OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To the Moon

TO THE MOON.
Hail beauteous and inconstant!—Thou who roll'st
Thy silver car around the realm of night,
Queen of soft hours! how fanciful art thou
In equipage and vesture.—Now thou com'st
With slender horn piercing the western cloud,
As erst on Judah's hills, when joyous throngs
With trump and festival saluted thee;
Anon thy waxing crescent 'mid the host
Of constellations, like some fairy boat,
Glides o'er the waveless sea; then as a bride
Thou bow'st thy cheek behind a fleecy veil,
Timid and fair; or, bright in regal robes,
Dost bid thy full-orb'd chariot proudly roll,
Sweeping with silent rein the starry path
Up to the highest node,—then plunging low
To seek dim Nadir in his misty cell.—
——Lov'st thou our Earth, that thou dost hold thy lamp
To guide and cheer her, when the wearied Sun
Forsakes her?—Sometimes, roving on, thou shedd'st
The eclipsing blot ungrateful, on that sire
Who feeds thy urn with light,—but sinking deep
'Neath the dark shadow of the earth dost mourn
And find thy retribution.
 —Dost thou hold
Dalliance with Ocean, that his mighty heart
Tosses at thine approach, and his mad tides,
Drinking thy favoring glance, more rudely lash
Their rocky bulwark?—Do thy children trace
Through crystal tube our coarser-featured orb
Even as we gaze on thee?—With Euclid's art
Perchance, from pole to pole, her sphere they span,
Her sun loved tropicks—and her spreading seas
Rich with their myriad isles. Perchance they mark
Where India's cliffs the trembling cloud invade,
Or Andes with his fiery banner flouts
The empyrean,—where old Atlas towers,—
Or that rough chain whence he of Carthage pour'd
Terrors on Rome.—Thou, too, perchance, hast nursed
Some bold Copernicus, or fondly call'd
A Galileo forth, those sun-like souls
Which shone in darkness, though our darkness fail'd
To comprehend them.—Can'st thou boast, like earth,
A Kepler, skilful pioneer and wise?—
A sage to write his name among the stars
Like glorious Herschel?—or a dynasty
Like great Cassini's, which from sire to son
Transmitted Science as a birthright seal'd?
—Rose there some lunar Horrox,—to whose glance
Resplendent Venus her adventurous course
Reveal'd, even in his boyhood?—some La Place
Luminous as the skies he sought to read?—
Thou deign'st no answer,—or I fain would ask
If since thy bright creation, thou hast seen
Ought like a Newton, whose admitted eye
The arcana of the universe explored
Light's subtle ray its mechanism disclosed,
The impetuous comet his mysterious lore
Unfolded,—system after system rose,
Eternal wheeling thro' the immense of space,
And taught him of their laws.—Even angels stood
Amaz'd, as when in ancient times they saw
On Sinai's top, a mortal walk with God.—
—But he to whom the secrets of the skies
Were whisper'd—in humility adored,
Breathing with childlike reverence the prayer,
—"When on yon heavens, with all their orbs, I gaze,
Jehovah!—what is man?"
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Sweetness of Life

THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE.
Ah! who can tell what horrors urge the wretch
To madness, who infuriate spurns the gift
Of this sweet life?—For life is sweet to him
Who 'neath the ceaseless lash of bondage toils,—
Sweet to the sick man, to the galley-slave,
To him who scorches 'neath a vertic sun,
Or feels the breath of everlasting snows
Congeal his soul.—Yes! life is sweet to him
Who through his dungeon-grate the scanty ray
Hails, though it serve him but to mark the chains
Gnawing his wasted flesh.—The mariner,
Buoy'd on some fragment of his broken ship,
Buffets the wave.—Wherefore?—His all is lost,
And the cold world is but a wreck to him,
Yet his blanch'd lip above the billow sighs
That life is sweet.—
 Ah! life is sweet to him,
The most despised and isolated wretch
Who holds nor tie, nor brotherhood to man.
Ye cannot wrest it from the vilest brute
Or noisome reptile, but they shun with cries
Your purpose, or uplift their feeble shield,
As best they may, to guard their dearest boon.
——But man, creation's idol!—he, for whom
Yon skies were garnish'd, and their nightly lamps
Hung out,—fair earth a nursing-mother made,
And ocean chain'd,—and air surcharged with balm,
If but a rude blast rend his painted sails,
Down, down some gulf he hurls his bark, and shuns
The port of heaven.—Yet oh,—condemn him not!—
Ye cannot tell how bare the scourge may lay
The soul's quick nerve,—how fierce the passions boil, How dark may be the hiding of God's face,
Or what demoniac forms may seize the helm
Of reason, ere with suicidal haste
He leap that slippery verge, which scarce firm faith
Can tread unshuddering.—
 God of power and might!
Have pity on the feeble hearts that shrink
From transient wo, and so instruct them here
To bear life's discipline, that death at last,
Led on by nature, not by rashness urged,
May ope the gate of everlasting life.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The last Surviver of the Signers of our Declaration of Independence

THE LAST SURVIVER OF THE SIGNERS OF OUR DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.
Assyria boasted him who humbled Tyre,
Her warrior monarch. Greece the clarion swell'd
For him of Macedon, whose sick'ning tear
Flow'd o'er the narrow limits of a world,
Though in a wine-cup's narrower round his soul
Dissolving sank. Stern Carthage too was proud
Of old Hamilcar's son, when from the height
Of Alpine cliffs, with vengeful eye she scann'd
Her haughty rival. Rome beset the heavens,
Even while her veins were bursting, with the shout
Of "Io Cæsar!"—On red Sweden's sky
A meteor glared, till dire Pultowa quench'd
The wild-fire flame. France trembled as she took
Her idol on her shoulders, and compell'd
Tribute from mightier climes, but the cold blast
That swept Siberian pines breathed o'er his brow,
Proving he was but clay.—
 —Behold they died!
Those demigods of earth,—and left their fame
To ravaged realms, and slaughter'd hecatombs,
And widow's tears. But in this western world
Which nature in her bosom long conceal'd,
As her last, precious gem, a band arose
Of nobler heroes. They, no conquest sought,
No throne usurp'd, nor vassal homage claim'd, But bade the sceptre, and the crowned head
Bow to the righteous cause. Time laid his hand
Upon their silver'd brows, and summon'd all
Save one, who in the dignity of age
Linger'd amid the blessings they had wrought,
Crown'd by a nation's thanks.—
 —To honour's tomb
He saw his brethren gather'd, one by one,
Yet found they might not die.
 Amid the haunts
Of industry, who o'er his harvest sings,
Of letter'd knowledge, liberty and wealth,
They move illustrious in the gifts they gave.
When to the woodman's axe the forest groans
Brief answer, and the new-born city springs,
It bears their name. Those mighty streams that roll
The tide of commerce o'er our cultured vales,
And ocean's thundering wave which proudly bears
The star-clad banner on its course sublime,
Speak forth their praise.
 The husbandman who guides
His caravan far from his father's fields.
On toward the setting sun, and boldly rears
A cell upon the frontiers, makes their deeds
His text-book nightly to his list'ning sons
Who throng the winter fire. Their pictured forms
Look down from halls of taste and wake the soul
Of the young student to heroic deeds.
Babes learn to name them in their murmur'd prayer,
And as Penates, at each household hearth,
Where freedom smiles, they dwell.
 Say not 't is death
When this clay fabric falls, and weary yields
Each element a part. Is it not life
To prompt heroic thought, to cheer the toil
Alike of statesman and of labouring swain,—
To prop the columns of a nation's strength,
And soar on gratitude's unresting wing
Around the earth?—Such glorious life they live.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Vice

VICE.
In vain the heart that goes astray
From Virtue's seraph-guarded way,—
May hope that feelings just and free,
Meek peace,—or firm integrity,—
Or innocence, with snowy vest
Will condescend to be its guest.—
—As soon within the viper's cell
Might pure and white-wing'd spirits dwell,—
As soon the flame of vivid gleam
Glow in the chill and turbid stream;—
For by strong links, a viewless chain
Connects our wanderings with our pain,
And Heaven ordains it thus, to show
That bands of vice, are bonds of wo.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To General La Fayette

TO GENERAL LAFAYETTE.
Presented by the children of Hartford, September 4th, 1824, who were decorated with Ribbons bearing the inscription, "Nous vous aimons La Fayette.
Welcome thou to Freedom's clime,
Glorious Hero! Chief sublime!
Garlands bright for thee are wreath'd, Vows of filial ardour breath'd,
Veteran's cheeks with tears are wet,
"Nous vous aimons La Fayette."
Monmouth's field is rich with bloom,
Where thy warrior's found their tomb,
Yorktown's heights resound no more,
Victor's shout or cannon's roar,
Yet our hearts record their debt,
"Nous vous aimons La Fayette."
Brandywine, whose current roll'd
Proud with blood of heroes bold,
That our Country's debt shall tell,
That our gratitude shall swell,
Infant breasts thy wounds regret,
"Nous vous aimons La Fayette."
Sires, who sleep in glory's bed,
Sires, whose blood for us was shed,
Taught us, when our knee we bend,
With the prayer thy name to blend:
Shall we e'er such charge forget?
No!—"Nous aimons La Fayette."
When our blooming cheeks shall fade,
Pale with time, or sorrow's shade,
When our clustering tresses fair
Frosts of wintry age shall wear,
E'en till Memory's sun be set,
"Nous vous aimons La Fayette."
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/With wild Flowers to a sick Friend

WITH WILD FLOWERS TO A SICK FRIEND.
Rise from the dells where ye first were born,
From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn,
Rise! for the dews of the morn are bright,
And haste away with your brows of light.—
—Should the green-house patricians with gathering frown,
On your plebeian vestures look haughtily down,
Shrink not,—for His finger your heads hath bow'd, Who heeds the lowly and humbles the proud.—
—The tardy spring, and the frosty sky,
Have meted your robes with a miser's eye,
And check'd the blush of your blossoms free,—
With a gentler friend your home shall be;
To a kinder ear ye may tell your tale
Of the zephyr's kiss and the scented vale;—
Ye are charm'd! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh
Is health to the bosom on which ye die.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)

POEMS.
POEMS;
BY THE AUTHOR OF "MORAL PIECES IN
PROSE AND VERSE."
BOSTON,
PUBLISHED BY S. G. GOODRICH. ALSO, BY H. AND F. J. HUNTINGTON, HARTFORD; SOLD BY THEM AND BOWLES AND DEARBORN, BOSTON; AND G. AND C. CARVILL, NEW YORK.
MDCCCXXVII.
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit: District Clerk's Office.
Be it remembered, that on the fifth day of July, a. d. 1827, in the fifty-second year of the Independence of the United States of America, S. G. Goodrich of the said district, has deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as proprietor, in the words following, to wit:
"Poems; by the Author of 'Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.'"
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled "An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;" and also to an act entitled "An act supplementary to an act, entitled, an act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints."
JNO. W. DAVIS, Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.
BOSTON,
CONTENTS.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Sunday School

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.
Group after group are gathering.—Such as prest
 Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid
Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast,  Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade;—
Group after group glide on with noiseless tread
 And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet,
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred,
 And holy words their ruby lips repeat,
Oft with a chasten'd glance, in modulation sweet.—
Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows
 Wan poverty hath done the work of care,
Look up, ye sad ones!—'t is your Father's house,  Beneath whose consecrated dome you are;
More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare,
 And watch the gaudier forms that gaily move,
And deem perchance, mistaken as you are
 The "coat of many colors" proves His love,
Whose sign is in the heart and whose reward above.
And ye, blest laborers in this humble sphere,
 To deeds of saintlike charity inclined,
Who from your cells of meditation dear
 Come forth to gird the weak, untutor'd mind,—
Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined
 Of grateful love,—one tear of contrite pain,
Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind
 The rest of earthly Sabbaths.—Be your gain
A Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Winter

WINTER.
In imitation of a passage from J. B. Rousseau.
Hail thou,—of leisure sweet the sire!—
Who, round the bright, domestic fire,
Dost link fond hearts in strongest ties,
And kindle hopes, and mingle sighs,
Or 'neath the taper's glancing light
Convoke the banquet's festive rite.
More beauteous seasons deck the scene
With smiling vales, and skies serene,
But they with weary toil are prest,
And thou dost bring the boon of rest.—
——Fair Flora vaunts her painted flowers,
Gay Ceres sports in fragrant bowers,
And Bacchus, proud of Autumn's crown
Red from the vintage lays him down,
But thou, blest Sire, without their care
Dost reap the fruit they all prepare.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Voice of the Spirit

THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT.
The heart of man, in the hour of its pride,
 Mild Nature, the teacher, address'd,
"Mid the flowers of the valley where fountains glide,
On the brow of the forest, the crest of the tide,
And the cliff of the mountain where tempests hide,
 See, the hand of a God imprest."
Slow Reason arose, with her finite chain,
 And her lamp as the moonbeam clear,
"If there's one who can bridle the storm-stricken main,
And gem the skies with yon countless train,
 He 's a Being for man to fear."
Pure Inspiration's ray sublime
 Like the sun from chaos broke,—
"Remember Him now, in the day of thy prime,
Thy breath is a vapour,—a span thy time,
 And thy glory a wreath of smoke."—
Death hurl'd an arrow from the cloud
 Where pestilence curtain'd his way,
On the throne of the heart its idol bow'd, The bloom of its beauty was pale in the shroud,
 And its strength the spoiler's prey.—
A voice was heard,—'t was the voice of the dead,—
 It was hoarse from the hollow grave,—
"Give heed to the things of thy peace, it said,
Ere the worm is thy brother, and dust thy bed,
 In the hour when none can save."
Remorse uplifted a serpent scourge,
 Stern Conscience asserted her sway,—
But the world, and the host of its vanities urge,
And buoyed on the crest of their dancing surge,
 That harden'd heart was gay.
Heaven mourn'd, and the harps of her blest ones sigh'd;
 (As the rose sheds the dew-drop tear)—
"The Son of the Highest for man hath died.
Yet still he exults in his guilt and pride,
 Ah! what shall arrest his career?”—
There was joy in heaven!—O'er the angels it shone,
 A smile from Jehovah glow'd,—
The "still small voice" from the awful Throne
Had breathed on that obdurate heart of stone,
 And the rock like a river flow'd.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Tomb of Cecilia Metella

TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA.
Where art thou, wife of Crassus, whose proud tomb
O'ermasters Time, mocking with towering walls,
And Doric frieze, and knots of sculptured flowers
His ill-dissembled wrath?—Soft, drooping shades,
The dark, columnar cypress, the pale leaves
Of the young olive, and the ivy wreath
Close clustering, lend their tracery to make rich
Thy sepulchre.—But thou hast left no trace
On history's tablet, and in vain we ask
These voiceless stones of thee.—
 Was hoarded wealth
Thine idol, like thy husband's?—didst thou vaunt
His venal honours, and exalt the power
Of the triumvir, in thy purple robes,
Presiding at his feasts, till Rome was sick
Of pomp and revel?—or in secret cell
To thy Penates breathe the matron prayer
With trembling for his sake?—or in the grief
Of solitary widowhood, deplore
His breathless bosom pierced by Parthian darts?—
—There is no record on these mighty walls
Of thy lost deeds. Even thy sarcophagus
Is rifled, and the golden urn where slept
Thy mouldering ashes, proved but fitting bribe
For the rapacious hand. Thy scattered dust,
How doth it differ from the household slave's?
Who 'neath thy bidding at the distaff wrought,
Or bent with sterner toil, in ponderous vase,
Brought the cool Martian waters, or perchance
Through sinuous mazes of embroidery's art
Guided the weary needle.
But in vain
We stand communing with the faithless tomb
That cast thee forth.—The strong-cemented rock
Lays claim to immortality,—but dust
Man's dust, must yield each element a part,
To pay Creation's loan, nor can he cling
To the brief memory of a shadowy race,
Save through his deeds.—
 O Woman, nurse of Man!—
Make not thy grave beneath the imposing arch,
Or the drear pyramid;—enshrine thyself
Amid thy buried virtues, in the heart
Of him who loves thee, make thy monument
The graces of thine offspring, and the thanks
Of all who mourn. So shalt thou miss the pomp
Of this world's triumph, and thy noteless tomb
Be glorious in the resurrection morn.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Wyllys' Hill and the Charter Oak

WYLLYS' HILL AND THE CHARTER OAK.
Occasioned by the death of the last proprietor, of the name of Wyllys, in whose family this estate had remained since the first settlement of the country.
Thou wert the castle of the olden time.
Thou solitary pile! the beacon light
Of the benighted traveller. Thy lone brow
Look'd out in grandeur o'er a pathless wild, And waters whiten'd by no daring sail;
While to the red man's startled eye, thy pomp
Was as a dream of terror. Now thou stand'st
In faded majesty, as if to mourn
The desolation of a lordly race,
Or like a faithful vassal share their grave.
Farewell! Farewell! A loftier dome may rise, And prouder columns blot thy time-stain'd walls
From the slight memory of a passing age.
Yet some there are, who deem thy mouldering stones
Dearer than sculpture's boast, to whose fond eye
Thy silent shades, and arbours darkly wreath'd, And moon-lit walks, are peopled with the throngs
Of lost affection; for whom Memory's spell,
Like her of Endor, wakes the hoary sire,
Wrapt in the shadowy mantle of the grave,
Gives to the matron form the custom'd seat
At board and hearth, or with the joyous shout
Of childhood, and the warbled song of youth
Fills these deserted halls.
 —But thou, firm Oak!
Time-honour'd and majestic, who didst lock
Our freedom's charter in thy sacred breast,
From tyranny's eagle-glance, we need not say
Farewell to thee. For thou dost freshly take
Thy leafy garland from the hand of spring,
And wear the autumnal crown as vigorously,
As if thou ne'er hadst mark'd old Time shred off, Age after age, man's branching hopes, and blast
His root of glory. Canst thou tell us nought
Of forest chieftains, and their vanish'd tribes,
Who like the bubble on the waters broke
Before our sires? Hast thou no record left
Of perish'd generations, o'er whose head
Thy foliage droop'd? thou who unchanged hast seen
The stately founders of an honour'd name,
The wise, the brave, the beautiful go down
To the dark winter of the voiceless tomb,
Like thy own wither'd leaves?
 —Bloom on! Bloom on!
Thou silent monitor, and should our sons, Gay with the cup of full prosperity, Forget the labours of their patriot sires,
Be thou as Delphos to them, with thy frown
Oracular, warning them well to heed
The sumless price of blood-bought liberty.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Stranger's Flower

THE STRANGER'S FLOWER.
It is the custom of the Ladies of Chili to present a Flower to strangers, on receiving them into their houses.
Stranger! new flowers in our vales are seen,
With a dazzling eye, and a fadeless green,—
They scent the breath of the dewy morn,
They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn, But revel and glow in our balmy air,
They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there.
This bud of welcome to thee we give,—
Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live;
It shall charm thee from all a stranger's pain,
Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain,
A race in its freshness and bloom are we, Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.
'T is a little time since the lance and spear, And clamour of war and death were here;
Our sesta* the shout of the murderer broke,
And we struggled to rend a tyrant's yoke, Till our midnight slumbers were pale with fears,
And the fairest cheeks bore a widow's tears.
But now, on the couch of its mother's breast,
The infant sleeps long in its dream of rest,
And the lover beneath the evening star
Woos the young maid with his blithe guitar—
These—these are the blessings of Liberty,
And Stranger, this flower is her gift to thee.
# Caroling Dusk/Greenness

GREENNESS
# Caroling Dusk/The Eyes of My Regret

THE EYES OF MY REGRET
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"Blessed are the Dead"

"BLESSED ARE THE DEAD."
Come, gather to this burial-place, ye gay!
Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow,
I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed
This day, 'neath yon damp turf, with spring-flowers sown,
Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand
On tress or feature, stamping the dread lines
Of chill decay, till Death had nought to do,
Save that slight office which the passing gale
Doth to the wasted taper. No, her cheek
Shamed the young rose-bud; in her eye was light
By gladness kindled; in her footsteps grace;
Song on her lips; affections in her breast,
Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned,
All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand
From Friendship's ardent pressure, with such smile
As if she were the gainer. To lie down
In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust,
Ashes to ashes, till the glorious morn
Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask—
Where is her blessedness! Go home, ye gay,
Go to your secret chambers, and kneel down,
And ask of God. Urge your request like him
Who on the slight raft, 'mid the ocean's foam,
Toileth for life. And when ye win a hope
That the world gives not, and a faith divine,
Ye will no longer marvel how the friend
So beautiful, so loved, so lured by all
The pageantry on earth, could meekly find
A blessedness in death.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"Diem Perdida"

"DIEM PERDIDA."
The Emperor Titus, at the close of a day, in which he had neither gained knowledge, or conferred benefit, used to exclaim —"I have lost a day."
Why art thou sad,—thou of the sceptred hand?
 The robed in purple, and the high in state? Rome pours her myriads forth, a vassal band,
 And foreign powers are crouching at thy gate,
Yet dost thou deeply sigh, as if oppressed by fate.
"Diem perdida!"—Pour the empire's treasure,
 Uncounted gold, and gems of rainbow die,
Unlock the fountains of a monarch's pleasure
 To lure the lost one back. I heard a cry,
One hour of parted time—a world is poor to buy.
"Diem perdida!"—'Tis a mournful story,
 Thus in the ear of pensive eve to tell,
Of morning's firm resolves the vanished glory,
 Hope's honey left within the withering bell,
And plants of mercy dead, which might have bloomed so well.
Hail, self-communing Emperor,—nobly wise!
 There are, who, thoughtless, haste to life's last goal,
There are, who Time's long-squandered wealth despise,
 Vitam perdida marks their finish scroll,
When Death's dark angel comes to claim the startled soul.