OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/First Gift to the Indians at Albany

FIRST GIFT TO THE INDIANS AT ALBANY.
"Albany was first visited by its discoverer, Capt. Hudson, on the 19th of September, 1609. The frank and generous natives made his people everywhere welcome, and they, in return, made their hearts gay with wine and aqua vitæ, till one of them became intoxicated, and greatly astonished the others." Watson's Historic Tales of the Olden Time.
They come! they come! the pallid race,
The red men gather from the chase,
From forest-shade and light canoe
They throng that "water-bird to view,
Whose mighty wings that near the shore,
They deem their Great Manitto bore.
 Frank is their welcome to the band,
The ready smile, the open hand,
The proffered fruits, with gladness prest,
The purple plum in downy vest,
The clustering grape, the corn-sheafs gold,
The untaught greeting, warm and bold.
 But by what gift, what token strong,
Did Europe's sons, renowned in song,
Mark their first visit to the child
Of simple faith and daring wild?
A cup! a cup! but who may tell,
What deadly dregs within it swell? The sickening eye, the burning cheek,
Its fearful magic strangely speak,
And on their turf of verdant die,
See! they who taste it helpless lie.
Type of the woes that soon must sweep
 Their blasted race away,
Down to oblivion dark and deep,
With none their hopeless wrongs to weep,
 Or mourn their sad decay.
Yes, when the Old World hasting prest
Her friendship on this infant West,
The boon she brought, the pledge she gave,
Was poison and a drunkard's grave.
 But thou, fair city, throned in pride,
Queen of the Hudson's silver tide,
Well hast thou, by thy deeds, effaced
This stain upon thine annal traced—
Well hast thou by thy zeal to aid
Temperance, thine early trespass paid:
And as the kneeling form that prest
A Saviour's tear-laved feet, was blest,
So hast thou shown, with victor-sway,
That love which washes sin away.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Gift of a Bible

GIFT OF A BIBLE.
Behold that Book,—o'er which, from ancient time,
 Sad penitence hath poured the prayerful breath,
And meek devotion bowed with joy sublime,
 And Nature armed her for the strife of death,
And trembling Hope renewed her wreath divine,
And Faith an anchor gained:—that holy Book is thine.
Behold the Book,—whose sacred truths to spread
 Christ's heralds toil beneath a foreign sky,
Pouring its blessings o'er the heathen's head,
 A martyr-courage kindling in their eye.
Wide o'er the globe its glorious light must shine,
As glows the arch of Heaven:—that holy Book is thine.
Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye,
 Where plants of peace in bloom celestial grow,
Here breathe to Mercy's ear the contrite sigh,
 And bid the soul's unsullied fragrance flow,
To Him who shuts the rose at even-tide,
And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams glide.
May Heaven's pure Spirit touch thy youthful heart,
 And guide thy feet through life's eventful lot,
That when from this illusive scene I part,
 And in my grave lie mouldering and forgot,
This my first gift, like golden link may join
Thee to that angel-band around the throne divine.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Greece

GREECE.
Up, thou New World!—The eye of Greece is dark,
Her glory waneth. When she sat enthroned
On the Acropolis, and heard the lore
Of Pallas echoing through the Academe,
Thou wert a savage with thy hunter bow
And feathery cincture. Now in dust she sits,
Weary and sad of heart. She may not skill to read
Her Father's book. Thou, who from her hast caught
The spirit of Harmodius, and sat down
Low at the feet of Socrates, and soared
High with ethereal Plato, and hast knelt
And thrilled, and wept, and trembled, as the lyre
Of mighty Homer smote thy wondering soul—
Up, pay thy debt. Restore her more than all
The burning alphabet of eloquence
Or the proud language of the arts could teach:
Yea, give the key of knowledge, and with gems
Drawn from the Gospel's everlasting mine,
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Hebrew Dirge

HEBREW DIRGE.
"Mourn for the living, and not for the dead." Hebrew Dirge.
I saw an infant, marble cold,
 Borne from the pillowing breast,
And in the shroud's embracing fold
 Laid down to dreamless rest;
And moved with bitterness I sighed,
 Not for the babe that slept,
But for the mother at its side,
 Whose soul in anguish wept.
They bare a coffin to its place,
 I asked them who was there? And they replied "a form of grace,
 The fairest of the fair."
But for that blest one do ye moan,
 Whose angel-wing is spread?
No, for the lover pale and lone,
 His heart is with the dead.
I wandered to a new-made grave,
 And there a matron lay,
The love of Him who died to save,
 Had been her spirit's stay,
Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain;
 Wail ye for her who died?
No, for that timid, infant train
 Who roam without a guide.
I murmur not for those who die,
 Who rise to glory's sphere,
I deem the tenants of the sky
 Need not our mortal tear,
Our woe seems arrogant and vain,
 Perchance it moves their scorn,
As if the slave beneath his chain,
 Deplored the princely born.
We live to meet a thousand foes,
 We shrink with bleeding breast,
Why shall we weakly mourn for those
 Who dwell in perfect rest?
Bound for a few sad, fleeting years
 A thorn-clad path to tread,
Oh! for the living spare those tears
 Ye lavish on the dead.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Indian Names

INDIAN NAMES.
"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving?"
Ye say they all have passed away,
 That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished
 From off the crested wave;
That 'mid the forests where they roamed
 There rings no hunter shout,
But their name is on your waters,  Ye may not wash it out.
'Tis where Ontario's billow
 Like Ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
 The echo of the world.
Where red Missouri bringeth
 Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
 On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,
 That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
 Before the autumn gale,
But their memory liveth on your hills,
 Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
 Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it,
 Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it,
 Amid' his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it
 Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse
 Through all her ancient caves.
Wachuset hides its lingering voice
 Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
 Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
 Doth seal the sacred trust,
Your mountains build their monument,
 Though ye destroy their dust.
Ye call these red-browed brethren
 The insects of an hour,
Crushed like the noteless worm amid
 The regions of their power;
Ye drive them from their father's lands,
 Ye break of faith the seal,
But can ye from the court of Heaven
 Exclude their last appeal?
Ye see their unresisting tribes,
 With toilsome step and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass,
 A caravan of woe;
Think ye the Eternal's ear is deaf?
 His sleepless vision dim?
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry
 From that far land to him?
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/King John

KING JOHN.
There stands on Runimede a king, whose name we need not tell,
For the blood of high Plantagenet within his veins doth swell,
And yet a sceptred hand he lifts, to shade his haggard brow,
As if constrained to do a deed his pride would disallow.
He pauses still.—His faint eye rests upon those barons bold,
Whose hands are grappling to their swords with fierce and sudden hold,
That pause is broke.—He bows him down before those steel-girt men,
And glorious Magna Charta glows beneath his trembling pen.
His false lip to a smile is wreathed, as their exulting shout,
Upon the gentle summer air, thro' the broad oaks peals out,
Yet lingers long his cowering glance on Thames' translucent tide,
As if some deep and bitter thought he from the throng would hide.
I know what visiteth his soul, when midnight's heavy hand,
Doth crush the emmet cares of day and wave reflection's wand,
Forth stalks his broken-hearted sire, wrapt in the grave-robe drear,
And close around the ingrate's heart doth cling the ice of fear.
I know what sounds are in his ear, when wrathful tempests roll,
When God doth bid his lightnings search, his thunders try the soul,
Above the blast young Arthur's shriek doth make the murderer quake,
As if again his guiltless blood from Rouen's prison spake.
But tho' no red volcano burst to whelm the men of crime,
No vengeful earthquake fiercely yawn to gorge them ere their time,
Tho' Earth for her most guilty sons the festive board doth set,
The wine-cup and the opiate draught,—yet ne'er can Heaven forget.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Intemperance

INTEMPERANCE.
Parent! who with speechless feeling,
 O'er thy cradle treasure bent—
Found each year new claims revealing,
 Yet thy wealth of love unspent:
Hast thou seen that blossom blighted,
 By a dire, untimely frost? All thy labour unrequited—
 Every glorious promise lost?
Wife! with agony unspoken,
 Shrinking from Affliction's rod,
Is thy prop, thine idol broken,
 Fondly trusted, next to God?
Husband! o'er thy hope a mourner;
 Of thy chosen friend ashamed:
Hast thou to her burial borne her,
 Unrepentant, unreclaimed?
Child! in tender weakness turning
 To thy heaven-appointed guide:
Doth a lava-poison burning,
 Tinge with gall affection's tide
Still that orphan-burden bearing,
 Darker than the grave can show,
Dost thou bow thee down despairing,
 To a heritage of woe?
Country! on thy sons depending,
 Strong in manhood, bright in bloom:
Hast thou seen thy pride descending,
 Shrouded to the unhonoured tomb? Rise!—on eagle-pinion soaring,
 Rise!—like one of god-like birth,
And Jehovah's aid imploring,
 Sweep the spoiler from the earth.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Lochleven Castle

LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.
Thou rude and ancient pile,
 Holding thy vigil lone,
Amid the heath-clad isle,
 Where Leven's waters moan,
Show me the prison-tower
 Of Scotland's fairest queen,
Who, reared in Gallia's royal bower,
 Endured thy tyrant spleen.
Count me the thousand sighs
 Her tortured bosom poured,
The tears that dimmed those eyes
 Which rival kings adored,
Unfold her darkened fate,
 A haughty brother's scorn, Of her own native realm, the hate,
 Of maddened love, the thorn.
Methinks a midnight boat
 Still cleaves yon silent tide,
Its glimmering torch-lights float
 In mingled fear and pride;
Young Douglas wildly steers,
 His throbbing heart beats high,
As freedom's long-lost radiance cheers
 The rescued prisoner's eye.
He sees no vision pale
 Where axe and scaffold gleam,
He hears no stifled wail,
 He marks no life-blood stream.
With ill-dissembled mien,
 Who wields yon vengeful rod?
Who made thee judge,—thou English queen!
 Her sins are with her God.
Hark! from yon mouldering cell
 The owl her shriek repeats,
And all the tissued spell
 Of wildering fancy fleets;
Lochleven's ruined towers
 Once more the moon-beams flout,
And tangled herbage chokes those bowers
 Whence the rich harp breathed out.
The lake's unruffled breast,
 Expands like mirror clear,
With emerald islets drest,
 Each in its hermit-sphere;
Yet, from those fair retreats
 Do mournful memories flow,
And every murmuring shade repeats
 Mary of Scotland's woe.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Marriage Hymn

MARRIAGE HYMN.
Not for the summer-hour alone,
 When skies resplendent shine,
And youth and pleasure fill the throne,
 Our hearts and hands we join.
But for those stern and wintry days
 Of peril, pain and fear,
When Heaven's wise discipline doth make
 This earthly journey drear.
Not for this span of life alone,
 Which as a blast doth fly,
And like the transient flower of grass,
 Just blossom, droop and die.
But for a being without end,
 This vow of love we take,
Grant us, Oh God! one home at last,
 For our Redeemer's sake.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Marriage of the Deaf and Dumb

MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB.
No word! no sound! But yet a solemn rite
Proceedeth through the festive-lighted hall.
Hearts are in treaty and the soul doth take
That oath which unabsolved must stand, till death
With icy seal doth stamp the scroll of life.
No word! no sound! But still yon holy man
With strong and graceful gesture doth impose
The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayer
Present it to be registered in Heaven.
 Methinks this silence heavily doth brood
Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crowned bride!
What means the sigh that from thy ruby lip
Doth scape, as if to seek some element
Which angels breathe?
 Mute! mute! 'tis passing strange!
Like necromancy all. And yet 'tis well.
For the deep trust with which a maiden casts
Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven, Into a mortal's hand, the confidence
With which she turns in every thought to him,
Her more than brother, and her next to God,
Hath never yet been shadowed out in words,
Or told in language. So ye voiceless pair,
Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm
Your silent altar in each other's hearts,
And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time
As cheerily as though the pomp of speech
Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell
Where flower fades not, and death no treasured link
Hath power to sever more, ye need not mourn
The ear sequestrate and the tuneless tongue,
For there the eternal dialect of love Is the free breath of every happy soul.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Meeting of the Blind with the Deaf, Dumb and Blind

MEETING OF THE BLIND WITH THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND.
On the meeting of the blind pupils from the Institution at Boston, with the deaf and dumb, and the deaf, dumb and blind, at the Asylum in Hartford.
A mingled group, from distant homes,
 In youth and health and hope are here,
But yet some latent evil seems
 To mark their lot with frown severe,
And one there is, upon whose soul
 Affliction's thrice-wreathed chain is laid,
Mute stranger, 'mid a world of sound,
 And locked in midnight's deepest shade.
And 'mid that group her curious hand
 O'er brow and tress intently stray,
Hath sympathy her heart-strings wrung,
 That sadly thus she turns away?
Her mystic thoughts we may not tell,
 For inaccessible and lone,
No eye explores their hermit-cell,
 Save that which lights the Eternal Throne
But they of silent lip rejoiced
 In bright Creation's boundless store,
In sun and moon and peopled shade,
 And flowers that gem earth's verdant floor;
In fond affection's speaking smile,
 In graceful motions waving line,
And all those charms that beauty sheds
 O'er human form and face divine.
While they, to whom the orb of day
 Is quenched in "ever-during dark,"
Adored that intellectual ray
 Which writes the Sun a glow-worm spark,
And in that blest communion joyed
 Which thought to thought doth deftly bind,
And bid the tireless tongue exchange
 The never-wasted wealth of mind.
And closer to their souls they bound
 The bliss of Music's raptured thrill,
That "linked melody" of sound
 That gives to man a seraph's skill,
So they on whose young brows had turned,
 The warmth of Pity's tearful gaze,
Each in his broken censer burned
 The incense of exulting praise.
Yes, they whom kind Compassion deemed
 Scantly with Nature's gifts endued,
Poured freshest from their bosom's fount
 The gushing tide of gratitude,
And with that tide a moral flowed,
 A deep reproof to those who share
Of sight, and sound, and speech the bliss,
 Yet coldly thank the Giver's care.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Mission Hymn

MISSION HYMN.
Onward, onward, men of Heaven!
 Rear the gospel's banner high,
Rest not till its light is given,
 Star of every pagan sky.
Bear it where the pilgrim-stranger
 Faints 'neath Asia's vertic ray,
Bid the red-browed forest-ranger
 Hail it, ere he fades away.
Where the arctic ocean thunders,
 Where the topics fiercely glow,
Broadly spread its page of wonders,
 Brightly bid its radiance flow.
India marks its lustre stealing,
 Shivering Greenland loves its rays,
Afric 'mid her deserts kneeling,
 Lifts the untaught strain of praise.
Rude in speech, or grim in feature,
 Dark in spirit, though they be,
Show that light to every creature,
 Prince or vassal—bond or free.
Lo! they haste to every nation,
 Host on host the ranks supply;
Onward! Christ is your salvation,
 And your death is victory.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Methuselah

METHUSELAH.
"And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years—and he died."
GENESIS.
And was this all? He died! He who did wait
The slow unfolding of centurial years,
And shake that burden from his heart, which turns
Our temples white, and in his freshness stand
Till cedars mouldered and firm rocks grew grey—
Left he no trace upon the page inspired,
Save this one line—he died?
 Perchance he stood
Till all who in his early shadow rose
Faded away, and he was left alone,
A sad, long-living, weary-hearted man,
To fear that Death, remembering all beside,
Had sure forgotten him.
 Perchance he roved
Exulting o'er the ever-verdant vales,
While Asia's sun burned fervid on his brow,
Or 'neath some waving palm-tree sate him down,
And in his mantling bosom nursed the pride
That mocks the pale destroyer, and doth think
To live forever.
 What majestic plans,
What mighty Babels, what sublime resolves,
Might in that time-defying bosom spring,
Mature, and ripen, and cast off their fruits
For younger generations of bold thought
To wear their harvest diadem, while we
In the poor-hour-glass of our seventy years
Scarce see the buds of some few plants of hopes,
Ere we are laid beside them, dust to dust.
 Yet whatsoe'er his lot, in that dim age
Of mystery, when the unwrinkled world had drank
No deluge-cup of bitterness, whate'er
Were earth's illusions to his dazzled eye,
Death found him out at last, and coldly wrote,
With icy pen on life's protracted scroll,
Naught but this brief unflattering line—he died.
 Ye gay flower-gatherers on time's crumbling brink,
This shall be said of you, howe'er ye vaunt
Your long to-morrows in an endless line,
Howe'er amid the gardens of your joy
Ye hide yourselves, and bid the pale King pass,
This shall be said of you, at last, he died;
Oh, add one sentence more, he lived to God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Intellectual Wants of Greece

INTELLECTUAL WANTS OF GREECE.
TO AMERICAN FEMALES.
Greece was an hungered, and ye gave her bread,
 Unclad and shuddering from the inclement blast,
And ye, in love, a sheltering mantle spread;
 For this a voice of gratitude hath past
O'er the broad ocean-wave, and thousands bear
Your name upon their lips, in the hushed hour of prayer.
There is a cry for knowledge, from that clime
 Which held her lamp to earth's benighted eye,
In the dim ages of remembered time:
 Rise! shed the beams of immortality
On the mind's prison-house: so shall your fame
Endure, when this world's pomp hath fed Destruction's flame.
I saw your infants for the needle's care
 Renounce their promised holiday-delight:
Saw even your servants with a joyous air
 Give for the "classic land" their hard earned mite;
Mothers! ye gazed with rapture-kindled brow,
Ye prompted that blest work, why do ye linger now?
Sisters! on whom the manna-shower is strewed,
 Who at eternal fountains drink your fill,
Should a redundance of your angel food
 Turn from the starving mind Compassion's thrill?
Hear ye the gasping of the famished soul? Haste! reach the bread of Heaven; say to the sick—be whole.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Montpelier

MONTPELIER.
THE RESIDENCE OF JAMES MADISON, ESQ., EX-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.
How fair beneath Virginia's sky,
Montpelier strikes the traveller's eye,
Emerging from its forest bower,
Like feudal chieftain's ancient tower,
With parks and lawns and gardens drest,
In peaceful verdure proudly blest.
 What blended beauties cheer the sight!
The distant mountains' misty height,
The circling prospect's cultured bound,
The attic temple's echoing round,
The locust copse where warblers throng,
And gaily pour the unfettered song,
The flowers in bright profusion seen,
The luscious fig's luxuriant green,
The clasping vine, whose clusters fair
Seem as of genial France the care,
The bright-eyed pheasant, beauteous guest,
The eastern bird, with gorgeous vest,
Still for his mimic speech carest,
The curtaining jessamine that showers
Rich fragrance o'er the nightly bowers,
Those halls, whose varied stores impart
The classic pencil's magic art,
The chisel's life-bestowing power,
The lore that cheats the studious hour,
And music's strains, that vainly vie
With the touched spirit's melody—
How strong the tissued spells that bind
The lingering eye, and charmed mind.
 Here wisdom rests in sylvan shade,
That erst an empire's councils swayed,
And goodness whose persuasive art
So justly won that empire's heart,
And piety,* with hoary hair,
Who, rising o'er this Eden fair,
Beholds, by mortal foot untrod,
A brighter Eden with its God.
 Montpelier!—these thy name have set
A gem in memory's coronet,
Whose lustre ruthless time shall spare,
Till from her brow that crown he tear—
Till from her book that page he rend,
Which of a stranger made a friend.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Morning

MORNING.
"God made the country, and man made the town." Cowper.
Morn breaketh on the mountains. Their grey peaks
Catch its first tint, and through the moss that veils
Their rugged foreheads, smile, as when the stars
Together sang, at young creation's birth.
Fresh gales awake, and the tall pines bow down
To their soft visit; and the umbrageous oaks
Spread their broad banners, while each leaf doth lift
Itself, as for a blessing. Through the boughs
Of the cool poplars, steals a sighing sound,
The leaping rills make music, and the groves
Pour from their cloistered nests a warbling hymn.
From all her deep recesses, Nature's voice,
Like the clear horn amid the Alpine hills,
Is praise to God, at this blest hour of morn.
Morn cometh to the cottage. Through its door
Peep ruddy faces. Infant mirth awakes.
The fair young milk-maid o'er the threshold trips,
The shepherd's dog goes forth, the lamb sports gay,
And the swain dips his glittering scythe in dews,
Which like bright tears the new-shorn grass doth shed:
Joy breathes around, while Health, with glowing lip
And cheek embrowned, and Industry, with song
Of jocund chorus, hail the King of Day.
Morn looketh on the city. See how slow
Its ponderous limbs unfold. On arid sands
Thus the gorged boa, from some deep repast
Uncoils his length. Heaven smileth on those spires;
But their loud bells, and organ-pipes, and hymns
Of high response, are silent. Flame hath fallen
Wherewith to kindle incense, but man locks
His bosom's altar, and doth sell for sleep
What Esau sold for pottage. Stately domes,
And marble columns greet the rising sun,
Yet not like Memnon's statute utter forth
A gratulating tone. Aurora glides,
Gaily pavilioned, on a purple cloud.
Sworn worshippers of beauty, where are ye?
Why Egypt's queen came not so daintily,
When, on the Cydnus, her resplendent barge
Left golden traces. But your eyes, perchance,
Are dim with splendours of some midnight hall,
And curtained close, forego this glorious sight.
 Hark, life doth stir itself! The dray-horse strikes
His clattering hoof, and eyes with quivering limb
The tyrant-lash. And there are wakeful eyes
That watched for dawn, where sickness holds its sway,
Marking with groans the dial-face of time.
Half-famished penury from its vigil creeps,
The money-getter to his labour goes,
Gaunt avarice prowls—but where is wealth and power,
The much-indebted, and the high-endowed?
Count they heaven's gifts so carelessly, that morn
With kindred blush no gratitude doth claim?
Lo! from their plenitude, disease hath sprung,
The dire disease that ossifies the heart,
And luxury enchains them, when the soul
With her fresh, waking pulse, should worship God.