OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On the Death of a Young Matron

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MATRON.
At opening morn I saw a blissful scene
 As if on earth a ray of Eden shone,
A lovely form with countenance serene,
 Which bending from the pure, domestic throne,
Pour'd forth a sacred hymn in warbling tone,—
 One beauteous boy was sporting at her side,
And one in cradle dreams, like bud new-blown,
 While o'er her varying cheek in smiles would glide
A guardian angel's love, blent with a mother's pride.
At evening hour I look'd,—but wo was there!
 On that young breast the spoiler's hand was laid,
Love's fondest hopes were lost in deep despair,  And horror brooded there in darkest shade;
The dews of pain had drench'd that sunny braid
 Of clustering hair and dimm'd the eye's bright flame,
While clinging to the hand that lent no aid
 Those cherub infants call'd their mother's name,
And wept in wondering wo, that no fond answer came.
Again I look'd,—and in the house of God
 Where late she stood, her solemn vows to pay,
Choosing the narrow path her Saviour trod,
 With marble brow the lovely sleeper lay,—
They bare her gently to her bed of clay,
 And smooth'd the turf while tears fell down like rain,
But the young mother to a brighter day
 Soar'd high,—above the flight of care and pain
To wear the spotless robe in her Redeemer's train.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On the Death of John Adams

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN ADAMS.
july 4, 1826.
What sounds are these?—Why breaks the swelling shout
Of music forth, from viol and from trump,
Harp, lute and organ,—while the tuneful breath
Of man doth lend that melody a soul
And bear it high to heaven?—How sweet the voice
Of a young nation from her peaceful vales, Praising the God of might!—The chorus fell
In gratulation on a patriarch's ear,
Who in the bosom of his sylvan home
With dignity reposed.—His aged brow
Reveal'd that latent energy which glow'd
Deep and intense, when for an infant land
He pour'd high eloquence, and o'er her spread
His Roman shield.—And now he saw her clad
In majesty, to awe the subject wave,
Sending her teeming thousands toward the west,
And breathing from her mountain throne, the strain
Of raptured liberty.—There was a thrill
Of transport rushing through that aged breast,
Which they, whom sloth and luxury have nursed,
May never know.—Low bowing on his staff
He worshipp'd God,—and spake with kindling eye
Of that day's glory,—while the patriot flame
Which in his bosom burn'd while life was young,
Burst through the frost of years.—
 —Old Time restored
Once more, that fulness of prophetic joy,
With which this unborn Jubilee he mark'd
Through the long vista of distressful years,
While the dark war-clouds gathering at his feet
Involved the scene.—It was a holy sight
To gaze upon that venerable man
Remembering all his glories, all his toils,
And feeling that his earth-receding grasp
Was on the anchor of eternal life.—
—But mid that reverent group, invisible
To mortal ken, death's mighty angel stood,
With long-commission'd dart; and when he read
The Nunc Dimittis, in that eye serene, The sable of his ice-cold wing he wrapt
Around the patriarch's bosom.—
 —Full of days,
And full of honours, on the couch of rest
He laid him down.—There was a fearful pause
Too eloquent for tears,—and then there came
The sigh of mourning thousands murmuring low
In filial grief.—I listened as the dirge
Closed that brief day, and thought how joy and wo
Walk like twin sisters through the vale of life
Twining its woof with good and evil threads,
And scarce forbore to weep, though the bright star,
Snatch'd from our lower firmament, would glow
With added lustre in a deathless clime.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On the Death of an accomplished Physician

ON THE DEATH OF AN ACCOMPLISHED PHYSICIAN.
Spirit of bright intelligence!—that beam'd
Through the quick-darting eye, and sat enthroned
On that pure smile which seem'd not of the earth!
Spirit of mild benevolence!—that hung
O'er the wan sufferer's couch, soothing his pangs
Regardless of thy own.—Spirit!—that loved
To rove amid the scenes of other days,
The shades of ancient story,—and the bowers
Of classic Fancy,—whither art thou flown?—
Why am I answer'd by the rushing sigh?—
Alas!—I know it all!—I mark'd the sign
In that deep hectic flush which stain'd thy cheek
When thou didst part from us, and knew that death
Lent that brief beauty ere he set his seal
Of icy paleness.—Thou didst go to seek
Hygeia o'er the wave,—and in those climes
Where she delights to revel.—But her gifts
Were not for thee.—Her fountain was close-seal'd
To thy parch'd lip.—And didst thou fall alone?—
Unwept, uncherish'd.—No!—in stranger breasts Love rose to meet thee,—and a foreign voice
In holiest accents bade thee rest in peace.—
—Thy God forsook thee not,—and thy meek soul
Communing with its Saviour, saw the world
Recede unmourn'd.—Thy mouldering ashes fill
A foreign tomb,—but thou hast found a home
From whence is no departing,—where thy heart
No more vibrating on the arrow's point
Of this unpitying world,—expands to taste
Fulness of bliss.—
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On the loss of the Steam Boat Ætna

ON THE LOSS OF THE STEAM BOAT ÆTNA,
WITHIN SIGHT OF NEW YORK, SATURDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 15, 1824.
Her path was on the briny deep;  Yet no white sail propell'd her course,  Nor measured oar with graceful sweep
 Urged her to stem the billow's force;
 Self-moved, with fleecy track she past,
 Disdaining in her pride
 To woo the breeze or shun the blast,
 Or wait the rolling tide;
 While boldly to the sky
 Her ensign, wreathing high,
Inwrought with volumed smoke, and sparkling flame, she cast.
Lightly o'er her bosom roved,
 Where rainbow mirth was shining,
 Forms revered and hearts beloved,
 In changeful groups combining;
 Childhood's smile,
 And Beauty's wile,
 Manhood with his brow of care,
 And matron tenderness were there:
 Above, the azure sky was glowing,
 Beneath, the flood, like silver flowing,
 Around in chequering light and shade,
 Her hues delighted Spring display'd;
 Velvet verdure deck'd the vales,
 Winding rivers, white with sails,
 Through their tufted margins stray'd;
Each dazzling scene, like moving picture, threw
Its colouring on the eye, and rapidly withdrew.
And now the setting sun, in liquid richness, pours
A flood of glory o'er the approaching shores
 Of that proud mart, which, like a queen
 Upon her island throne, is seen,
With thronging masts, and spires in long array:
 Then sparkling eyes were bent
 And ardent glances sent,
Through the soft misty curtains of declining day,
 To gain some vestige of their home;
 Gay Fancy decks the dome
 With flowers of joy;
 A richer blush steals o'er the virgin coy;
And lost in Fancy's trance, the mother clasps her boy
Hark!—'tis the crash of thunder!—But no cloud
 Mantles the untroubled sky.
 Again!—it blends with cries of anguish loud,—
 In air disruptured members fly,
 Blood streams, and 'neath the water's roar
 Plunge deeply those who rise no more.
 And ah! outstretch'd I see,
 In nameless agony,
 Woman's imploring hand.—The piercing cry
 Of suffering innocence invades the sky.
 Haste—snatch them from the wreck;
 O God they faint—they die.
'Tis silent on the wave. The thunders sleep;
But many a stricken soul shall mourn their ire;
Still smiles the sun;—but many an eye shall weep
 Ere to his sea-girt chamber he retire:
 The expected guest—the sister fair,—
 The child, with fond, confiding air,—
 The friend, who with an angel's mein
 Illumed the dear, domestic scene—
 Ah! ask not—ask not where they are,
 Or why they come not!—See despair
 Rend from the mourning sire
 The few thin remnants of that silver hair,
Which, frosted o'er with age, e'en ruthless Time could spare.
Who to the orphan's arms its treasure shall restore?
Who bind the widow's heart, which breaking heals no more?
 Frail as a flower, beneath the blast of pain,
 How impotent and vain
Is Man, to boast him of his zephyr's breath,
Man, whose whole race of life is on the verge of death!
 He,—He alone, who trod
 The waters as their God,
And from their dark embrace rescued the sinking form,
 Can, when the whelming surges roll,
 Draw with pierced hand, the unbodied soul
To that Eternal Ark, serene above the storm.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On the Translation of Milton into the Language of Iceland

ON THE TRANSLATION OF MILTON
INTO THE LANGUAGE OF ICELAND, BY THOLASKEN, A NATIVE POET.
Clime by the tyrant North embraced,
 And scourged by Ocean's wildest ire!
Who, mid thine intellectual waste,
 Would seek to find poetic fire?
That inborn lustre of the mind,
 Electric genius, bright and free,
That diamond of a world refined,
 Say,—who would dream to find in thee?
True,—mocking nature bids to gush
 Thy boiling founts from frozen veins,
And red volcanic splendors rush
 Terrific o'er thine ice-clad plains,—
But who, amid thy dwindled race
 Such sport sublime would hope to see?—
Who mid thy moral desert trace
 Such contradicting majesty?
Yet Thule!—like that summit dread
 Where Hecla lights his torch of fire,
Thine own Thorlasken lifts his head,
 And nobly rules a master's lyre.
The melody of Milton's strains
 He with adventurous skill essays,
And boldly o'er thine awe-struck plains
 The pomp of angel war arrays.
Great bard!—whose outward eye was sealed
 That holier light within might beam,
Who to the prompting muse did'st yield
 The fervor of thy nightly dream,
Say,—could thy prophet glance descry
 What realms remote should seek thy shrine?
What barbarous tongues to thee reply?
 What tuneful harps be waked by thine?
Souls in the world's wild vortex tost,
 Souls to the car of Mammon chain'd,
Could scornful look on Eden lost,
 Or coldly mark its joys regain'd;—
Thy niggard age denied the claim,—
 Yet knew'st thou of thy slighted lay,
The guerdon was immortal fame
 Which proud posterity would pay.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On visiting the University of Virginia

ON VISITING THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, AT CHARLOTTESVILLE.
Fair Star of Science! Be thy light
 Auspicious to that Ancient Realm,
Which gave so oft her men of might
 Wisely to guide the nation's helm;—
Nought but the savage war-whoop burst
 O'er this wide clime of moral night,
Till from the western chaos first
 She raised her urn of trembling light;—
Rear 'neath thy domes a glorious race
 Their country's honour to protect,
And on an everlasting base
 The fabric of her power erect;
Or, fired with eloquence sublime,
 The sinner's slumbering soul to wake,
And bid it, ere the wreck of time,
 The harbour of salvation make;
Or, moved by pity to explore
 The ills that waste life's fleeting wealth,
Toil through the languid frame to pour
 The balm of renovated health.
Nursed in thy halls of lore refined,  May other Franklins spring to birth,
And rule, with unpretending mind,
 The fires of Heaven, and lords of earth.*
Like Johnson, in Herculean might,
 Bid some philologist arise,—
Some Milton, with seraphic flight,
 Or Newton, pupil of the skies.
And should some tyrant's sceptred hand
 Menace the rights our fathers won, Or danger cloud our native land,
 Send forth a future Washington.
Star of Virginia!—pure and free!—
 Thy beams shall gild that Sage's way,
Who touch'd the kindling torch to thee,
 And shines in thy reflected ray.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Pompey's Statue

POMPEY'S STATUE,
AT WHOSE PEDESTAL JULIUS CÆSAR FELL, IS STILL PRESERVED IN THE PALAZZO SPADÆ, AT ROME.
Cold and inanimate!—Would thou couldst ope
Thy marble lips, and tell what thou hadst seen
Upon the ides of March!—thou, at whose feet
Fell the world's monarch, eloquent and brave,
The great in conquest, and the proud of soul.—
Waked there no spark Promethean in thy breast,
When sadly muffled in his mantle's fold
Fainting, he fell on thee?—
Didst thou stand forth
In the same dark and motionless beauty, while
Casca's impatient sword, and the keen point
Of Cassius, and the "unkindest cut of all,"
From the loved hand of Brutus, and the rage
Of traitorous daggers search'd that noble breast,
Which Gaul, and Egypt, and Pharsalia's plains
Had seen bright-clad in victory's burnish'd mail,
Trembling as at a war-god?—
 Tragic close
Of mad ambition's drama!—the deep plaint
Of "Et tu Brute!"—and the indignant pang
With which that proud soul left the wounded clay, Scorning a world which mock'd it with the cheat
Of friendship and of faith!—
 And yet that world
Had owed him little, save the blood that made
Her harvests plenteous, save the unheeded groan
Of famish'd widow, and of sireless babe,
A meteor glory kindled up at Rome,
And all beside, a desert.—Deeds like these,
How weigh they in Heaven's balance, when the pomp
Of earth hath fled away?—Man may not judge, But wait in trembling for his trial-day.—
—And yet 't would seem that the meek hind, whose hand
Made hard with labour, deals the daily bread
To the young nurslings of his humble nest,
Whose head beneath his planted trees and flowers,
Sinks calmly down in the long sleep of death,
Hath better passport to the clime of peace
Than the blood-nourish'd master of a world.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Remember me

REMEMBER ME.
When morning from the damps of night
Beams o'er the eye in rosy light,
And calls thee forth with smile benign;
Ah think!—whose heart responds to thine,
And still with sympathy divine
 Remember me.
When gentle twilight, pure and calm
Comes leaning on Reflection's arm,
When o'er the throng of cares and woes
Her veil of sober tint she throws
Wooing the spirit to repose,
 Remember me.
When the first star, with cresset bright,
Gleams lonely o'er the arch of night,
When through the fleecy clouds that dance
The moon sends forth her timid glance,
Then gazing on that pure expanse,
 Remember me.
When mournful sighs the hollow wind
And pensive thought enwraps thy mind,
If e'er thy heart in sorrow's tone
To musing melancholy prone,
Should sigh, because it feels alone,
 Remember me.
When stealing to thy secret bower
Devotion claims her holy hour,—
When bowing o'er that sacred page
Whose spirit curbs affliction's rage,
Controls our youth,—sustains our age,
 Remember me.
Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim
While Friendship's heart the wish can frame:
For brief and transient is my lay,
And mingling soon with kindred clay
This silent lip, no more shall say
 Remember me.
And when in deep oblivion's shade
This breathless, mouldering form is laid,
If near that bed thy step should rove,
With one short prayer, by feeling wove
One glance of faith one tear of love
 Remember me.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On being entertained with Painting and Music

ON BEING ENTERTAINED WITH PAINTING AND MUSIC.
Scenes, where the charms of nature shine
In radiant robes of art divine,
Touch'd with mild grace, or throned on high
With bold and broken majesty,—
Scenes where the enraptured soul of song
In garb historic sweeps along,
Ruling with powerful key the cells
Where love reclines, or terror dwells,
Till touch'd with life the canvass swells,
Such scenes would long the soul enchain
 To the rapt eye,
But then there comes a witching strain
 Soft rolling by,
And at the portal of the ear
Divides the pleasure and the tear.—
—Vainly I task description's power
To trace the magic of the hour, And even with vainer skill essay
This wild flower at your feet to lay.
Magician! who can thus inspire
At once the pencil and the lyre.—
—It fades away,—my heath-born flower,
Oh teach me thy Promethean power,
Warmth to infuse in lifeless clay,
And snatch the dying from decay.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Remonstrance of the Creek Indians against being removed from their own Territory

REMONSTRANCE OF THE CREEK INDIANS
AGAINST BEING REMOVED FROM THEIR OWN TERRITORY.
See ye those mounds so green and fair,
 Where rest the dews, where smiles the sky?
There sleeps our father's dust, and there
 Our own shall lie.
See ye these vales? Our children rose
 Like plants within their peaceful glade,
And where our lifeless forms repose
 Shall theirs be laid.
Dark are their brows, and wild they rove
 Unnurtur'd o'er their native earth,
Yet deep their rugged bosoms love
 Their land of birth.
Drive them not hence!—they only ask
 Their humble cabin's roof to rear,
And ply the hunter's dangerous task
 With toil severe:—
To sow with corn the furrow'd glade,
 Dejected sigh o'er buried years,
And sooth their frowning heroes' shade,
 With bitter tears.
Though mid those woods no deer should roam,
 Nor fish within these waters glide,
Though haggard famine haunt their home,
 And quell their pride.
Though hatred arm oppressive foes,
 And war invade their sad retreat,
Still, where their earliest breath arose,
 Their last shall fleet.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On the Marriage of a young Friend, during my absence

ON THE MARRIAGE OF A YOUNG FRIEND, DURING MY ABSENCE.
I left a rose within a lovely bower,
 Rearing on polish'd stem its bosom fair,—
I went my way, and roam'd a little hour,
 Then turning sought it, but it was not there;—
Though I had watch'd it with a florist's care
 When its young bloom first woo'd admiring eyes,
 And breath'd o'er its unfolding germ, the prayer,—
And mark'd with grateful hope its beauties rise,
Yielding their smile to earth, their fragrance to the skies.
I ask'd the winds if in their ruffian pride
 They on the dust had strew'd those petals rare?
I call'd the blasts and mildews to my side
 And question'd each. They said they might not dare
 The spoiler's deed upon a work so fair.—
But the mild breeze from a far dome convey'd
 A strain of joy.—It said my Rose was there
Bound in a vase of love,—and so I bade
Within its trembling orb, the selfish tear be stay'd.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Return of the Exile

RETURN OF THE EXILE.
Oppress'd with wandering round this world of care,
Homeward I turn'd, but ah!—what home was there?—
The simple cottage where my childhood grew,
The verdant tree that screen'd it from the view,
The clustering vine that climb'd the broken wall,
Reft by the hand of Time had moulder'd,—all.
No sound was heard, where erst the joyous peal
Of infant laughter stopp'd the matron's wheel,
No motion left,—save where on earth reclined
Mid mouldering stones the slimy adder twined,—
"My brother worm,—all hail!"—I frantic said,
Call'd earth my mother, and the dust my bed.—
Roused from the deadening trance, I saw distrest,
The green corn waving o'er my father's breast,
While o'er her head, who cheer'd my every pain,
Rank ivy spread, the heedless traveller's bane.—
—Starting, I rush'd, this fearful scene to shun,
"Not one remains!—Oh God!—thy will be done!"—
Hoarse scream'd the nightly owl—and through the tree
Moan'd the deep blast,—but who shall weep for me?
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Saul

SAUL.
I hear the shouts at Mizpeh. Wild they swell
Upon the summer air,—and the green hills
Methinks do clap their hands and echo forth
"God save the King!"—
 ——I thought that God was King
Of Israel;—He who snatch'd them from the chains
Of their swarth house of bondage, through the wild
Their footsteps marshall'd,—gave their murmuring lips
The bread of heaven, and led them to a land
Of beauty and of bliss. I thought their vow Was pour'd o'er Shechem's pillar to his ear
Who in their mansions stay'd the astonish'd Sun,
And night's pale queen, to gaze upon the work
That heaven appointed him. That warrior joy'd
Amid their convocation, when he heard
The solemn vow from willing thousands break,
"Jehovah is our King!—and him alone
Shall Israel serve."—
 ——Who is yon hoary man
With arms close folded on his reverend breast, Who seems in mournful thought while crowds exult?
Know ye not him, who by his mother's prayer
In infancy's sweet dream was consecrate?—
Who 'neath the holy temple's lonely arch, When nought was waking save the solemn stars,
Heard the Eternal speak, as sire to son?—
Low his majestic head in grief declines,
As if he ponder'd o'er the sever'd links
Of lost Theocracy,—or sad revolved
His nation's madness, and their God's offence.
Anon, his mind prophetic mid the throngs
Of unborn people roves,—the nameless ills
Of power despotic,—till from his sunk eye
Rolls the big, burning tear drop.—
 ——Who is he,
With head more lofty than the countless crowd
Who gaze upon him,—and with brow so bright
In manly beauty?—The anointing oil
Pour'd by the pale hand of that sorrowing seer,
The crown that dazzles on those temples fair,
The thundering shout that sweeps the vaulted sky.
Best answer thee.—
——Years speed their silent course.
I see a palace, and a vassal train,
Proud chariots roll, and regal splendors glow,
And haughty guards surround the vaulted throne.
But is the glory of a land best told
By gaudes like these?—Or doth the crowned brow
Sleep sweeter than the labouring hind who steals
Weary, to his hard pallet?—
 ——What hath dimm'd
The royal smile?—And stamp'd the darken'd seal
Of moody madness on that straining eye?—
There is a shepherd's harp in these high halls,
And the demoniac monarch loves its tone
Of tender minstrelsy,—yet hates the hand
That calls it forth. Oh King! the curse hath fallen
On thee, and on thy people. Thou dost writhe
Beneath the empoison'd purple.—
 ——Look once more!—
There is another change. Proud hosts rush on
To battle, the bold war-horse spurns the ground,
Philistia's champions shake the glittering spear,
And Israel 'neath the banner of her king, Frowns deep defiance.—Throng'd Gilboa quakes
At the dread onset.—Mid the thickest fight
I see the royal robe, the towering port
Of him, the crown'd at Mizpeh.—From the host
Of darkest dangers, from the direst foes
That lion-hearted monarch turns not back,
Nor his good sword declines.—
 But lo! he stands
Alone, amid the slain.—One look he casts,
Accusing and despairing, up to Heaven,
Then rushes on his sword.—
——That wound hath quell'd
The last pulsation of a mighty heart,
And weeping thousands wail o'er slaughter'd Saul.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Self Examination

SELF EXAMINATION.
Seek not of man with light applause to pay
The priceless guerdon of a well-spent day,—
Wait not for him to judge the generous deed,
But spread the scroll, and bid thy Conscience read.
Rest on thy couch,—recline within thy cell,
And ask that silent one, if all be well?—
Then if she smile, receive the rapturous meed,—
Nor boast the motive,—nor proclaim the deed, Wait till the day of doom, the hour of fate, Even as the expecting Jews for their Messiah wait.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Sentiment in a Sermon

SENTIMENT IN A SERMON.
"Piety flourishes best in a soil watered by tears, and often succeeds where harvests of temporal good have failed."
Hope's soft petals love the beam
 That cheer'd them into birth,
Pleasure seeks a glittering stream
 Bright oozing from the earth,
Knowledge yields his lofty fruit
 To those who climb with toil,
But Heaven's pure plant strikes deepest root
 Where tears have dew'd the soil.
Hope with flow'rets strews the blast
 When adverse winds arise,
Pleasure's garlands wither fast
 Before inclement skies,
Knowledge often mocks pursuit,
 Involved in mazy shade,
But Piety yields richer fruit
 When earthly harvests fade.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The "Eyes of the Nile."

THE "EYES OF THE NILE."
Rollin, in describing the fertility which the Nile dispenses to Egypt, remarks that the two small circular springs in Abyssinia, from whence it derives its source, are metaphorically called "its eyes."
In ancient Egypt's fruitful realm
 Joy made her most divine abode,
 Light boats with pleasure at the helm
 Amid her thousand islets row'd,
 A thousand changing colours flow'd
 Wide o'er her flowery meadows gay,
 And on her lofty temples glow'd
 The radiance of the God of day,—
From whence flow'd the gladness that kindled the smile?
It darted like light from the eyes of the Nile.—
 But now that beauty, life and grace
 From those delightful scenes have fled,
 Stern Desolation marks the place,  The humbled flow'ret bows its head,
The rose forgets its hue of red,—
 The mouldering temple sinks in shame,
 And all that majesty is dead
 Which awed so long astonish'd fame;—
For freedom hath vanish'd and quench'd is the smile
And darken'd the light in the eyes of the Nile.—
 I meant not that from Egypt's brow
 Each charm by nature loved had past,
 No! still her genial summers glow,
 And toying with destruction's blast
 Her pyramids their shadows cast
 O'er emmet man:—I only said
 That liberty had breathed her last,  And beauty from the brave had fled:—
Ye may wonder and gaze, but can ye the while
Dry the tear of the slave from the eyes of the Nile?