OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"Only This Once"

"ONLY THIS ONCE."
Exodus X. 17.
"Only this once,"—the wine-cup glowed
 All sparkling with its ruby ray,
The Bacchanalian welcome flowed
 And Folly made the revel gay.
Then he, so long, so deeply warned,
 The sway of conscience rashly spurned,
His promise of repentance scorned,
 And coward-like to vice returned.
"Only this once."—The tale is told,
 He wildly quaffed the poisonous tide,
With more than Esau's madness sold
 The birth-right of his soul—and died.
I do not say that breath forsook
 The clay, and left its pulses dead,
But reason in her empire shook,
 And all the life of life was fled.
Again his eyes the landscape viewed,
 His limbs again their burden bore,
And years their wonted course renewed,
 But hope and peace returned no more.
And angel-eyes with pity wept
 When he whom virtue fain would save,
His sacred vow so falsely kept,
 And strangely sought a drunkard's grave.
"Only this once."—Beware,—beware!—
 Gaze not upon the blushing wine,
Repel temptation's syren-snare,
 And prayerful seek for strength divine.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"'T was but a Babe"

"'T WAS BUT A BABE."
I asked them why the verdant turf was riven
From its young rooting, and with silent lip
They pointed to a new-made chasm among
The marble-pillared mansions of the dead.
Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch?
The tearless crowd past on—"'t was but a babe."
A babe!—And poise ye in the rigid scales
Of calculation, the fond bosom's wealth?
Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh
Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt,
Or the rude robber steals? Ye mete out grief,
Perchance, when youth, maturity or age,
Sink in the thronging tomb, but when the breath
Grows icy on the lip of innocence
Repress your measured sympathies, and say
"'T was but a babe."
 What know ye of her love
Who patient watcheth till the stars grow dim
Over her drooping infant, with an eye
Bright as unchanging Hope if his repose?
What know ye of her woe who sought no joy
More exquisite, than on his placid brow
To trace the glow, of health, and drink at dawn
The thrilling lustre of his waking smile?
 Go ask that musing father why yon grave
So narrow, and so noteless might not close
Without a tear?
And though his lip be mute,
Feeling the poverty of speech, to give
Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow
And the deep agonizing prayer that loads
Midnight's dark wing to him the God of strength,
May satisfy thy question.
 Ye who mourn
Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes
That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide
Of alienated joy, can ye not trust
Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care
Passeth a mother's love? Can ye not hope,
When a few hasting years their course have run,
To go to him, though he no more on earth
Returns to you?  And when glad Faith doth catch
Some echo of celestial harmonies,
Archangels' praises, with the high response
Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think—
Think that your babe is there.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"Charity Beareth all Things"

"CHARITY BEARETH ALL THINGS."
St. Paul.
The lion loves his own.—The desert sands,
High tossed beneath his spurning foot, attest
The rage of his bereavement. With hoarse cries
Vindictive echoing round the rocky shores
The polar bear her slaughtered cub bewails,
While with a softer plaint where verdant groves
Responsive quiver to the evening breeze,
The mother-bird deplores her ravaged nest.
 The Savage loves his own.—His wind-rocked babe
That rudely cradled 'mid the fragrant boughs,
Or on its toiling mother's shoulders bound
Shrinks not from sun or rain; his hoary sire,
And hunting-spear, and forest sports are dear.
 The Heathen loves his own.—The faithful friend
Who by his side the stormy battle dares,
The chieftain, at whose nod his life-blood flows,
His native earth, and simple hut are dear.
 The Christian loves his own.—But is his God
Content with this, who full of bounty pours
His sun-ray on the evil and the good,
And like a parent gathereth round his board
The thankless with the just? Shall man, who shares
This unrequited banquet, sternly bar
From his heart's brotherhood a fellow-guest?
Shall he within his bosom sternly hide
Retaliation's poison, when the smile
Of Heaven doth win him to the deeds of love? Speak! servants of that Blessed One who gave
The glorious precept "love your enemies,"
Is it enough that ye should love your friends,
Even as the heathen do?
 Is He who bore
The flight of friendship, the denial vow
Of coward love—the Pharisaic taunt—
Judea's maddened scourge—the Roman spear—
A world's offences, and the pang of death—
Is He your Master, if ye only walk
As Nature prompts?
 If the love-beaming eye
Drink fond return reciprocal, the lip
That pours your praise, partake your sympathy
When sorrow blanches it, the liberal hand
Win by its gifts your meed of gratitude,
What do ye more than others? But on him
Whose frown of settled hatred mars your rest,
Who to the bosom of your fame doth strike
A serpent-sting, your kindest deeds requite
With treachery, and o'er your motives cast
The mist of prejudice; say, can you look
With the meek smile of patient tenderness,
And from the deep pavilion of your soul
Send up the prayer of blessing?
 God of strength!
Be merciful! and when we duly kneel
Beside our pillow of repose, and say
"Forgive us, Father, even as we forgive,"
Grant that the murmured vision seal not
Our condemnation.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"The Fashion of this World Passeth Away"

"THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD PASSETH AWAY."
1 Corinthians VII. 31.
A Rose upon her mossy stem,
 Fair Queen of Flora's gay domain,
All graceful wore her diadem,
 The brightest 'mid the brilliant train;
But Evening came, with frosty breath,
 And ere the quick return of Day,
Her beauties in the blight of death
 Had past away.
I saw when morning gemmed the sky
 A fair young creature gladly rove,
Her moving lip was melody,
 Her varying smile the charm of love,
At eve I came—but on her bed
She drooped—with forehead pale as clay,
"What dost thou here?"—she faintly said
 "Passing away."
I looked on manhood's towering form
 Like some tall oak when tempests blow,
That scorns the fury of the storm
 And strongly strikes its root below,
Again I looked,—with idiot cower
 His vacant eye's unmeaning ray
Told how the mind of godlike power
 May pass away.
Of Earth I asked, with deep surprise,
 Hast thou no more enduring grace,
To lure thy trusting votaries
 Along their toil-worn, shadowy race!
She answered not,—the grave replied,
 "Lo! to my sceptre's silent sway
Her boasted beauty, pomp and pride,
 Must pass away."
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"Thou hast made Desolate all my Company"

"THOU HAST MADE DESOLATE ALL MY COMPANY."
Job.
There shone a beam within my bower,
 Affection's diamond spark,
The spoiler came with fatal power—
 That beam is quenched and dark.
There was a shout of childhood's joy,
 A laugh of infant glee,
The earth closed o'er my glorious boy,
 My nursling—Where is he?
There seemed a sound like rushing wings,
 So thick my sorrows came,
A blight destroyed my precious things,
 My treasures fed the flame;
An ocean of unfathomed woe
 Swept on with all its waves,
And here all desolate I stand,
 Alone amid my graves.
Alone! there flows no kindred tear,
 No sympathizing sigh,
The feet of curious throngs are near,
 But every cheek is dry.
And is there nought but curtaining turf,
 And cold earth loosely thrown,
To shut me from those cherished forms,
 My beautiful, my own?
Yet who this fearful deed hath wrought?
 Who thus hath laid me low? Was it a hand with vengeance fraught?  The malice of a foe?
No!—He who called my being forth
 From mute, unconscious clay;
He who with more than parent's love
 Hath led me night and day;
Who erreth not, who changeth not,
 Who woundeth but to heal,
Who darkeneth not man's sunny lot
 Save for his spirit's weal:
Therefore I bow me to his sway,
 I mourn, but not repine,
And chastened, yet confiding say,
 Lord—not my will, but thine.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/A Cottage Scene

A COTTAGE SCENE.
I saw a cradle at a cottage door,
Where the fair mother with her cheerful wheel
Carolled so sweet a song, that the young bird,
Which timid near the threshold sought for seeds,
Paused on his lifted foot, and raised his head,
As if to listen. The rejoicing bees
Nestled in throngs amid the woodbine cups,
That o'er the lattice clustered. A clear stream
Came leaping from its sylvan height, and poured
Music upon the pebbles,—and the winds
Which gently 'mid the vernal branches played
Their idle freaks, brought showering blossoms down,
Surfeiting earth with sweetness.
 Sad I came
From weary commerce with the heartless world,
But when I felt upon my withered cheek
My mother Nature's breath,—and heard the trump
Of those gay insects at their honied toil,
Shining like winged jewelry,—and drank
The healthful odour of the flowering trees
And bright-eyed violets;—but most of all,
When I beheld mild slumbering Innocence,
And on that young maternal brow the smile
Of those affections which do purify
And renovate the soul, I turned me back
In gladness, and with added strength to run
My weary race—lifting a thankful prayer
To Him who showed me some bright tints of Heaven
Here on the earth, that I might safer walk
And firmer combat sin, and surer rise
From earth to Heaven.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"Whither Shall I Flee from Thy Presence?"

"WHITHER SHALL I FLEE FROM THY PRESENCE?"
Psalm CXXXIX.
Take morning's wing, and fly from zone to zone,
To Earth's remotest pole, and ere old Time
Can shift one figure on his dial plate
Haste to the frigid Thule of mankind,
Where the scant life-drop freezes.—Or go down
To Ocean's secret caverns, 'mid the throng
Of monsters without number, which no foot
Of man hath visited, and yet returned
To walk among the living.—Or the shroud
Of midnight wrap around thee, dense and deep,
Bidding thy spirit slumber.—
 Hop'st thou thus
To 'scape the Almighty, to whose piercing eye
Morn's robe and midnight's vestment are the same?
Spirit of truth!—why should we seek to hide
Motive or deed from thee?—why strive to walk
In a vain show before our fellow men,
Since at the same dread audit each must stand,
And with a sun-ray read his brother's breast
While his own thoughts are weighed?—Search thou my soul!—
And if aught evil lurk securely there
Like Achan's stolen hoard, command it thence,
And hold me up in singleness of heart,
And simple, child-like confidence in Thee,
Till time shall close his labyrinth, and ope
Eternity's broad gate.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/A Mother in Heaven to her Dying Babe

A MOTHER IN HEAVEN TO HER DYING BABE.
Hush, hush, my wailing one,
 Thy mother hovers near,
Her breath is on thy pallid cheek,
 Her whisper in thine ear;
She may not dry thy tears,
 Nor hold thy throbbing head,
Oh haste to these immortal spheres,
 Where tear was never shed.
Keen anguish wrings thy breast,
 And wakes the gasping sigh,
Cold dews are gathering o'er thy brow,
 And darkness dims thine eye,
Heaven hath no throb of pain,
 Heaven hath no tempter's charms,
Friends! Friends!—why will ye thus detain
 My darling from my arms?
Long had he dwelt below,
 Perchance his erring path,
Had been through bitterness and woe,
 On to his Maker's wrath;
Why thus with fruitless cares
 The angel-spirit stay?
Hark! the Redeemer calls it home,
 Rise, dearest!—come away.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/A Father to his Motherless Children

A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN.
Come, gather closer to my side,
 My little smitten flock,
And I will tell of him who brought
 Pure water from the rock—
Who boldly led God's people forth
 From Egypt's wrath and guile,
And once a cradled babe did float,
 All helpless on the Nile.
You're weary, precious ones, your eyes
 Are wandering far and wide,
Think ye of her who knew so well
 Your tender thought to guide?
Who could to Wisdom's sacred lore
 Your fixed attention claim?
Ah! never from your hearts erase
 That blessed Mother's name.
'Tis time to sing your evening hymn,
 My youngest infant dove,
Come press thy velvet cheek to mine,
 And learn the lay of love;
My sheltering arms can clasp you all,
 My poor deserted throng,
Cling as you used to cling to her
 Who sings the angel's song.
Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain,
 Come, warble loud and clear;
Alas! alas! you're weeping all,
 You're sobbing in my ear;
Good night—go say the prayer she taught,
 Beside your little bed,
The lips that used to bless you there,
 Are silent with the dead.
A father's hand your course may guide
 Amid the thorns of life,
His care protect those shrinking plants
 That dread the storms of strife;
But who, upon your infant hearts
 Shall like that mother write?
Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
 Dear, smitten flock, good night!
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/A door opened in Heaven

A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN.
"I looked, and behold, a door was opened in Heaven." Revelations, IV. 31.
It seemed not as a dream, and yet I stood
Beside Heaven's gate. Its mighty valves were loosed,
And upward, from earth's tribulation came
A soul, whose passport, signed in Calvary's blood,
Prevailed. Around the golden threshold's verge
I saw the dazzling of celestial wings,
Thronging to welcome it. The towering form
Of an archangel bore it company
Up to God's throne. Soft on my ear their tones,
Serenely wafted by ambrosial gales,
Fell like rich music.
 "Wherefore didst thou pass
Weeping along thy pilgrimage?" inquired
The sinless seraph.
 "Thorns beset my path.
I sought and found not. I obtained and mourned.
I loved and lost. Ingratitude and Hate
Did whet their serpent tooth upon my fame—
My wealth took wing. I planted seeds of bliss,
And sorrow blossomed."
 But the risen from earth
Faultered to mark that high archangel's glance
Bent downward with surprise, as though it asked
"Had thy felicity no deeper root,
Thou sky-born soul, for whom the Christ of God
Bowed to be crucified?"
 So when I saw,
Or dreamed I saw, that even in Heaven might dwell
Reproof and penitence, I prayed to look
Ever upon that flood of light which gilds
Each morning with its mercy; and whose beams
Are brightened every moment, and to bear
God's discipline with gladness, that no tear
For trials lost, be shed beyond the grave.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/An Exhibition of a School of Young Ladies

AN EXHIBITION OF A SCHOOL OF YOUNG LADIES.
How fair upon the admiring sight,
 In Learning's sacred fane,
With cheek of bloom, and robe of white
 Glide on yon graceful train!
Blest creatures! to whose gentle eye
 Earth's gilded gifts are new,
Ye know not that distrustful sigh
 Which deems its vows untrue.
There is a bubble on your cup
 By buoyant fancy nurst,
How high its sparkling foam leaps up!
 Ye do not think 't will burst: And be it far from me to fling
 On budding joys a blight,
Or darkly spread a raven's wing
 To shade a path so bright.
There twines a wreath around your brow,
 Blent with the sunny braid,
Love lends its flowers a radiant glow,
 Ye do not think 't will fade;
And yet 't were safer there to bind
 That plant of changeless die,
Whose root is in the lowly mind,
 Whose blossom in the sky.
Yet who o'er Beauty's form can hang
 Nor think how future years
May bring stern Sorrow's speechless pang,
 Or Disappointment's tears,
Unceasing toil, unpitied care,
 Cold treachery's serpent moan,
Ills that the tender heart must bear,
 Unanswering and alone.
But as the frail and fragrant flower,
 Crushed by the sweeping blast,
Doth even in death an essence pour,
 The sweetest, and the last,
So woman's deep, enduring love,
 Which nothing can appal,
Her steadfast faith, that looks above
 For rest, can conquer all.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Appeal for Missions

APPEAL FOR MISSIONS.
Stewards of God! his richest gifts who hold,
 Sublime dispensers to your brother's need,
Can Charity within those breasts grow cold,
 Where Faith and Hope have sown their holy seed? Hoard ye the stores of Heaven?—Ah, then beware
Lest its pure manna turn to bitterness and care.
Stewards of God!—replete with living bread,
 Shall any famish in your rosy path? Have ye a garment which ye will not spread
 Around those naked souls in Winter's wrath?
Ye see them sink amid Destruction's blast,
Unmoved ye hear their cry!—What will ye plead at last?
Ye have that cup of wine which Jesus blest
 At his last supper with the chosen train;
Ye have a book divine, whose high behest
 'Go, teach all nations,' sends its thrilling strain
Into your secret chamber. Can it be
That selfishness enslaves the souls by Christ made free?
Do ye indeed on Time's tempestuous shore
 Wear the meek armour of the Crucified?
Yet stretch no hand, no supplication pour,
 To save the fainting souls for whom he died?
God of all power!—what but thy Spirit's flame
Can ope the eyes of those who dream they love thy name?
Where is your heathen brother?—From his grave
 Near thy own gates, or 'neath a foreign sky,
From the thronged depths of Ocean's moaning wave,
 His answering blood reproachfully doth cry.
Blood of the soul!—Can all earth's fountains make
Thy dark stain disappear?—Stewards of God awake!
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Appeal of the Blind

APPEAL OF THE BLIND.
TO BE SUNG AT AN EXHIBITION OF BLIND BOYS.
Ye see the glorious sun
 The varied landscape light,
The moon, with all her starry train,
 Illume the arch of night,
Bright tree, and bird, and flower
 That deck your joyous way,
The face of kindred, and of friend,
 More fair, more dear than they.
For us there glows no sun,
 No green and flowery lawn.
Our rayless darkness hath no moon,
 Our midnight knows no dawn;
The parent's pitying eye,
 To all our sorrows true,
The brother's brow, the sister's smile,
 Have never met our view.
We have a lamp within,
 That knowledge fain would light,
And pure Religion's radiance touch
 With beams forever bright;
Say, shall it rise to share
 Such radiance full and free?
And will ye keep a Saviour's charge,
 And cause the blind to see?
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Autumn

AUTUMN.
Tree! why hast thou doffed thy mantle of green
For the gorgeous garb of an Indian queen?
With the umbered brown, and the crimson stain,
And the yellow fringe on its broidered train?
And the autumn gale through its branches sighed
Of a long arrear, for the transient pride.
Stream! why is thy rushing step delayed? Thy tuneful talk to the pebbles staid? Hath the Spoiler found thee who wrecks the plains?
Didst thou trifle with him till he chilled thy veins? But it murmured on with a mournful tone,
Till fetters of ice were around it thrown.
Rose! why art thou drooping thy beautiful head? Hast thou bowed to the frost-king's kiss of dread?
When thou sawest his deeds in the withering vale,
Didst thou, lingering, list to his varnished tale? And she answered not, but strove to fold
In her bosom the blight of his dalliance bold.
Yet ye still have a voice to the musing heart,
Tree, Stream and Rose, as ye sadly part,
"We are symbols, ye say, of the hasting doom
Of youth, and of health, and of beauty's bloom,
When Disease, with a hectic flush doth glow,
And Time steal on with his tress of snow."
Is this all?—is your painful lesson done? And they spoke in their bitterness, every one,
"The soul that admits in an evil hour,
The breath of vice to its sacred bower,
Will find its peace with its glory die,
Like the fading hues of an autumn sky."
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Baptism of an Infant, at its Mother's Funeral

BAPTISM OF AN INFANT, AT ITS MOTHER'S FUNERAL.
Whence is that trembling of a father's hand,
Who to the man of God doth bring his babe,
Asking the seal of Christ?—Why doth the voice
That uttereth o'er its brow the Triune Name
Falter with sympathy?—And most of all,
Why is yon coffin-lid a pedestal
For the baptismal font?
 Again I asked.
But all the answer was those gushing tears
Which stricken hearts do weep.
 For there she lay—
The fair, young mother, in that coffin-bed,
Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat
With trembling tenderness, at every touch
Of love or pity, flushed the cheek no more.
———Tears were thy baptism, thou unconscious one,
And Sorrow took thee at the gate of life,
Into her cradle. Thou may'st never know
The welcome of a nursing mother's kiss,
When in her wandering ecstacy, she marks
A thrilling growth of new affections spread
Fresh greenness o'er the soul.
 Thou may'st not share
Her hallowed teaching, nor suffuse her eye
With joy, as the first germs of infant thought
Unfold, in lisping sound.
Yet may'st thou walk
Even as she walked, breathing on all around
The warmth of high affections, purified,
And sublimated, by that Spirit's power
Which makes the soul fit temple for its God.
———So shalt thou in a brighter world, behold
That countenance which the cold grave did veil
Thus early from thy sight, and the first tone
That bears a mother's greeting to thine ear
Be wafted from the minstrelsy of Heaven.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Bernardine du Born

BERNARDINE DU BORN.
King Henry sat upon his throne,
 And fall of wrath and scorn,
His eye a recreant knight surveyed—
 Sir Bernardine du Born;
And he, that haughty glance returned
 Like lion in his lair,
And loftily his unchanged brow
 Gleamed through his crisped hair.
"Thou art a traitor to the realm,
 Lord of a lawless band,
The bold in speech, the fierce in broil,
 The troubler of our land;
Thy castles, and thy rebel-towers,
 Are forfeit to the crown,
And thou, beneath the Norman axe
 Shalt end thy base renown.
"Deignest thou no word to bar thy doom,
 Thou, with strange madness fired?
Hath reason quite forsook thy breast?"
 Plantagenet inquired.
Sir Bernard turned him toward the king,
 He blenched not in his pride,
"My reason failed, my gracious liege,
 The year Prince Henry died."
Quick at that name a cloud of woe
 Past o'er the monarch's brow,
Touched was that bleeding chord of love,
 To which the mightiest bow:
Again swept back the tide of years,
 Again his first born moved,
The fair, the graceful, the sublime,
 The erring, yet beloved.
And ever, cherished by his side,
 One chosen friend was near,
To share in boyhood's ardent sport,
 Or youth's untamed career,
With him the merry chase he sought
 Beneath the dewy morn,
With him in knightly tourney rode,
 This Bernardine du Born.
Then in the mourning father's soul
 Each trace of ire grew dim,
And what his buried idol loved
 Seemed cleansed of guilt to him—
And faintly through his tears he spake,
 "God send his grace to thee,
And for the dear sake of the dead,
 Go forth—unscathed and free."