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

ALICE.
A very interesting daughter of the late Dr. Cogswell, who was deprived of the powers of hearing and speech, cherished so ardent an affection for her father, that, after his death, she said, in her strong language of gesture, that "her heart had so grown to his, it could not be separated." By the Providence of the Almighty she was called in a few days to follow him; and from the abodes of bliss, where we trust she has obtained a mansion, may we not imagine her as thus addressing the objects of her fondest earthly affections?
Sisters!—there's music here,
 From countless harps it flows,
 Throughout this bright, celestial sphere
 Nor pause, nor discord knows.
 The seal is melted from my ear
 By love divine
 And what through life I pined to hear,
 Is mine! Is mine!
 The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir,
 And the full, deep response of David's sacred lyre.
 Did kind earth hide from me
 Her broken harmony,
 That thus the melodies of Heaven might roll,
And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my rapt, my wondering soul?
 Joy!—I am mute no more,
 My sad and silent years,
 With all their loneliness are o'er,
 Sweet sisters! dry your tears:
Listen at hush of eve—listen at dawn of day—
 List at the hour of prayer—can ye not hear my lay?
 Untaught, unchecked it came,
 As light from chaos beamed,
 Praising his everlasting name,
 Whose blood from Calvary streamed—
And still it swells that highest strain, the song of the redeemed.
 Brother!—my only one!
 Beloved from childhood's hours,
 With whom, beneath the vernal son,
 I wandered when our task was done,
 And gathered early flowers;
 I cannot come to thee,
 Though 't was so sweet to rest
 Upon thy gently-guiding arm—thy sympathizing breast:
 'Tis better here to be.
 No disappointments shroud
 The angel-bowers of joy,
 Our knowledge hath no cloud,
 Our pleasures no alloy,
 The fearful word—to part,
 Is never breathed above,
 Heaven hath no broken heart—
 Call me not hence, my love.
 Oh, mother!—He is here
 To whom my soul so grew,
 That when Death's fatal spear
 Stretched him upon his bier,
 I fain must follow too.
 His smile my infant griefs restrained —
 His image in my childish dream
 And o'er my young affections reigned,
 With gratitude unuttered and supreme.
But yet till these refulgent skies burst forth in radiant glow
I know not half the unmeasured debt a daughter's heart doth owe.
Ask ye, if still his heart retains its ardent glow?
 Ask ye, if filial love
 Unbodied spirits prove?
 'Tis but a little space, and thou shalt rise to know,
 I bend to soothe thy woes,
 How near—thou canst not see—
 I watch thy lone repose,
 Alice doth comfort thee;
 To welcome thee I wait—blest mother! come to me.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Barzillai, the Gileadite

BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE.
Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother. 2 Samuel, XIX. 37.
Son of Jesse!—let me go,
 Why should princely honours stay me?—
 Where the streams of Gilead flow,
 Where the light first met mine eye,
 Thither would I turn and die:—
 Where my parent's ashes lie,
 King of Israel!—bid them lay me.
 Bury me near my sire revered,
 Whose feet in righteous paths so firmly trod,
 Who early taught my soul with awe  To heed the Prophets and the Law,
 And to my infant heart appeared
 Majestic as a God:—
 Oh! when his sacred dust
 The cerements of the tomb shall burst,
 Might I be worthy at his feet to rise,
 To yonder blissful skies,
 Where angel-hosts resplendent shine,
Jehovah!—Lord of Hosts, the glory shall be thine.
 Cold age upon my breast
 Hath shed a frost like death,
 The wine-cup hath no zest,
 The rose no fragrant breath,
Music from my ear hath fled,
 Yet still a sweet tone lingereth there,
 The blessing that my mother shed
 Upon my evening prayer.
 Dim is my wasted eye
 To all that beauty brings,
 The brow of grace,—the form of symmetry
 Are half-forgotten things;—
 Yet one bright hue is vivid still,
A mother's holy smile that soothed my sharpest ill.
 Memory, with traitor-tread
 Methinks, doth steal away
 Treasures that the mind had laid
 Up for a wintry day:—
 Images of sacred power,
 Cherished deep in passion's hour,
 Faintly now my bosom stir,
 Good and evil like a dream
 Half obscured and shadowy seem,
Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her,
 Yea,—it remembereth her,
 Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Columbus before the University of Salamanca

COLUMBUS BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF SALAMANCA.
"Columbus found that in advocating the spherical figure of the earth, he was in danger of being convicted not merely of error, but even of heterodoxy." Washington Irving.
St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud
 In learning's pomp that day,
For there a robed and stately crowd
 Pressed on in long array.
A mariner with simple chart
 Confronts that conclave high,
While strong ambition stirs his heart,
And burning thoughts of wonder part
 From lip and sparkling eye.
What hath he said? With frowning face,
 In whispered tones they speak,
And lines upon their tablets trace,
 Which flush each ashen cheek;
The Inquisition's mystic doom
 Sits on their brows severe,
And bursting forth in visioned gloom,
Sad heresy from burning tomb
 Groans on the startled ear.
Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time
 Thy splendid dream shall crown,
Yon Western hemisphere sublime,
 Where unshorn forests frown,
The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,
 The Indian hunter's bow,
Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,
And rocks of gold and diamonds thou  To thankless Spain shalt show.
Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!
 In Fates' unfolding scroll,
Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read,
 That rack the noble soul.
On! On! Creation's secrets probe,
 Then drink thy cup of scorn,
And wrapped in fallen Cesar's robe,
Sleep like that master of the globe,
 All glorious,—yet forlorn.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Consecration of a Church

CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH.
"Lift up your heads, ye hallowed gates, and give
The King of Glory room."
 And then a strain
Of solemn, trembling melody inquired,
"Who is the King of Glory?"
 But a sound
Brake from the echoing temple, like the rush
Of many waters, blent with organ's breath,
And the soul's harp, and the uplifted voice
Of prelate, and of people, and of priest
Responding joyously—"the Lord of Hosts,
He is the King of Glory."
 Enter in,
To this his new abode, and with glad heart
Kneel low before his footstool. Supplicate
That favouring presence which doth condescend
From the pavilion of high heaven to beam
On earthly temples, and in contrite souls.
Here fade all vain distinctions that the pride
Of man can arrogate. This house of prayer
Doth teach that all are sinners—all have strayed
Like erring sheep. The wealthy or the poor,
The bright or ebon brow, the pomp of power,
The boast of intellect, what are they here? Man sinks to nothing while he deals with God.
Yet let the grateful hymn, as those who share
A boundless tide of blessings—those who tread
Their pilgrim path, rejoicing in the hope
Of an ascended Saviour—through these walls
Forever flow. Thou dedicated dome! Still in thy majesty and beauty stand,
Stand, and give praise, until the rock-ribbed earth
In her last throes shall tremble. Then dissolve
Into thy native dust, with one long sigh
Of melody, while the redeemed souls
That 'neath thine arch to endless life were born,
Go up on wings of glory, to the "house
Not made with hands."
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/"In the Garden was a Sepulchre"

"IN THE GARDEN WAS A SEPULCHRE."
St. John.
Mourn not ye, whose babe hath found
Purer skies and firmer ground,
Flowers of bright perennial hue,
Free from thorns, and fresh with dew,
Founts, that tempests never stir,
Gardens, without sepulchre.
Mourn not ye, whose babe hath sped,
From this region of the dead,
To yon winged seraph-band,
Golden lute and glorious land,
Where no tempter's subtle art
Clouds the brow or wounds the heart.
Knowledge, in that clime doth grow
Free from weeds of toil and woe,
Peace whose olive never fades,
Love, undimmed by sorrow's shades,
Joys, which mortals may not share,
Mourn not ye, whose babe is there.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Creation

CREATION.
"Let there be light!" and Chaos fled
 Back to his midnight cell,
And light, the earliest gift of Heaven,
 On cradled nature fell.
Earth from the encroaching waters rose,
 Strong Ocean knew his place,
Bold rivers forced their unknown way,
 Young streams began their race.
Forth came the Sun, that monarch-proud,
 And at his genial rays,
The springing groves, and pencilled flowers
 Put on new robes of praise.
But when his weary couch he sought,
 Behold the regent-Queen,
Enthroned on silver car, pursued
 Her nightly course serene.
And glorious shone the arch of Heaven
 With stars serenely bright,
That bowed to every passing cloud
 Their coronets of light.
Life roamed along the verdant mead,
 Life glided through the flood,
And tuneful 'mid the woven boughs
 Watched o'er the nesting brood.
But then, with undisputed might,
 That Architect Divine,
His own immortal essence breathed
 Into a clay-built shrine;
And stamped his image on the man,
 And gave him kingly power,
And brought him to a home of love
 In sinless Eden's bower.
Then music from undying harps
 The young creation blest,
And forth the first-born Sabbath spread
 Its dove-like wing of rest.
It came with holy gladness fraught,
 With pure benignant ray,
And God himself the lesson taught—
 To keep the Sabbath-day
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Death of a Beautiful Boy

DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY.
I saw thee at thy mother's side, when she was marble cold,
And thou wert like some cherub form cast in ethereal mould,
But when the sudden pang of grief oppressed thine infant thought,
And 'mid thy clear and radiant eye a liquid crystal wrought,
I thought how strong that faith must be that breaks a mother's tie,
And bids her leave her darling's tears for other hands to dry.
I saw thee in thine hour of sport, beside thy father's bower,
Amid his broad and bright parterre, thyself the fairest flower;
I heard thy tuneful voice ring out upon the summer air,
As though some bird of Eden poured its joyous carol there,
And lingered with delighted gaze on happy childhood's charms,
Which once the blest Redeemer loved, and folded in his arms.
I saw thee scan the classic page, with high and glad surprise,
And saw the sun of science beam, as on an eaglet's eyes,
And marked thy strong and brilliant mind arouse to bold pursuit,
And from the tree of knowledge pluck its richest, rarest fruit,
Yet still from such precocious power I shrank with secret fear,
A shuddering presage that thy race must soon be ended here.
I saw thee in the house of God, and loved the reverent air
With which thy beauteous head was bowed, low in thy guileless prayer,
Yet little deemed how soon thy place would be with that blest band,
Who ever near the Eternal Throne in sinless worship stand;
And little deemed how soon the tomb must lock thy glorious charms,
And wing thine ardent soul to find a sainted mother's arms.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Death of a Missionary

DEATH OF A MISSIONARY.
Drowned at a ford of the Kaskaskia, in the state of Illinois.
Cold sweep the waters o'er thee. Thou hast found,
'Mid all the ardour of thy youthful zeal
And self-devotion to thy Master's cause,
An unexpected bed. The ice-swoln tides
Of the Kaskaskia shall no more resound
To the wild struggles of thy failing steed
In that deep plunge which gave thy soul to God.
Say, 'mid thy journeyings o'er the snow-clad waste
Of yon lone prairie, on that fearful day,
When death was by thy side, where dwelt thy thought?
Upon thy angel mission, or the scenes
Of thy loved home, with all its sheltering trees
And tuneful sound of waters?
 Didst thou hope,
When Heaven's pure seed should blossom in the soil
Of the far Illinois, again to sit
Around that fire-side and recount thy toils,
And mingle prayers with those who fondly nursed
Thy tender infancy? Now there are tears
In that abode, whene'er thy cherished name
Breaks from the trembling lip. Oh! ye who mourn
With hoary temples o'er the smitten son,
Slain in his Saviour's service, know that pain
Shall never vex him more. Peril and change,
And winter's blast, and summer's sultry ray,
And sinful snare, what are they now to him
But dim-remembered names. If 't were so sweet
To have a son on earth, where every ill
Might point a sword against his heart, and pierce
Your own through his, are ye not doubly blest
To have a son in Heaven?
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Death of a Missionary to Liberia

DEATH OF A MISSIONARY TO LIBERIA.
There is a sigh from Niger's sable realm,
A voice of Afric's weeping. One hath fallen,
Who pitched his tent on far Liberia's sands,
And with the fervour of unresting love
Did warn her children to a Saviour's arms.
 Alone he fell—that heart so richly filled
With all affection's imagery—fair scenes
Of home and brotherhood—so strongly moved
To pour the promptings of its seraph-zeal
In boundless confidence, and so replete
With tender memory of its buried joys,
That 'mid their hallowed tombs it fain had slept,
Did in its stranger-solitude endure
The long death-struggle and sink down to rest.
 Say ye alone he fell? It was not so.
There was a hovering of celestial wings
Around his lowly couch, a solemn sound
Of stricken harps, such as around God's throne
Make music night and day. He might not tell
Of that high music, for his lip was sealed,
And his eye closed. And so, ye say—he died,
But all the glorious company of Heaven
Do say—he lives, and that your brief farewell,
Uttered in tears, was but the prelude-tone
Of the full welcome of eternity.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Death of an Infant

DEATH OF AN INFANT.
Death found strange beauty on that polished brow
And dashed it out.—
 There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip.—He touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded.—
 Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear.—With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
Forever.—
 There had been a murmuring sound,
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears.—The Spoiler set
His seal of silence.—
 But there beamed a smile
So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,
Death gazed—and left it there.—
 He dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Dream of the Dead

DREAM OF THE DEAD.
Sleep brought the dead to me. Their brows were kind,
And their tones tender, and, as erst they blent
Their sympathies with each familiar scene.
It was my earthliness that robed them still
In their material vestments, for they seemed
Not yet to have put their glorious garments on.
Methought, 'twere better thus to dwell with them,
Than with the living.
 'Twas a chosen friend,
Beloved in school-days' happiness, who came,
And put her arm through mine, and meekly walked,
As she was wont, where'er I willed to lead,
To shady grove or river's sounding shore,
Or dizzy cliff, to gaze enthralled below
On wide-spread landscape and diminished throng.
 One, too, was there, o'er whose departing steps
Night's cloud hung heavy ere she found the tomb;
One, to whose ear no infant lip, save mine,
E'er breathed the name of mother.
 In her hour
Of conflict with the spoiler, that fond word
Fell with my tears upon her brow in vain—
She heard not, heeded not. But now she flew,
Upon the wing of dreams, to my embrace,
Full of fresh life, and in that beauty clad
Which charmed my earliest love. Speak, silent shade!
Speak to thy child! But with capricious haste
Sleep turned the tablet, and another came,
A stranger-matron, sicklied o'er and pale,
And mournful for my vanished guide I sought.
 Then, many a group, in earnest converse flocked,
Upon whose lips I knew the burial-clay
Lay deep, for I had heard its hollow sound,
In hoarse reverberation, "dust to dust!"
 They put a fair, young infant in my arms,
And that was of the dead. Yet still it seemed
Like other infants. First with fear it shrank,
And then in changeful gladness smiled, and spread
Its little hands in sportive laughter forth.
So I awoke, and then those gentle forms
Of faithful friendship and maternal love
Did flit away, and life, with all its cares,
Stood forth in strong reality.
 Sweet dream!
And solemn, let me bear thee in my soul
Throughout the live-long day, to subjugate
My earth-born hope. I bow me at your names,
Sinless and passionless and pallid train!
The seal of truth is on your breasts, ye dead!
Ye may not swerve, nor from your vows recede,
Nor of your faith make shipwreck. Scarce a point
Divides you from us, though we fondly look
Through a long vista of imagined years,
And in the dimness of far distance, seek
To hide that tomb, whose crumbling verge we tread.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Errata

ERRATA.
Page 14, sixth line, for "from" read firm.
 26, tenth line, for "sole" read soul.
 62, tenth line, for "there" read thou.
 72, sixth line, for "there" read thou.
 77, third line, for "Lathay" read Cathay.
 80, eighth line, for "the" read there.
 108, fourth line, for "spring" read springs.
 109, second line, for "Speak" read Speck.
 126, nineteenth line, for "humble" read humbled.
 134, fifth line, for "her" read their.
 137, second line, for "Their" read Thou.
 163, thirteenth line, for "of" read to.
 164, seventh line, for "names" read name.
 171, fifteenth line, for "the" read her.
 187, seventeenth line, for "their" read the.
 191, last line, for "skrieks" read shrieks.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Cold Water

COLD WATER.
The thirsty flowrets droop. The parching grass
Doth crisp beneath the foot, and the wan trees
Perish for lack of moisture. By the side
Of the dried rills, the herds despairing stand,
With tongue protruded. Summer's fiery heat
Exhaling, checks the thousand springs of life.
 Marked ye yon cloud sail forth on angel-wing?
Heard ye the herald-drops, with gentle force
Stir the broad leaves?—and the protracted rain
Waking the streams to run their tuneful way?
Saw ye the flocks rejoice—and did ye fail
To thank the God of fountains?
 See the hart
Pant for the water-brooks. The fervid sun
Of Asia glitters on his leafy lair,
As fearful of the lion's wrath, he hastes
With timid footstep though the whispering reeds,
Quick plunging 'mid the renovating stream
The copious draught inspires his bounding veins
With joyous vigour.
 Patient o'er the sands,
The burden-bearer of the desert-clime,
The camel, toileth. Faint with deadly thirst
His writhing neck of bitter anguish speaks.
Lo!—an oasis, and a tree-girt well,
And moved by powerful instinct, on he speeds
With agonizing speed—to drink or die.
On his swift courser—o'er the burning wild,
The Arab cometh. From his eager eye
Flashes desire. Seeks he the sparkling wine
Giving its golden colour to the cup?
No!—to the gushing spring he flies, and deep
Buries his scorching lip and laves his brow,
And blesses Allah.
 Christian pilgrim, come!
Thy brother of the Koran's broken creed
Doth teach thee wisdom, and with courteous hand
Nature, thy mother, holds the crystal cup
And bids thee pledge her in the element
Of temperance and health.
 Drink and be whole,
And purge the fever-poison from thy veins,
And pass in purity and peace, to taste
The river flowing from the throne of God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Evening Thoughts

EVENING THOUGHTS.
Come to thy lonely bower, thou who dost love
The hour of musing. Come, before the brow
Of twilight darkens, or the solemn stars
Look from their casement. 'Mid that hush of soul
Music from viewless harps shall visit thee,
Such as thou never heard'st amid the din
Of earth's coarse enginery, by toil and care
Urged on, without reprieve. Ah! kneel and catch
That tuneful cadence. It shall wing thy thought
Above the jarring of this time-worn world,
And give the key-tone of that victor-song
Which plucks the sting from death.
 How closely wrapt
In quiet slumber are all things around!
The vine-leaf, and the willow-fringe stir not,
Nor doth the chirping of the feeblest bird,
Nor even the cold glance of the vestal moon,
Disturb thy reverie. Yet dost thou think
To be alone?—In fellowship more close
Than man with man, pure spirits hover near
Prompting to high communion with the Source
Of every perfect gift. Lift up the soul!
For 'tis a holy pleasure thus to find
Its melody of musing so allied
To pure devotion. Give thy prayer a voice;
Claiming Heaven's blessing on these sacred hours
Which in the world's warped balance weighed, might yield
But sharp derision. Sure they help to weave
Such robes as angels wear, and thou shalt taste
In their dear, deep, entrancing solitude,
Such sweet society,—that thou shalt leave
"Signet and staff," as pledges of return.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Evening at Home

EVENING AT HOME.
WRITTEN IN EARLY YOUTH.
Loud roars the hoarse storm from the angry north,
As if the wintry spirit, loth to leave
Its wonted haunts, came rudely rushing on,
Fast by the steps of the defenceless Spring,
To hurl his frost-spear at her shrinking flowers.
 Yet while the tempest o'er the charms of May
Sweeps dominant, and with discordant tone
The wild blast rules without, peace smiles within;
The fire burns cheerful, and the taper clear
Alternate aids the needle, or illumes
The page sublime, inciting the rapt soul,
To soar above the warring elements.
My gentle kitten at my footstool sings,
Her song monotonous, and full of joy;
Close by my side my tender mother sits,
Industriously bent,—her brow still bright
With beams of lingering youth, while he, the sire,
The faithful guide, indulgently doth smile
At our discourse, or wake the tuneful hymn
Which best he loves.
 Fountain of life and light!—
Father Supreme! from whom our joys descend,
As streams flow from their source, and unto whom
All good on earth shall finally return
As to a natural centre, praise is due
To thee from all thy works, nor least from me,
Though in thy scale of being light and low.
From thee is shed whate'er of joy or peace
Doth sparkle in my cup,—health, hope and bliss,
And pure parental love, beneath whose roof
My ever grateful heart doth feel no want
Of sister, or of brother, or of friend.
 Therefore, to thee be all the honour given,
Whether young morning with her vestal lamp
Warn from my couch, or sober twilight gray
Lead on the willing night, or summer-sky
Spread its smooth azure, or contending storms
Muster their wrath, or whether in the shade
Of much loved solitude, deep wove, and close,
I rest, or gaily share the social scene,
Or wander wide to twine with stranger-hearts
New sympathies, or wheresoever else
Thy hand may place me, let my steadfast eye
Behold thee, and my soul attune thy praise.
To thee alone, in humble trust I come,
For strength and wisdom. Leaning on thine arm
Fain would I pass this intermediate state,
This vale of discipline, and when its mists
Shall fleet away, I trust thou wilt not leave
My soul in darkness, for thy word is truth,
Nor are thy thoughts like the vain thoughts of man,
Nor thy ways like his ways.
 Therefore I rest
In hope, and sing thy praise, Father Supreme!
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Farewell to an Ancient Church

FAREWELL TO AN ANCIENT CHURCH.
Farewell, thou consecrated dome,
 Whence prayer and chant and anthem rose,
Whose walls have given meek hope a home,
 And tearful penitence, repose.
Here gathered round their shepherd-guide  A flock, to the Redeemer dear,
While praise in full responsive tide
 Soared heavenward, to its native sphere.
Here at this altar's hallowed side,
 Oft was the bond of deathless love
Sealed by the kneeling, trembling bride—
 Where is that bride? Perchance above.
The mother here her infant drew,
 Unscathed by sin, or sorrow's rod,
To win the pure, baptismal dew—
 Where is that mother? Ask of God.
And duly here have childhood's train
 Bowed to Instruction's mildest sway;
But were those ceaseless lessons vain?
 The page of doom alone can say.
Here many a brow in beauty's prime
 Hath faded, like the rose-tinged cloud,
And many a head grown white with time,
 That towered in manhood's glory proud.
Oh! if from yon celestial place,
 Bright bands regard a world like this,
Here many a sainted soul may trace
 The birth-place of its endless bliss.
With tenderest recollections fraught,
 How do these parting moments swell!
Thou ancient nurse of holy thought,
 Dear, venerated friend, farewell!