OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Lost Darling

THE LOST DARLING.
She was my idol. Night and day to scan
The fine expansion of her form, and mark
The unfolding mind like vernal rose-bud start
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight.
To find her fairy footsteps follow me,
Her hand upon my garments, or her lip
Long sealed to mine, and in the watch of night
The quiet breath of innocence to feel
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content
Of happiness, as none but mothers know.
 Her voice was like some tiny harp that yields
To the slight fingered breeze, and as it held
Brief converse with her doll, or playful soothed
The moaning kitten, or with patient care
Conned o'er the alphabet—but most of all
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer
Thrilled on the ear like some ethereal tone
Heard in sweet dreams.
 But now alone I sit,
Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears
Her little robes, that once with woman's pride
I wrought, as if there were a need to deck
What God had made so beautiful. I start,
Half fancying from her empty crib there comes
A restless sound, and breathe the accustomed words
"Hush! Hush thee, dearest." Then I bend and weep—
As though it were a sin to speak to one
Whose home is with the angels.
Gone to God!
And yet I wish I had not seen the pang
That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white
Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven
Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower,
Blooming in all its freshness.
 Gone to God!
Be still my heart! what could a mother's prayer,
In all the wildest extacy of hope,
Ask for its darling like the bliss of heaven?
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Picture of a Sleeping Infant, watched by a Dog

PICTURE OF A SLEEPING INFANT, WATCHED BY A DOG.
Sweet are thy slumbers, baby. Gentle gales
Do lift the curtaining foliage o'er thy head,
And nested birds sing lullaby; and flowers
That form the living broidery of thy couch
Shed fresh perfume.
 He, too, whose guardian eye
Pondereth thy features with such true delight,
And faithful semblance of parental care;
Counting his master's darling as his own,
Should aught upon thy helpless rest intrude,
Would show a lion's wrath.
 And when she comes,
Thy peasant-mother, from her weary toil,
Thy shout will cheer her, and thy little arms
Entwine her sunburnt neck, with joy as full
As infancy can feel. They who recline
In royalty's proud cradle, lulled with strains
Of warbling lute, and watched by princely eyes,
And wrapt in golden tissue, share perchance,
No sleep so sweet as thine.
 Is it not thus
With us, the larger children? Gorgeous robes,
And all the proud appliances of wealth
Touch not the heart's content: but he is blest,
Though clad in humble garb, who peaceful greets
The smile of nature, with a soul of love.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Mohegan Church

THE MOHEGAN CHURCH.
A remnant of the once-powerful tribe of Mohegan Indians, have their residence in the vicinity of the city of Norwich, Conn., and on the ruins of an ancient fort in their territory, a small church has been erected,— principally through the influence of the benevolence of females.
Amid those hills, with verdure spread,
The red-browed hunter's arrow sped,
And on those waters, sheen and blue,
He freely launch'd his light canoe,
While through the forests glanced like light
The flying wild-deer's antler bright.
—Ask ye for hamlet's people bound,
With cone-roofed cabins circled round?
For chieftain grave,—for warrior proud,
In nature's majesty unbowed?
You've seen the fleeting shadow fly,
The foam upon the billows die,
The floating vapour leave no trace,
Such was their path—that fated race.
 Say ye that kings, with lofty port,
Here held their stern and simple court?
That here, with gestures rudely bold,
Stern orators the throng controlled? —Methinks, even now, on tempest wings,
The thunder of their war-shout rings,
Methinks springs up, with dazzling spire,
The redness of their council fire.
No!—no!—in darkness rest the throng,
Despair hath checked the tide of song,
 Dust dimmed their glory's ray,
But can these staunch their bleeding wrong?
Or quell remembrance, fierce and strong?
 Recording angel,—say!
I marked where once a fortress frowned,
High o'er the blood-cemented ground,
And many a deed that savage tower
Might tell to chill the midnight hour.
But now, its ruins strongly bear
Fruits that the gentlest hand might share;
For there a hallowed dome imparts
The lore of Heaven to listening hearts,
And forms, like those which lingering staid,
Latest 'neath Calvary's awful shade,
And earliest pierced the gathered gloom
To watch a Saviour's lowly tomb,
Such forms have soothed the Indian's ire,
And bade for him that dome aspire.
 Now, where tradition, ghostly pale,
With ancient horrors loads the vale,
And shuddering weaves in crimson loom
Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom,
There shall the peaceful prayer arise,
And tuneful hymns invoke the skies.
—Crush'd race!—so long condemned to moan,
Scorn'd—rifled—spiritless—and lone,
From pagan rites, from sorrow's maze,
Turn to these temple-gates with praise;
Yes, turn and bless the usurping band
That rent away your fathers' land;
Forgive the wrong—suppress the blame,
And view with Faith's fraternal claim,
Your God—your hope—your heaven the same.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Praise

PRAISE.
Put forth your leafy lutes,—ye wind-swept trees,
For well the sighing summer gales do love
To play upon them. Often have I heard,
When in sweet freshness came the gentle shower,
That pensive music at the fall of eve,
And blest it in my loneliness of soul.
 Call forth, thou peopled grass, those weak-voiced tribes
That nest beneath thy waving canopy,
To wake their chirping chorus,—while thy sigh
In whispered symphony the cadence fills.
Utter your oral melody, ye streams,
As swift of foot, your mazy course you run,
To the cool pillow of some mightier tide.
And thou, old Ocean!—robed in solemn state,
Yield thy deep organ to the tempest's will,
And with the surges and the sweeping blasts
Pour such bold voluntary, that the stars
Stooping to listen to thy thunder-hymn
Shall tremble in their spheres.
 Heart!—strike thy harp!
Join the full anthem of Creation's praise,
Ere thou shalt pour thy life-breath on the winds,
And sleep the sleep of silence and the grave.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Mother

THE MOTHER.
"It may be Autumn, yea Winter, with the woman,—but with the mother, as a mother, it is always Spring." Sermon of the Rev. Thomas Cobbet, at Lynn, 1665.
I saw an aged woman bow
 To weariness and care,
Time wrote his sorrows on her brow
 And 'mid her frosted hair.
Hope, from her breast had torn away
 Its rooting scathed and dry,
And on the pleasures of the gay
 She turned a joyless eye.
What was it that like sunbeam clear
 O'er her wan features run,
As pressing toward her deafened ear
 I named her absent son?
What was it? Ask a mother's breast
 Through which a fountain flows
Perennial, fathomless and blest,
 By winter never froze.
What was it? Ask the King of kings,
 Who hath decreed above
That change should mark all earthly things,
 Except a mother's love.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Return to Connecticut

RETURN TO CONNECTICUT.
Hail native Earth!—from brighter climes returning,
 From richer scenes the ravished eye that cheer,
From palace roofs, and skies with glory burning,
 Where changeless Summer decks the joyous year
With golden fruits, and verdure never sere.
 Still leaps my heart to mark thy rugged crest,
Thy village spires, and mansions rude, though dear;
 Still to my fervent lip thy sod is prest,
As the weaned infant clings close to its mother's breast.
Thou hast no mountain peering to the cloud,
 No boundless river for the poet's lyre, Nor mighty cataract thundering far and loud,
 Nor red volcano, opening through its pyre
A safety-valve to earth's deep, central fire;
 Nor dread glacier nor forest's awful frown,
Yet turn thy sons to thee with fond desire,
 And from Niagara's pride, or Andes' crown,
In thy scant, noteless vales, delight to lay them down.
Thou art a Spartan mother, and from sleep
 Thy hardy sons at early dawn dost call,
Though winds or storms, a sullen vigil keep,
 Some goodly task proportioning to all.
Warning to fly from sloth and folly's thrall,
 And patient meet the tempest or the thorn;
Nor ermine robe thou giv'st, nor silken pall,
 Nor gilded boon of bloated luxury born
To bid the pampered soul its lowly brother scorn.
Yet hath bold science in thy sterile bed
 Struck a deep root, and though wild blasts recoil,
The arts their winged and feathery seeds have spread
 For hardened hands embrowned with peasant toil
To pluck their delicate flowers; and while the soil
 Their plough hath broken, some the Muse have hailed,
Smit with her love 'mid poverty's turmoil,
 And like the seer by angel-might assailed
Wrestled till break of day, and then like him prevailed.
Yet humbler virtues throw their guard around
 Thy rocky coast, and 'mid the autumn leaves
That falling rustle with a solemn sound,
 His magic spell a hidden spirit weaves,
Nursed 'neath the peaceful shade of cottage-eaves,
 By voice of sabbath-bell from hallowed dome,
And breath of household prayer which Heaven receives,
 It binds around the heart of those who roam
The patriot's stainless shields, the sacred love of home.
The love of home!—that plant of fearless birth,
 From arid Afric's burning soil it springs,
'Mid icy Labrador's uncultured earth,
 Or tropic Asia, where the serpent stings;
To naked hordes it gives the wealth of kings,
 Though lava bursts, or earthquakes threaten loud,
Still to its bed that plant undaunted clings,
 Makes the child glad, the toiling father proud,
And decks with Eden's wreath the white haired grandsire's shroud.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Mourning Lover

THE MOURNING LOVER.
There was a noble form, which oft I marked
As the full blossom of bright boyhood's charms
Ripened to manly beauty. Nature bade
His eloquent lip and fervid eye to win
Fair woman's trusting heart.
 Yet not content,
Because ambition's fever wrought within,
He went to battle, and the crimson sod
Told where his life-blood gushed.
 The maid who kept
In her young heart the secret of his love,
With all its hoarded store of sympathies
And images of hope, think ye she gave,
When a few years their fleeting course had run,
Her heart again to man?  No! No! She twined
Its riven tendrils round a surer prop,
And reared its blighted blossoms toward that sky
Which hath no cloud. She sought devotion's balm,
And with a gentle sadness turned her soul
From gaiety and song. Pleasure, for her,
Had lost its essence, and the viol's voice
Gave but a sorrowing sound. Even her loved plants
Breathed too distinctly of the form that bent
With her's to watch their budding. 'Mid their flowers,
And through the twining of their pensile stems,
The semblance of a cold, dead hand would rise,
Until she bade them droop and pass away
With him she mourned.
 And so, with widowed heart
She parted out her pittance to the poor,
Sat by the bed of sickness, dried the tear
Of the forgotten weeper, and did robe
Herself in mercy, like the bride of Heaven.
Years past away, and still she seemed unchanged,
The principle of beauty hath no age,
It looketh forth, even though the eye be dim,
The forehead frost-crowned, yea, it looketh forth,
Wherever there doth dwell a tender soul,
That in its chastened cheerfulness would shed
Sweet, charity on all whom God hath made.
 Years past away, and 'mid her holy toils
The hermit-heart found rest. Each night it seemed,
When to her lonely, prayerful couch she came,
As if an angel folded his pure wing
Around her breast, inspiring it to hold
A saint's endurance.
 Of her spirit's grief
She never spake. But as the flush of health
Receded from her cheek, her patient eye
Gathered new lustre, and the mighty wing
Of that supporting angel seemed to gird
Closer her languid bosom, while in dreams
A tuneful tone, like his who slumbered deep
Amid his country's dead, told her of climes
Where vows are never sundered.
 One mild eve,
When on the foreheads of the sleeping flowers
The loving spring-dews hung their diamond wreaths,
She from her casket drew a raven curl,
Which once had clustered round her lost one's brow,
And prest it to her lips and laid it down
Upon her bible, while she knelt to pour
The nightly incense of a stricken heart
At her Redeemer's feet. Grey morning came,
And still her white cheek on that holy page
Did calmly rest. Her's was that quiet sleep
Which hath no wakening here. Fled from her brow
Was every trace of pain, and in its stead
Methought the angel who so long had been
Her comforter, had left a farewell-gift,
That smile which in the Court of Heaven doth beam.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)

POEMS.
POEMS;
BY
MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
Philadelphia:
KEY & BIDDLE, 23 MINOR STREET.
1834.
Entered according to the act of congress, in the year 1834, by Key & Biddle, in the office of the clerk of the district court of the eastern district of Pennsylvania.
Philadelphia:
T. K. Collins & Co., Printers.
No. 6, George Street.
PREFACE.
Some of the poems contained in the present collection were written at an early age. Others interspersed themselves, at later periods, amid domestic occupations or maternal cares. The greater part were suggested by passing occasions, and partake of the nature of extemporaneous productions. All reveal, by their brevity, the narrow intervals of time which were devoted to their composition.
They have sprung up like wild flowers in the dells, or among the clefts of the rock; wherever the path of life has chanced to lead. The hand that gathered and now presents them, borrows for their motto the sweetly eloquent words of Coleridge:
"I expect from them neither profit nor general fame; and I consider myself amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own exceeding ​great reward. It possesses power to soothe affliction,—to multiply and refine enjoyment,—to endear solitude, and to give the habit of discovering the good and the beautiful in all that meets or surrounds us."
L. H. S.
Hartford, Conn., May 10, 1834.
INDEX.
Page
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Heart of King Robert Bruce

THE HEART OF KING ROBERT BRUCE.
"When he found his end drew nigh, that great king summoned his barons and peers around him, and, singling out the good Lord James of Douglas, fondly entreated him, as his old friend and companion in arms, to cause his heart to be taken from his body, after death, and to transport it to Palestine, in redemption of a vow which he had made to go thither in person." Sir Walter Scott's History of Scotland.
King Robert bore with gasping breath
 The strife of mortal pain,
And gathering round the couch of death,
 His nobles mourned in vain.
Bathed were his brows in chilling dew
 As thus he faintly cried,
"Red Comyn in his sins I slew
 At the high altar's side.
"For this, a vow my soul hath bound
 In armed lists to ride,
A warrior to that Holy Ground
 Where my Redeemer died:
Lord James of Douglas, see! we part!
 I die before my time,
I charge thee bear this pulseless heart
 A pilgrim to that clime."
He ceased, for lo! in close pursuit,
 With fierce and fatal strife,
He came, who treads with icy foot
 Upon the lamp of life.
The brave Earl Douglas, trained to meet
 Dangers and perils wild,
Now kneeling at his sovereign's feet
 Wept as a weaned child.
Beneath Dunfirmline's hallowed nave,
 Enwrapt in cloth of gold,
The Bruce's relics found a grave
 Deep in their native mould;
But locked within its silver vase,
 Next to Lord James's breast,
His heart went journeying on apace,
 In Palestine to rest.
While many a noble Scottish knight,
 With sable shield and plume,
Rode as its guard in armour bright
 To kiss their Saviour's tomb.
As on the scenery of Spain
 They bent a traveller's eye,
Forth came in bold and glorious train,
 Her flower of chivalry.
Led by Alphonso 'gainst the Moor,
 They came in proud array,
And set their sorried phalanx sure
 To bide the battle-fray.
"God save ye now, ye gallant band
 Of Scottish warriors true,
Good service for the Holy Land
 Ye on this field may do."
So with the cavalry of Spain
 In brother's grasp they closed,
And the grim Saracen in vain
 Their blended might opposed,
But Douglas with his falcon-glance
 O'erlooking crest and spear,
Saw brave St. Clair with broken lance,
 That friend from childhood dear.
He saw him by a thousand foes
 Opprest and overborne,
And high the blast of rescue rose
 From his good bugle-horn;
And reckless of the Moorish spears
 In bristling ranks around
His monarch's heart oft steeped in tears
 He from his neck unbound,
And flung it toward the battle front,
 And cried with panting breath,
"Pass first, my liege, as thou wert wont—
 I follow thee to death."
Stern Osmyn's sword was dire that day,
 And keen the Moorish dart,
And there Earl Douglas bleeding lay
 Beside the Bruce's heart.
Embalmed with Scotland's flowing tears,
 That peerless champion fell,
And still the lyre to future years
 His glorious deeds shall tell,
The "good Lord James" that honoured name
 Each Scottish babe shall call,
And all who love the Bruce's fame
 Shall mourn the Douglas' fall.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Sabbath Morning

SABBATH MORNING.
See! heaven wakes earth. There is an answering sigh
From the soft winds, as they unfurl their wings
Impalpable,—and touch the dimpling streams
Which the lithe willows kiss, and through the groves
Make whispering melody. Methinks the sea
Murmureth in tone subdued,—and nature smiles
As if within her raptured breast she caught
The breath of Deity.
 Hail! hallowed Morn
That binds a yoke on Vice. Drooping her head,
She by her quaint hypocrisy doth show
How beautiful is Virtue. Eve will light
Her orgies up again—but at this hour
She trembleth and is still. Humility
From the cleft rock where she hath hid, doth mark
The girded majesty of God go by,
And kneeling, wins a blessing. Grief forgoes
Her bitterness—and round the tear-wet urn
Twines sweet and simple flowers. But most firm faith
Enjoys this holy season. She doth lift
Her brow and talk with seraphs,—till the soul
That by the thraldom of the week was bowed,
And crushed, and spent,—like the enfranchised slave
Doth leap to put its glorious garments on.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Sailor's Hymn

SAILOR'S HYMN.
When the parting bosom bleeds,
When our native shore recedes,
When the wild and faithless main
Takes us to her trust again,
Father! view a sailor's woe—
Guide us wheresoe'er we go,
When the lonely watch we keep,
Silent, on the mighty deep;
While the boisterous surges hoarse
Bear us darkly on our course,
Eye that never slumbers!—shed
Holy influence on our head.
When the sabbath's peaceful ray
O'er the ocean's breast doth play,
Though no throngs assemble there,
No sweet church-bell warns to prayer,
Spirit! let thy presence be,
Sabbath to the unresting sea.
When the raging billows dark,
Thundering toss our threatened bark,
Thou, who on the whelming wave
Didst the weak disciple save—
Thou, who hear'st us when we pray,
Jesus! Saviour! be our stay.
When in foreign lands we roam,
Far from kindred and from home,
Stranger-eyes our conduct viewing,
Heathen-bands our steps pursuing,
Let our conversation be,
Fitting those who follow thee.
Should pale Death, with arrow dread,
Make the ocean-caves our bed,
Though no eye of love might see
Where that shrouded grave shall be—
Christ! who hear'st the surges roll,
Deign to save the Sailor's soul.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Sir Walter Scott

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Magician of old Scotia's clime,
The sweet, the powerful, the sublime,
Whose lyre could rule even wrinkled care,
And stir the reverie of Despair,
Who shall its broken strings repair?
Who wake the lay, so high resounding
With clash of lance and war-horse bounding,
And bannered host, with trumpet shrieking,
And battle-field, in carnage reeking?
Who touch with cadence, soft and clear,
The minstrel song to lady's ear,
While the young moonbeam faintly throws
Its silver light o'er fair Melrose.
 Then haughty Marmion's fitful strife,
The canvas glowing into life,
The gliding bark from hallowed shore,
That Hilda's cloistered maidens bore,
The dungeon vault, the stifled wail,
The sightless judge, the victim pale,
King James, amid the festive throng,
The wily Lady Heron's song,
The marshalled field, the stirring drum,
The smoke-wrapped hosts, that rushing come,
The fallen knight's forsaken sigh,
His reinless war-steed sweeping by—
Thy mighty strain the palm hath won
From earthquake-echoing Marathon,
And flaming Ilion's horrors yield
To pictured Flodden's fatal field.
 Hush! 'tis old Alan's plaintive lay,
That faithful harper, sad and gray,
Hark! to black Roderick's boastful song,
That rolls the trosach-glens along,
And lo! with proud, unbending frame,
Comes Douglas forth, with Malcolm Graeme,
While she, by whose light footstep prest,
The uncrushed harebell rears its breast,
With brow averted, blushing, hears
A father's praise to lover's ears.
 The spell is broke, the illusion fled,
And he, whose strong, enchanting wand
Made the rude mountains of his land,
The tiny lake, the tangled dell,
And outlaw's cave, and hermit's cell,
A classic haunt, a Mecca shrine,
To pilgrim throngs, a Palestine,
 Is with the dead.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Scene at the Death-bed of the Rev. Dr. Payson

SCENE AT THE DEATH-BED OF THE REVEREND DR. PAYSON.
"The eye spoke after the tongue became motionless. Looking on his wife, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on his eldest son. with an expression, which was interpreted by all present to say, as plainly as if he had uttered the words of the beloved disciple— 'Behold thy mother.'" Memoir of the Reverend Edward Payson.
What said the eye? The marble lip spake not,
Save in that quivering sob with which stern Death
Doth crush life's harp-strings. Lo! again it pours
A tide of more than uttered eloquence,—
"Son! look upon thy mother," and retires
Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids
To hide itself for ever. 'Tis the last—
Last glance!—and ah! how tenderly it fell
Upon that loved companion and the groups
Who wept around. Full well the dying knew
The value of those holy charities
Which purge the dross of selfishness away;
And deep he felt that woman's trusting heart,
Rent from the cherished prop which, next to Christ,
Had been her stay in all adversities,
Would take the balm-cup best from that dear hand
Which woke the sources of maternal love;
That smile whose winning paid for sleepless nights
Of cradle-care, that voice whose murmured tones
Her own had moulded to the words of prayer.
How soothing to a widowed mother's breast,
Her first-born's sympathy.
 Be strong, young man!
Lift the protector's arm, the healer's prayer—
Be tender in thy every word and deed,
A Spirit watcheth thee! Yes, He who past
From shaded earth up to the full orbed day
Will be thy witness in the court of heaven
How thou dost bear his mantle. So farewell,
Leader in Israel! Thou whose radiant path
Was like the angel's standing* in the sun,
Undazzled and unswerving, it was meet
That thou should'st rise to light without a cloud.