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

THE SABBATH BELL.
Where 'mid the crowded city glide
The gorgeous trains of pomp and pride,
Till even the labouring pavement groans
As Folly's surges wear the stones,
And through the reeking air doth rise
The tide of Fashion's heartless sighs—
What speaks from tower and turret fair,
 With solemn knell?
To break the despotism of care,
And fearless warn the proud to prayer?
 The Sabbath Bell.
From yonder cottage-homes where meet,
Round the low eaves, the woodbine sweet,
And the young vine-flower peering through
The rustic rose-hedge rich with dew,
Pours on each passing Zephyr's breast
A gush of fragrance pure and blest;
What lures gay childhood's throngs away?
Why quit they thus at morning ray
 Their native dell?
What lures them to God's temple door,
Their holy lessons conning o'er?  The Sabbath Bell?
The chastened spirit, worn with care,
That scarce can lift its burdened prayer
Above the host of toils that thrust
Its broken pinion down to dust,
That loves the path where faith doth rise
In contemplation to the skies,
Yet bowed beneath a hopeless chain
Betakes it to its task again;
 What bids its rapture swell? What brings, though tear-drops dim the eye,
Communion with its native sky?  The Sabbath Bell.
And thou, whose glance of rapid ray
Dost lightly scan this simple lay,
When to thy view yon astral spark,
And earthly skies and suns are dark,
What to the fair and lighted hall
Where cherished friends hold festival;
What to the pensive, listening ear,
 Shall thy death-tidings tell? And summon to thy lowly bier
The bursting sigh, the bitter tear?
 The Sabbath Bell.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Scene at Athens, during the Revolution

SCENE AT ATHENS, DURING THE REVOLUTION.
City of Cecrops, there thou art on high,
But not in pride, as when the wondering world
Knelt to thee as a pupil, and the light
That from thy mountains flashed, fell on the globe,
As on a thing opaque. The Moslem draws
His leaguring lines around thee, and afar
'Mid thine Acropolis, is heard the sigh
Of the o'erwearied soldier, famine-struck,
Yet not despairing. He, amid his watch,
Muses on Missolonghi. Even thy vines
Uncultured, wither, and thine olives shrink
From the hot hand of war. No more thy herds
Roam o'er their pasture, and methinks the bee
That toward Hymethus hastens, sadly spreads
A languid wing.
 See yon attenuate boy,
With his young tottering sister, who explore
Eager each close recess. Why glean they thus
Those scanty blades of herbage? Do they hide,
And nourish carefully some tender lamb,
Last of the flock? No! no! Their wasted brows
A stronger need bespeak. And there he goes,
A poor snail-gatherer, from whose eye, perchance,
Speaks forth the blood of Pericles.
 But lo!
The cry of sudden skirmish, and sharp war,
Peals out at distance. The infuriate Turks
Rush to the guarded wall, and, vaunting, rear
The haughty crescent o'er the cross of Christ.
High Heaven hath mercy. The brief battle swells
Back to the plain again, and sweeping on,
Like the spent whirlwind, sinks. The courser's tramp,
And clash of ataghan, and trumpet blast,
And the fierce shout of man's wild passions die
Upon the tranquil air. But there are strewn
Sad witnesses around: the shivered sword,
The frequent blood-pool, and the severed limb,
While here and there a gorgeous Mussulman
Sleeps in his pomp of armour. The slain Greeks
Do lie with faces heavenward, as becomes
Sons of Miltiades. Methinks the frown
That knits their brows, tells how with Death did strive
The thought of Athens, and their country's fate.
Would this were all!
 But there are dens and caves,
And rugged mountain-paths, where those have fallen
Whom love would die to save; and their soft hands
Did woo the sabre's edge, and press it close,
As a long-parted friend.
 Ah! might I turn
Forever from such scenes. But in my dreams,
When woe doth tint them, to this hour I see
A beauteous form, which on the encrimsoned turf
Was smitten down, and close those polished arms
Bound to the marble breast, in death's embrace,
A young, unconscious babe.
 The ruddy boy
Seemed full of health, and light his sportive hand
'Mid his fair mother's glossy tresses roved,
While his bright lip, not yet to language trained,
Solicited regard. But when no sound
Assured the nursling, and an icebolt seemed
From that dead breast to shoot into his soul,
He raised his cherub head, with such a cry
Of horror, as I deemed no infant heart
Could utter or conceive.
 And they who oft
Stood with the unblenching brave, when the thick air
Steamed like a sulphur-furnace, and the earth
Reeked with fresh blood, and thousand parting souls
Sent forth the fearful groan, did say that naught
'Mid all the appalling ministry of war
Had ever moved them like that wailing babe.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Sailor's Funeral

THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.
The ship's bell tolled, and slowly o'er the deck
Came forth the summoned crew.—Bold, hardy men,
Far from their native skies, stood silent there,
With melancholy brows.—From a low cloud
That o'er the horizon hovered, came the threat
Of distant, muttered thunder. Broken waves
Heaved up their sharp, white helmets, o'er the expanse
Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay
Like some vindictive king, who meditates
On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war.
 The ship's bell tolled!—And lo, a youthful form,
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds
At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid
Down at his comrades' feet.—Mournful they gazed
Upon his hollow cheek, and some there were
Who in that bitter hour remembered well
The parting blessing of his hoary sire,
And the fond tears that o'er his mother's cheek
Went coursing down, when his gay, happy voice
Left its farewell.—But one who nearest stood
To that pale shrouded corse, remembered more:—
Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn,
And blossomed hedge, and of a fair-haired girl
Who at her lattice, veiled with woodbine, watched
His last, far step, and then turned back to weep.
And close that comrade in his faithful breast
Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth
Had severed with a cold and trembling hand
In life's extremity, and bade him bear
With broken words of love's last eloquence
To his blest Mary.—Now that chosen friend
Bowed low his sun-burnt face, and like a child
Sobbed in deep sorrow.
 But there came a tone,
Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas—
"I am the resurrection!"—Every heart
Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised.
There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow
Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice,
Rich as the balm from plants of paradise,
Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls
Of dying men. It was a holy hour!
There lay the wreck of manly beauty, here
Bent mourning friendship, while supporting faith
Cast her strong anchor, where no wrathful surge
Might overwhelm, nor mortal foe invade.
 There was a plunge!—The riven sea complained,
Death from her briny bosom took his own.
 The troubled fountains of the deep lift up
Their subterranean portals, and he went
Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul,
Mid all the funeral pomp, with which this earth
Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad,
Sublime or sorrowful, as the mute sea
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Second Birth-day

THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY.
Thou dost not dream, my little one,
 How great the change must be,
These two years, since the morning sun
 First shed his beams on thee;
Thy little hands did helpless fall,
 As with a stranger's fear,
And a faint, wailing cry, was all
 That met thy mother's ear.
But now, the dictates of thy will
 Thine active feet obey,
And pleased thy busy fingers still
 Among thy playthings stray,
And thy full eyes delighted rove
 The pictured page along,
And, lisping to the heart of love,
 Thy thousand wishes throng.
Fair boy! the wanderings of thy way,
 It is not mine to trace,
Through buoyant youth's exulting day,
 Or manhood's bolder race,
What discipline thy heart may need,
 What clouds may veil thy sun,
The Eye of God, alone can read,
 And let his will be done.
Yet might a mother's prayer of love
 Thy destiny control,
Those boasted gifts, that often prove
 The ruin of the soul,
Beauty and fortune, wit and fame,
 For thee it would not crave,
But tearful urge a fervent claim
 To joys beyond the grave.
Oh! be thy wealth an upright heart,
 Thy strength the sufferer's stay,
Thine early choice, that better part,
 Which cannot fade away;
Thy zeal for Christ a quenchless fire,
 Thy friends the men of peace,
Thy heritage an angel's lyre,
 When earthly changes cease.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Slavery

SLAVERY.
"Slavery is a dark shade on the Map of the United States." La Fayette.
WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE FOURTH OF JULY.
We have a goodly clime,
 Broad vales and streams we boast,
Our mountain frontiers frown sublime,
 Old Ocean guards our coast;
Suns bless our harvest fair,
 With fervid smile serene,
But a dark shade is gathering there—
 What can its blackness mean?
We have a birth-right proud,
 For our young sons to claim,
An eagle soaring o'er the cloud,
 In freedom and in fame;
We have a scutcheon bright,
 By our dead fathers bought,
A fearful blot distains its white—
 Who hath such evil wrought?
Our banner o'er the sea
 Looks forth with starry eye,
Emblazoned glorious, bold and free,
 A letter on the sky,
What hand with shameful stain
 Hath marred its heavenly blue?
The yoke, the fasces, and the chain,
 Say, are these emblems true?
This day doth music rare
 Swell through our nation's bound,
But Afric's wailing mingles there,
 And Heaven doth hear the sound;
O God of power!—we turn
 In penitence to thee,
Bid our loved land the lesson learn—
 To bid the slave be free.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Radiant Clouds at Sunset

RADIANT CLOUDS AT SUNSET.
Bright Clouds! ye are gathering one by one
Ye are sweeping in pomp round the dying sun,
With crimson banner, and golden pall
Like a host to their chieftain's funeral;
Perchance ye tread to that hallowed spot
With a muffled dirge, though we hear it not.
But methinks ye tower with a lordlier crest
And a gorgeous flush as he sinks to rest,
Not thus in the day of his pride and wrath
Did ye dare to press on his glorious path,
At his noontide glance ye have quaked with fear
And hasted to hide in your misty sphere.
Do you say he is dead?—You exult in vain,
With your rainbow robe and your swelling train,
He shall rise again with his strong, bright ray,
He shall reign in power when you fade away,
When ye darkly cower in your vapoury hall,
Tintless, and naked, and noteless all.
The Soul!—The Soul!—with its eye of fire,
Thus, thus shall it soar when its foes expire,
It shall spread its wings o'er the ills that pained,
The evils that shadowed, the sins that stained,
It shall dwell where no rushing cloud hath sway,
And the pageants of earth shall have melted away.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The School-mistress

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.
ADAPTED TO A PICTURE.
How doth this picture's art relume
Of childhood's scenes the buried bloom!
How from oblivion's sweeping stream
Each floating flower and leaf redeem!
From neighbouring spire, the iron chime
That told the school's allotted time,
The lowly porch where woodbine crept,
The floor with careful neatness swept,
The hour-glass in its guarded nook,
Which oft our busy fingers shook
By stealth, if flowed too slow away
The sands that held us from our play;
The murmured task, the frequent tear,
The timid laugh, prolonged and dear,
These all on heart, and ear, and eye,
Come thronging back, from years gone by.
 And there thou art! in peaceful age
With brow as thoughtful, mild and sage,
As when upon thy pupil's heart
Thy lessons breathed—yes there thou art!
And in thy hand that sacred book
Whereon it was our pride to look,
Whose truths around thy hoary head,
A never-fading halo shed,
Whose glorious hopes in holy trust
Still blossom o'er thy mouldering dust.
Even thus it is, where'er we range,
Throughout this world of care and change,
Though Fancy every prospect gild,
Or Fortune write each wish fulfilled,
Still, pausing 'mid our varied track,
To childhood's realm we turn us back,
And wider as the hand of time
Removes us from that sunny clime,
And nearer as our footsteps urge
To weary life's extremest verge,
With fonder smile, with brighter beam,
Its far-receding landscapes gleam,
And closer to the withered breast,
Its renovated charms are prest.
 And thus the stream, as on it flows,
'Neath summer-suns, or wintry snows,
Through vale, or maze, or desert led,
Untiring tells its pebbly bed,
How passing sweet the buds that first
Upon its infant marge were nurst,
How rich the violet's breath perfumed,
That near its cradle-fountain bloomed,
And deems no skies were e'er so fair
As kindled o'er its birth-place there.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Silver and the Gold are mine

THE SILVER AND THE GOLD ARE MINE.
"The silver is mine, and the gold is mine,—saith the Lord of Hosts." Haggai II. 8.
Whose is the gold that glitters in the mine,
And whose the silver? Are they not the Lord's!
And lo! the cattle on a thousand hills,
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs, (errata) Are they not his who made them?  Ye who hold
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands
By your own names, and lock your gathered gold
From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be
When like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost,
You fall away?
 Point out to me the forms
That in your treasure-chambers shall enact
Glad mastership, and revel where you toiled,
Sleepless and stern? Strange faces are they all.
Oh man! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs,
Thou knowest not who, thou in thy mouldering bed
Unkenned, unchronicled, of them shalt sleep,
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave
Thy soul of good for them.
 Now, thou mayest give
The famished food, the prisoner liberty,
Light to the darkened mind, to the lost soul
A place in Heaven. Take thou the privilege
With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult
To be co-worker with the King of kings.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The South Georgian Lark

THE SOUTH GEORGIAN LARK.
"The lark is the only land-bird found in the island of Georgia, south-east of Cape Horn, the whole surface of which is constantly covered with snow and ice." Malte Brun.
Lone minstrel of yon dreary isle, that shares no genial ray,
There is no discord in thy tone, no winter in thy lay,
And sweetly doth thy warbled song flow from yon sterile shores,
While the Pacific's monstrous surge, in deafening thunder roars.
No kindred wing with thine is spread those rugged cliffs to dare,
For even the undaunted eagle shrinks to hang his eyrie there;
But thou, when rude and bitter blasts thy shivering bosom chill,
High soaring in a flood of light, dost merge the pang of ill.
Thou, mid a prisoning realm of ice, thy callow young dost rear,
For well a parent's heart may warm earth's most inclement sphere,
And when amid thy snow-wreathed nest thou hear'st their chirping strain,
Thou hast a magic spell to make the tempest's anger vain.
Man should thy pupil be. Draw near, thou of the lordly mind,
Whose will the unmeasured universe in links of thought can bind;
Yet still beneath a transient woe, ingloriously dost droop,
Or shuddering at the frown of fate, on sky-borne pinion stoop:
What though Misfortune's shaft severe thy lingering hope destroys,
Till only some pale frost-flower stands to mark thy smitten joys;
What though Affliction's keenest dart thy inmost soul hath stoned,
Still heavenward lift the lay of praise, like the lone Georgian bird.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The African Mother at her Daughter's Grave

THE AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER'S GRAVE.
Some of the Pagan Africans visit the burial places of their departed relatives, bearing food and drink;—and mothers have been known, for a long course of years, to bring, in an agony of grief, their annual oblation to the tombs of their children.
Daughter!—I bring thee food,
 The rice-cake pure and white,
The cocoa, with its milky blood,
 Dates and pomegranates bright,
The orange in its gold,
 Fresh from thy favourite tree,
Nuts in their ripe and husky fold,
 Dearest! I spread for thee.
Year after year I tread
 Thus to thy low retreat,
But now the snow-hairs mark my head
 And age enchains my feet;
Oh! many a change of woe
 Hath dimmed thy spot of birth
Since first my gushing tears did flow
 O'er this thy bed of earth.
There came a midnight cry,
 Flames from our hamlet rose,
A race of pale-browed men were nigh,
 They were our country's foes.
Thy wounded sire was borne
 By tyrant force away,
Thy brothers from our cabin torn
 While in my blood I lay.
I watched for their return
 Upon the rocky shore
Till night's red planets ceased to burn,
 And the long rains were o'er;
Till seeds their hand had sown
 A ripened fruitage bore,
The billows echoed to my moan,
 Yet they returned no more.
But thou art slumbering deep,
 And to my wildest cry,
When pierced with agony I weep,
 Dost render no reply.
Daughter! my youthful pride,
 The idol of my eye,
Why didst thou leave thy mother's side
 Beneath these sands to lie?
Long o'er the hopeless grave
 Where her lost darling slept,
Invoking gods that could not save
 That Pagan mourner wept:
Oh! for some voice of power
 To sooth her bursting sighs,
"There is a resurrection hour!
 Thy daughter's dust shall rise!"
Christians!—Ye hear the cry
 From heathen Afric's strand,
Haste! lift salvation's banner high
 O'er that benighted land;
With faith that claims the skies
 Her misery control
And plant the hope that never dies,
 Deep in her tear-wet soul.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Ark and Dove

THE ARK AND DOVE.
"Tell me a story—please," my little girl
Lisped from her cradle. So I bent me down
And told her how it rained, and rained, and rained,
Till all the flowers were covered; and the trees
Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood,
And people dwelt, a fearful deluge rolled;
Because the world was wicked, and refused
To heed the words of God. But one good man,
Who long had warned the wicked to repent,
Obey and live, taught by the voice of Heaven,
Had built an Ark, and thither, with his wife
And children, turned for safety. Two and two,
Of beasts and birds, and creeping things he took,
With food for all, and when the tempest roared,
And the great fountains of the sky poured out
A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drowned,
They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure.
And so the mighty waters bare them up,
And o'er the bosom of the deep they sailed
For many days. But then a gentle dove
'Scaped from the casement of the Ark, and spread
Her lonely pinion o'er that boundless wave.
All, all was desolation. Chirping nest,
Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw,
For all the people of the earth were drowned,
Because of disobedience. Nought she spied
Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky,
Nor found her weary foot a place of rest.
So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth,
Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance,
Upon some wrecking billow floated by,
With drooping wing the peaceful Ark she sought.
The righteous man that wandering dove received,
And to her mate restored, who, with sad moans,
Had wondered at her absence.
 Then I looked
Upon the child, to see if her young thought
Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye
Was a glad listener, and the eager breath
Of pleased attention curled her parted lip.
And so I told her how the waters dried,
And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds
Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove
Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds
Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired Ark
Upon the breezy breast of Ararat
Reposed, and Noah, with glad spirit, reared
An altar to his God.
 Since, many a time,
When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star,
That little one is laid, with earnest tone,
And pure cheek prest to mine, she fondly asks
"The Ark and Dove."
 Mothers can tell how oft
In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up
From a sealed lip, and tenderly hath blent
With the warm teaching of the sacred tale
A voiceless wish, that when that timid soul,
New in the rosy mesh of infancy,
Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world,
Like that exploring Dove, and find no rest,
A pierced, a pitying, a redeeming Hand
May gently guide it to the Ark of peace.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Sea

THE SEA.
Emblem of everlasting power, I come
Into thy presence, as an awe-struck child
Before its teacher. Spread thy boundless page,
And I will ponder o'er its characters,
As erst the pleased disciple sought the lore
Of Socrates or Plato. Yon old rock
Hath heard thy voice for ages, and grown grey
Beneath thy smitings, and thy wrathful tide
Even now is thundering 'neath its caverned base.
Methinks it trembleth at the stern rebuke—
Is it not so!
 Speak gently, mighty sea!
I would not know the terrors of thine ire
That vex the gasping mariner, and bid
The wrecking argosy to leave no trace
Or bubble where it perished. Man's weak voice,
Though wildly lifted in its proudest strength
With all its compass—all its volumed sound,
Is mockery to thee. Earth speaks of him—
Her levelled mountains—and her cultured vales,
Town, tower and temple, and triumphal arch,
All speak of him, and moulder while they speak.
 But of whose architecture and design
Tell thine eternal fountains, when they rise
To combat with the cloud, and when they fall?
Of whose strong culture tell thy sunless plants
And groves and gardens, which no mortal eye
Hath seen and lived?
What chisel's art hath wrought
Those coral monuments, and tombs of pearl,
Where sleeps the sea-boy 'mid a pomp that earth
Ne'er showed her buried kings?
 Whose science stretched
The simplest line to curb thy monstrous tide,
And graving "Hitherto" upon the sand,
Bade thy mad surge respect it?
 From whose loom
Come forth thy drapery, that ne'er waxeth old,
Nor blancheth 'neath stern Winter's direst frost?
 Who hath thy keys, thou deep? Who taketh note
Of all thy wealth? Who numbereth the host
That find their rest with thee? What eye doth scan
Thy secret annal, from creation locked
Close in those dark, unfathomable cells—
Which he who visiteth, hath ne'er returned
Among the living?  Still but one reply?
Do all thine echoing depths and crested waves
Make the same answer?— of that One Dread Name—
Which he, who deepest plants within his heart,
Is wisest, though the world may call him fool.
 Therefore, I come a listener to thy lore
And bow me at thy side, and lave my brow
In thy cool billow, if, perchance, my soul,
That fleeting wanderer on the shore of time,
May, by thy voice instructed, learn of God.