glad lover led his youthful bride,
And in thy solemn ordinance forgot
 The far cathedral, once their childhood's pride.—
Were language thine, what scenes couldst thou describe
 When the New World to meet the Old essay'd,—
The simple welcome of the wandering tribe,
 The incipient hatred, and the blood-stain'd shade.
The plumed chieftains round their council-fire,—
 The tireless hunters on the wind-swept hill,
The sober pilgrims like some patient sire,
 Guarding the infant colony from ill.—
Here, for a time, beguiled by venal dreams,
 They scorn'd the labours of a cultured soil,
To hoard the dust that paved their glittering streams
 Till meagre Famine mock'd their futile toil.
Here* too, the ebon race from Afric's plains,
 Learnt the dire import of the name of slave,
Endured its burdens, punishments and pains,
 And sank despairing, to a noteless grave.
Perchance, Powhatan here in regal pride,
 His warriors marshall'd and his banners waved,
Or Pocahontas, smit with pity, sigh'd
 For the pale victim that her valour saved.
Gone are the fathers to their mouldering bed,
 Their vision vanish'd and their duties o'er,
The forest race like gliding shadows fled,  Throng the dark boundary of oblivion's shore:
But thou remain'st,—by ruthless Time revered,
 And spared by tempests in their wrecking rage,
To hoar antiquity a friend endear'd,  The sacred beacon of a buried age.
So when the pomp and pageantry of earth
 Shall feed the fierceness of destruction's fire,
The meek devotion that in thee had birth
 Shall soar, unchanging, never to expire.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On hearing a young Lady defend the cause of Matrimony

ON HEARING A YOUNG LADY DEFEND THE CAUSE OF MATRIMONY.
'Tis sweet to hear those lips of rose
 The cause of holy wedlock pleading,
While wit his dazzling weapon throws,
 Advancing now,—and now receding.—
'Tis sweet to see that sparkling eye
 The bosom's sacred warmth confessing, Where sleep those germs of sympathy
 Whose fragrance heightens every blessing.—
And sweet to know that gentle heart
 So skill'd to sooth the hour of sadness, And charm from pain the envenom'd dart,
 Would bid life's current flow with gladness.
Home is man's ark when trouble springs,
 When gathering tempests shade his morrow,
And woman's love the bird that brings
 His peace-branch o'er a flood of sorrow.
God gave the bond of hearts at first
 To be the crown of Eden's pleasure,
And sure, since earth with thorns was curst,
 It boasts no purer, prouder treasure.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On reading the Life of Quincy, by his Son

ON READING THE LIFE OF QUINCY, BY HIS SON.
Behold they burst their tombs!—They start to life!—
The Chiefs of other days, who nobly ranged
Around their infant country,—prompt to guard
Her serpent-haunted cradle.—Yes! they rise
From the red battle-sods, from ocean's breast,
And from the student's cell, whose midnight lamp
Fed on the oil of life,—they come to wake
Our lingering gratitude.—
 And one I mark
Amid that band, whose brief and bright career,
Bold Sparta in her better days had claim'd
With stern and lofty joy.—Ask ye what thoughts
Convulsed his soul,—when his dear, native shores
Throng'd with the imagery of lost delight
Gleam'd on his darkening eye,—while the hoarse wave
Utter'd his death-dirge,—and no hand of love
Might yield its tender, trembling ministry?—
A prayer was there, for her who ruled his heart,—
And for his babes that thrilling agony
Which none but parents feel.—Yet deeper grief
Still rankled there,—his country's wrongs and woes
Clung to the riven heart-string,—for he knew
Whose voice had sworn to be the widow's stay
And orphan's refuge;—so the patriot sigh
Heaved in that dying bosom,—when the tear
Of husband and of father was exhaled.—
—Flock'd there around his couch in soothing dreams
Mid that last agony, no cherish'd form
Of kindred or of friend?—Came not his Sire
Thither with hoary temples, bending low
In speechless sorrow,—Hancock, firm of soul,—
Great Adams, dauntless in the righteous cause.—
Or Otis,—whose electric eloquence
Was like the ethereal flash that quench'd its spire
Deep in his bosom?—Breathed not Warren's voice
In fervent whisper to that parting soul,
"Wait,—wait my brother!"—while he proudly rush'd
On with a martyr's spirit to the strife
Of young Thermopylæ?—
 In vain! In vain!—
That awful hour had come which heeds no prayer
Of fond companionship.—Death's angel spake
Above the turmoil of the boisterous deep,
And warn'd the patriot hence.—
 —With swimming glance,
Like him who erst from Pisgah's cliff descried
The unenter'd land of promise,—he survey'd
That emerald shore where slept in hallow'd graves
His ancestors, where rose in beauteous strength
The city of his joy,—crown'd by that mount
Where new-born Liberty essay'd to tread
The fearful wine-press,—laving her firm foot
In her sons' blood, to bless a future age.—
—The scene receded,—and he saw where Peace
Her seraph wing unfolded,—while the breath
Of everlasting melody pour'd forth
A welcome to the soul,—nor could he mourn
Exchange so blest,—but sought that brighter sphere.