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

THE INSTITUTION.
Come to thy place, thou blessed of the Lord,
Come up into thy place. The tuneful choir,
The solemn organ, with its gladdening breath,
The sunbeam pouring through the tinted pane
A flood of richness, all with varied voice
Do give thee welcome. But there flows a tide
Of deeper gratulation through those hearts
Which hail thee as Jehovah's messenger
To them for good. Yea, enter in, and take
Thy holy office. With the Spirit's power
Preach thou repentance—aid the victor-strife
O'er vanity and sin; lead hungering souls
To their Redeemer's feast; instruct to wear
The rose-bud garland of prosperity
With chastened joy, and ever through the maze
Of earthly discipline, to recognize
A Father's hand.
 Come to our hearths, our homes,
And as our infants climb upon thy knee
Speak of His lessons and His love, who bade
Such little ones, with unforbidden trust,
Cling to his bosom. So their hearts shall blend
The incipient knowledge of a law divine
With thy paternal smile. Come, when the hour
Of sickness darkens—when the nightly clock
Is told in anguish, and the stifled step
Of the meek watcher is a weariness,
Come with the gospel's balm, and like the dew
Of Hermon, to the fainting lily—cheer
The sufferer's spirit.
 When the brow is blanched,
And the cold, quivering lip doth feebly spurn
Time's last poor water-drop—then be thou near;
Yea, when the dull ear to affection's tone
No longer vibrates, lift thy fervent prayer
And to the waiting angels' outspread wing,
And to the Everlasting Shepherd's arms,
Commend the parting soul.
 When the pale clay
That love hath worshipped, to the open grave
In funeral vestments cometh, stand thou there,
And by the might of thine ascended Lord
Adjure the pit to render back its trust
A glorious body when the archangel's trump
Heralds eternity.
 So guide thy flock
Faithful in all their need, whether their path
By crystal streams shall wind, with flowers besprent,
Or sad through withering pastures, where the vine
Yieldeth no fruit, and winter's stormy wrath
Doth desolate the fold, so guide them still,
And girded by their blessings and their prayers,
Go on in priestly sanctity to God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Last Supper

THE LAST SUPPER.
A PICTURE BY LEONARDI DA VINCI.
Behold that countenance, where grief and love
Blend with ineffable benignity,
And deep, unuttered majesty divine.
 Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart,
And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe?—
Redeemer, is it thine?—And is this feast,
Thy last on earth?—Why do the chosen few,
Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand
As men transfixed with horror?—
 Ah! I hear
The appalling answer, from those lips divine,
"One of you shall betray me."—
 One of these?—
Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers,
Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant
Turns to the rain of summer?—One of these!—
Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops
The loved disciple, as if life's warm spring
Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock
Of unimagined guilt.—See, his whole soul
Concentered in his eye, the man who walked
The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts
The horror-struck inquiry,—"Is it I?
Lord!—Is it I?" while earnest pressing near,
His brother's lip, in ardent echo seems
Doubting the fearful thought.—With brow upraised,
Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul,
And springing eager from the table's foot,
Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope,
That by his ear, the Master's awful words
Had been misconstrued.—To the side of Christ,
James in the warmth of cherished friendship clings,
Yet trembles as the traitor's image steals
Into his throbbing heart:—while he, whose hand
In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds
Of Him he loved, points upward to invoke
The avenging God.—Philip, with startled gaze,
Stands in his crystal singleness of soul,
Attesting innocence, while Matthew's voice
Repeating fervently the Master's words
Rouses to agony the listening group,
Who, half incredulous with terror, seem
To shudder at his accents.
 All the twelve
With strong emotion strive, save one false breast
By Mammon seared, which brooding o'er its gain,
Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour's blood.
Son of perdition!—dost thou freely breathe
In such pure atmosphere?—And canst thou hide,
'Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow,
The burden of a deed whose very name
Thus strikes thy brethren pale?—
 But can it be
That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene
Is the slight pencil's witchery?—I would speak
Of him who pour'd such bold conception forth
O'er the dead canvas.—But I dare not muse,
Now, of a mortal's praise.—Subdued I stand
In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God!—
I feel the breathing of those holy men,
From whom thy gospel, as on angel's wing
Went out, through all the earth.—I see how deep
Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel
Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask—
"Lord!—is it I?"
 For who may tell, what dregs
Do slumber in his breast.—Thou, who didst taste
Of man's infirmities, yet bar his sins
From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not,
In our temptations, but so guide our feet,
That our Last Supper in this world may lead
To that immortal banquet by thy side,
Where there is no betrayer.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On the Death of a Poet

ON THE DEATH OF A POET.
Another master of the lyre hath swept
His parting strain. Swan-like and sweet it rose,
But sank unfinished. And methought I heard
Its melody in Heaven, where harp and voice,
Forever hymning the Eternal name,
Blend without weariness. No more he holds,
Tender and sad, his night-watch o'er the dead,
For he is where the Spoiler's icy foot
Hath never trod, nor the dark seeds of grief
In baleful harvest sprang. 'Twere sweet, indeed,
A little longer to have drawn his smile
Into the heart of love, and seen him do,
With all his graceful singleness of soul,
A Saviour's bidding. But be still, be still,
Ye who did gird him up for Heaven, and walk
Even to its gates in his blest company—
If he hath entered first, what then? be still!
And let the few, brief sands of time roll on,
And keep your armour bright, and waiting stand
For his warm welcome to a realm of bliss.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On the Death of a Sister while absent at School

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER, WHILE ABSENT AT SCHOOL.
Sweet Sister,—is it so? And shall I see
Thy face on earth no more? And didst thou breathe
The last sad pang of agonizing life
Upon a stranger's pillow? No kind hand,
Of parent or of sister, near to press
Thy throbbing temples, when the shuddering dew
Stood thick upon them? And they say my name
Hung on thy lips 'mid the chill, parting strife.
Ah!—those were hallowed memories that could stir
Thy bosom thus in death. The tender song
Of cradle-nurture,—the low, lisping prayer,
Learned at our mother's knee,—the childish sport,
The gift divided, and the parted cake—
Our walk to school amid the dewy grass—
Our sweet flower-gatherings,—all those cloudless hours
Together shared, did wake a love so strong
That Time must yield it to Eternity
For its full crown. Would it had been my lot
But with one weeping prayer to gird thy heart
For its last conflict. Would that I had seen
That peaceful smile which Death did leave thy clay,
After his conquest o'er it. But the turf
On thy lone grave was trodden—while I deemed
Thee meekly musing o'er the classic page,
Loving and loved amid the studious band
As erst I left thee.
Sister!—toils and ills
Henceforth are past, for knowledge without pain,
A free, translucent, everlasting tide,
Doth fill thy spirit. Thou no more hast need
Of man's protecting arm,—for thou may'st lean
On His unchanging throne, who was thy trust
Even from thine early days. 'Tis well! 'Tis well!
Saviour of souls!—I thank thee for her bliss.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Parting of a Mother with her Child

PARTING OF A MOTHER WITH HER CHILD.
He knew her not, that fair young boy,
 Though cradled on her breast,
He caught his earliest infant smile,
 And nightly sank to rest,
For stern disease had changed the brow  Once to his gaze so dear,
And to a whisper sunk the voice
 That best he loved to hear.
So, stranger-like, he wondering gazed,
 While wild emotions swell,
As with a deathlike, cold embrace,
 She breathed a last farewell,
And to the Almighty's hand gave back  The idols of her trust,
And with a joyful hope went down
 To slumber in the dust.
Go, blooming babe, and fondly seek
 The path she trod below,
And, girt with Christian meekness, learn
 To pluck the sting from woe—
That so, to that all-glorious clime,
 Unmarked by pain or care,
Thou, in thy Saviour's strength mayest come
 And know thy mother there.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Library

THE LIBRARY.
Thou, whom the world with heartless intercourse
Hath wearied, and thy spirit's hoarded gold
Coldly impoverished, and with husks repaid,
Turn hither. 'Tis a quiet resting-place,
Silent, yet peopled well. Here may'st thou hold
Communion eloquent, and undismayed,
Even with the greatest of the ancient earth,
Sages, and sires of science. These shall gird
And sublimate thy soul, until it soar
Above the elements, and view with scorn
The thraldom of an hour.
 Doth thy heart bleed,
And is there none to heal,—no comforter?
Turn to the mighty dead. They shall unlock
Full springs of sympathy, and with cool hand
Compress thy fevered brow. The poet's sigh
From buried ages on thine ear shall steal,
Like that sweet harp which soothed the mood of Saul.
The cloistered hero, and the throneless king,
In stately sadness shall admonish thee
How Hope hath dealt with man. A map of woe
The martyr shall unfold,—till in his pangs
Pity doth merge all memory of thine own.
Perchance unceasing care, or thankless toil
Do vex thy spirit, and sharp thorns press deep
Into the naked nerve. Still, hither come,
And close thy door upon the clamouring crowd,
Though for a moment. Grave and glorious shades
Rise up and gather round thee. Plato's brow
Doth blend rebuke with its benignity
That trifles thus should move thee—Seneca
Spreads to thy mind his richly-reasoning page,
While Socrates a cordial half-divine
Pours o'er thy drooping spirit.
 But hath Heaven
Unveiled thy nature's deep infirmity,
And shown the spots that darken all we call
Perfection here? All lore of lettered Pride,
Philosophy and Science, then are vain,
They yield no help. Haste to the book of God!
Yea, come to Jesus!—Author of our faith,
And finisher—doubt not His word shall be
A tree of life to feed thy fainting soul,
Till thou arise where knowledge hath no bound,
And dwell a tireless student of the skies.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Little Hand

THE LITTLE HAND.
Thou wak'st, my baby boy, from sleep,
 And through its silken fringe
Thine eye, like violet, pure and deep,
 Gleams forth with azure tinge.
With what a smile of gladness meek
 Thy radiant brow is drest,
While fondly to a mother's cheek
 Thy lip and hand are prest.
That little hand! what prescient wit
 Its history may discern,
When time its tiny bones hath knit
 With manhood's sinews stern?
The artist's pencil shall it guide?
 Or spread the adventurous sail?
Or guide the plough with rustic pride,
 And ply the sounding flail?
Though music's labyrinthine maze,
 With dexterous ardour rove,
And weave those tender, tuneful lays
 That beauty wins from love?
Old Coke's or Blackstone's mighty tome,
 With patient toil turn o'er?
Or trim the lamp in classic dome,
 Till midnight's watch be o'er?
Well skilled the pulse of sickness press?  Or such high honour gain,
As o'er the pulpit raised to bless
 A pious, listening train?
Say, shall it find the cherished grasp
 Of friendship's fervour cold?
Or shuddering feel the envenomed clasp
 Of treachery's serpent-fold?
Yet oh! may that Almighty Friend,
 From whom existence came,
That dear and powerless hand defend
 From deeds of guilt and shame.
Grant it to dry the tear of woe,
 Bold folly's course restrain,
The alms of sympathy bestow,
 The righteous cause maintain;
Write wisdom on the wing of time,
 Even 'mid the morn of youth,
And with benevolence sublime,
 Dispense the light of truth,
Discharge a just, an useful part
 Through life's uncertain maze,
Till, coupled with an angel's heart,
 It strike the lyre of praise.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On the Establishment of Schools in Africa

ON THE ESTABLISHMENT OF SCHOOLS IN AFRICA.
Spirit of Science! who so long
 Expatriate from thy native sphere,
Hast traced no line, and breathed no song,
 That dark, deserted land to cheer—
Spirit of Power! who lotus-crowned
 Didst reign 'mid Egypt's temples proud,
But in oblivion's slumbers drowned
 'Neath the drear pyramids hast bowed—
Spirit of Piety! who nursed
 Of old, amid that sultry clime
Oft from Tertullian's musing burst,
 Or martyred Cyprian's page sublime,
Again ye wake, ye thrill the soul,
 Your resurrection morn appears,
Ye pour your language o'er the scroll
 Which Afric scans through raptured tears;
Wide may your hallowed wings expand
 From shore to shore, from wave to wave,
Till distant realms shall stretch the hand
 To strike the fetter from the slave—
Till Afric to her farthest bound
 Shall bid each billow of the sea,
And every palm-grove, catch the sound,
 And echoing shout—"Be free! be free!"
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Lonely Church

THE LONELY CHURCH.
It stood among the chestnuts, its white spire
And slender turrets pointing where man's heart
Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliffs
Abruptly beautiful, above its head,
Shutting with verdant screen the waters out,
That just beyond in deep sequestered vale
Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs
And varying sounds of village industry,
Swelled from its margin, while the busy loom,
Replete with radiant fabrics, told the skill
Of the prompt artizan.
 But all around
The solitary dell, where meekly rose
That concecrated church, there was no voice
Save what still Nature in her worship breathes,
And that unspoken lore with which the dead
Do commune with the living. There they lay,
Each in his grassy tenement, the sire
Of many winters, and the noteless babe
O'er whose empty cradle, night by night,
Sate the poor mother mourning, in her tears
Forgetting what a little span of time
Did hold her from her darling. And methought,
How sweet it were, so near the sacred house
Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke,
And Sabbath after Sabbath gathered strength
To do his will, thus to lie down and rest,
Close 'neath the shadow of its peaceful walls;
And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up
Our simple tomb-stone witness to that faith
Which cannot die. Heaven bless thee, Lonely Church!
And duly may'st thou warn a pilgrim-band,
From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee,
And drink the waters of eternal life:
Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies,
Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand
To guide the living and to guard the dead.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Paul at Athens

PAUL AT ATHENS.
Come to the hill of Mars, for he is there,
That wondrous man, whose eloquence doth touch
The heart like living flame. With brow unblanched,
And eye of fearless ardour he confronts
That high tribunal with its pen of flint,
Whose irreversible decree made pale
The Gentile world. All Athens gathers near,
Fickle, and warm of heart, and fond of change,
And full of strangers, and of those who pass
Life in the idle toil to hear or tell
Of some new thing. See, thither throng the bands
Of Epicurus, wrapt in gorgeous robe,
Who seem with bright and eager eyes to ask—
"What will this babbler say?" With front austere
Stand a dark group of Stoics, sternly proud,
And pre-determined to confute, yet still
'Neath the deep wrinkles of the settled brow Lurks some unwonted gathering of their powers,
As for no common foe. With angry frown
Stalk the fierce Cynics, anxious to condemn,
And prompt to punish, while the patient sons
Of gentle Plato bind the listening soul
To search for wisdom, and with reason's art
Build the fair argument. Behold the throngs
Press on the speaker, drawing still more close
In denser circles, as his thrilling tones
Speak of the God who "warneth every where
Men to repent," and of that fearful day
When he shall judge the world. Loud tumult wakes,
The tide of strong emotion hoarsely swells,
And that blest voice is silent. They have mocked
At heaven's high messenger, and he departs
From the wild circle. But his graceful hand
Points to an altar, with its mystic scroll—
"The unknown God."—Oh Athens! is it so?
Thou who hast crowned thyself with woven rays
As a divinity, and called the world
Thy pilgrim-worshipper, dost thou confess
Such ignorance and shame? The unknown God.
Why all thy hillocks and resounding streams
Do boast their diety, and every house,
Yea, every beating heart within thy walls
May choose its temple and its priestly train,
Victim and garland, and appointed rite;
Thou makest the gods of every realm thine own,
Fostering with maddened hospitality
All forms of idol worship. Can it be
That still thou foundst not Him who is so near
To every one of us, in "whom we live,
And move, and have a being?" Found not Him
Of whom thy poets spake with childlike awe ?
 And thou, Philosophy, whose art refined
Did aim to pierce the labyrinth of Fate,
And compass with a finespun sophist web
This mighty universe—didst thou fall short
Of the Upholding Cause? The Unknown God.
Thou, who didst smile to find the admiring world
Crouch as a pupil to thee, wert thou blind?
Blinder than he, who in his humble cot,
With hardened hand, his daily labour done,
Turneth the page of Jesus, and doth read,
With toil, perchance, that the trim schoolboy scorns,
Counting him, in his arrogance, a fool,
Yet shall that poor, wayfaring man lie down
With such a hope as thou couldst never teach
Thy king-like sages—yea, a hope that plucks
The sting from death, the victory from the grave.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Paul before Agrippa

PAUL BEFORE AGRIPPA.
The son of Herod sate in regal state
Fast by his sister-queen—and 'mid the throng
Of supple courtiers, and of Roman guards,
Gave solemn audience. Summoned to his bar
A prisoner came,—who with no flattering tone
Brought incense to a mortal. Every eye
Questioned his brow, with scowling eagerness,
As there he stood in bonds. But when he spoke
With such majestic earnestness, such grace
Of simple courtesy—with fervent zeal
So boldly reasoned for the truth of God,
The ardour of his heaven-taught eloquence
Wrought in the royal bosom, till its pulse
Responsive trembled with the new-born hope
"Almost to be a Christian."
 So, he rose,
And with the courtly train swept forth in pomp.
"Almost;"—and was this all,—thou Jewish prince?
Thou listener to the ambassador of Heaven—
"Almost persuaded!"—Ah! hadst thou exchanged
Thy trappings and thy purple, for his bonds
Who stood before thee—hadst thou drawn his hope
Into thy bosom even with the spear
Of martyrdom—how great had been thy gain.
 And ye, who linger while the call of God
Bears witness with your conscience, and would fain
Like king Agrippa follow,—yet draw back
Awhile into the vortex of the world
Perchance to swell the hoard, which Death shall sweep
Like driven chaff away, 'mid stranger hands,
Perchance by Pleasure's deadening opiate lulled
To false security—or by the fear
Of man constrained—or moved to give your sins
A little longer scope, beware!—beware!—
Lest that dread "almost" shut you out from Heaven.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Liberated Convict

THE LIBERATED CONVICT.
Dark prison-dome, farewell.
 How slow the hours
Have told their leaden march within thy walls,
Toil claimed the day, and stern remorse the night,
And every season with a frowning face
Approached, and went unreconciled away.
Ah! who with virtue's pure, unblenching soul
Can tell how tardily old Time doth move,
When guilt and punishment have clogged his wings!
The winter of the soul, the frozen brow
Of unpolluted friends, the harrowing pangs
Of the lost prayer, learned at the mother's knee,
The uptorn hope, the violated vow,
The poignant memory of unuttered things,
Do dwell, dark dome, with him, who dwells with thee.
And yet, thou place of woe, I would not speak
Too harshly of thee, since in thy sad cell
Repentance found me, and did steep with tears
My lonely pillow, till the heart grew soft,
And spread itself in brokenness before
The Eye of Mercy. Now my penal doom
Completed, justice with an angel's face
Unbars her dreary gate. But when I view
Once more my home, when mild, forgiving eyes
Shall beam upon me, and the long-lost might
Of freedom nerve my arm, may the strong lines
Of that hard lesson sin hath taught my soul,
Gleam like a flaming beacon.
God of Heaven!
Who not for our infirmities or crimes
Dost turn thy face away, gird thou my soul
And fortify its purpose, so to run
Its future pilgrim-race, as not to lose
The sinner's ransom at the bar of doom.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Martyr of Scio

THE MARTYR OF SCIO.
Bright Summer breathed in Scio. Gay she hung
Her coronal upon the olive boughs,
Flushed the rich clusters on the ripening vines,
And shook fresh fragrance from the citron groves
'Till every breeze was satiate. But the sons
Of that fair isle bore winter in their soul,
For 'mid the temples of their ancestors,
And through the weeping mastic bowers, their step
Was like the man who hears the oppressor's voice
In Nature's softest echo. The stern Turk
In sullen domination idly roamed
Where mighty Homer awed the listening world.
 Once to the proud Divan, with stately step
A youth drew near: Surpassing beauty sate
Upon his princely brow, and from his eye
A glance like lightning parted as he spake.
 "I had a jewel. From my sires it came
In long transmission; and upon my soul
There was a bond to keep it for my sons.
Tis gone, and in its place a false one shines.
I ask for justice."
 Brandishing aloft
His naked scimitar, the Cadi cried
"By Allah and his Prophet! guilt like this
Shall feel the avenger's stroke. Show me the wretch
Who robbed thy casket."
 Then the appellant tore
The turban from his head, and cast it down;
"Lo! the false jewel, see. And would'st thou know
Whose fraud exchanged it for my precious gem?
Thou art the man. My birth-right was the faith
Of Jesus Christ, which thou hast stolen away
With hollow words. Take back thy tinselled bait,
And let me sorrowing seek my Saviour's fold.
Tempted I was, and madly have I fallen,
Oh, give me back my faith."
 And there he stood,
The stately-born of Scio, in whose veins
Stirred the high blood of Greece. There was a pause,
A haughty lifting up of Turkish brows,
In wonder and in scorn; a hissing tone
Of wrath precursive, and a stern reply—
 "The faith of Moslem, or the sabre stroke,
Chose thee, young Greek!"
 Then rose his lofty form
In all its majesty, and his deep voice
Rang out sonorous as a triumph-song,
"Give back my faith!"
 A pale torch faintly gleamed
Through niche and window of a lonely church,
And thence the wailing of a stifled dirge
Rose sad to Midnight's ear. A corpse was there—
And a young beauteous creature, kneeling low
In voiceless grief. Her wealth of raven locks
Swept o'er the dead man's brow, as there she laid
The withered bridal crown, while every hope
That at its twining woke, and every joy
Young love in fond idolatry had nursed,
Perished that hour.
 Feebly she raised her child,
And bade him kiss his father. But the boy
Shrank back in horror from the clotted blood,
And wildly clasped his hands with such a cry
Of piercing anguish, that each heart recoiled
From his impassioned woe. But there was one
Unmoved, one white-haired, melancholy man,
Who stood in utter desolation forth,
Silent and solemn, like some lonely tower;
Yet in his tearless eye there seemed a spark
Of victor glory 'mid despair to burn,
That Sciote Martyr was his only son.