OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Misletoe at the Tomb of Washington

THE MISLETOE AT THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.
Dark plant of Superstition's shade.
 Why dost thou lift thy cheerless eye
Where reeks no Druid's purple blade,
To stain fair Freedom's chosen glade,
 And dim her sun-bright sky?—
Sacred to orgies blind and base
 Where human blood was sternly spilt,
How dar'st thou seek this holy place?—
Rude parasite! whose foul embrace
 Has wreath'd the murderer's hilt.
Where Mona's ancient foliage wept
 Or drear Stonehenge appall'd the gloom, Thy earthless root had fitter crept,
Thy mystic garland better slept
 Than near a christian's tomb.
What though in tuneful Maro's lore*
 To Troy's sad chief thine aid was lent, Who dauntless trod the infernal shore
Where proud and frowning shades of yore
 Their date of anguish spent,
Yet we, to Pluto's dreary coast,
 Passport to ask of thee, disdain,—
We seek our hero mid the host
Where wails no grim or guilty ghost,
 On heaven's unclouded plain.
See!—watchful o'er his honour'd clay,
 A nation sheds the filial tear,
And pilgrims kneel, and patriots pray,
And plants of glory drink the day,
 Why should 'st thou linger here?
In war, the laurel wove his crest,
 The olive deck'd his sylvan dome,
The mournful cypress marks his rest,
Rude Misletoe!—the Druid's guest,
 Hence!—find some fitter home.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To a Glow-Worm

TO A GLOW-WORM.
Little being of a day,
 Glowing in thy cell alone,
Shedding light with mystic ray
 On thy path, and on my own.
Dost thou whisper to my heart?—
 "Though I grovel in the sod,
Still I mock man's boasted art
 With the workmanship of God."
See! the fire-fly in his flight
 Scorning thy terrene career,—
He, the eccentric meteor bright,
 Thou, the planet of thy sphere.
Why, within thy cavern damp,
 Thus with trembling haste dost cower?
Fear'st thou I would quench thy lamp,—
 Lustre of thy lonely bower?—
No!—Regain thy couch of clay,
 Sparkle brightly as before,—
Man should dread to take away
 Gifts he never can restore.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Old Man

THE OLD MAN.
Why gaze ye on my hoary hairs,
 Ye children, young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
 Will bleach as white as they.
I had a mother once, like you,  Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kiss'd from my cheek the briny dew,
 And taught my faltering tongue.
She, when the nightly couch was spread,  Would bow my infant knee, And place her hand upon my head,
 And kneeling, pray for me.
But then, there came a fearful day,
 I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands bore me thence away,  And told me she was dead.
I pluck'd a fair white Rose, and stole
 To lay it by her side,
And thought strange sleep enchain'd her soul,
 For no fond voice replied.
That eve, I knelt me down in wo
 And gaid a lonely prayer,
Yet, still my temples seem'd to glow
 As if that hand were there.
Years fled—and left me childhood's joy,
 Gay sports and pastimes dear,
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
 Who scorn'd the curb of fear.
Fierce passions shook me like a reed,
 Yet, ere at night I slept, That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
 And down I fell and wept.
Youth came—the props of Virtue reel'd!—
 But oft at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congeal'd—
 Blest Mother!—was it thine?—
In foreign lands I travell'd wide,
 My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
 And pleasure lured my eye;—
Yet, still that hand, so soft and cold,
 Maintain'd its mystic sway, As when amid my curls of gold
 With gentle force it lay.
And with it breathed a voice of care
 As from the lowly sod,
"My son—my only one— beware!
 Nor sin against thy God."
Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole
 My kindly warmth away,
And dimm'd the tablet of the soul;—
 Yet when with lordly sway,
This brow the plumed helm display'd
 That guides the warrior throng;
Or beauty's thrilling fingers stray'd
 These manly locks among,
That hallow'd touch was ne'er forgot!—
 And now, though Time hath set
His frosty seal upon my lot,
 These temples feel it yet.
And if I e'er in heaven appear,
 A mother's holy prayer,
A mother's hand, and gentle tear.
That pointed to a Saviour dear,
 Have led the wanderer there.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Pilgrims

THE PILGRIMS.
How slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main!—
Amid the heavy billows now she seems
A toiling atom,—then from wave to wave
Leaps madly, by the tempest lash'd,—or reels
Half wreck'd, through gulfs profound.
 —Moons wax and wane,
But still that lonely traveller treads the deep.—
—I see an ice-bound coast toward which she steers
With such a tardy movement, that it seems
Stern Winter's hand hath turn'd her keel to stone,
And seal'd his victory on her slippery shrouds.—
—They land!—They land!—not like the Genoese
With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye
Kindling with golden fancies.—Forth they come
From their long prison,—hardy forms that brave
The world's unkindness, —men of hoary hair,
And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.—
Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth,
And savage men, who through the thickets peer
With vengeful arrow.—What could lure their steps
To this drear desert?—Ask of him who left
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
Distrusting not the Guide who call'd him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as Ocean's sands.—
 —But yon lone bark
Hath spread her parting sail.—
 They crowd the strand,
Those few, lone pilgrims.—Can ye scan the wo
That wrings their bosoms, as the last, frail link
Binding to man, and habitable earth
Is sever'd ?—Can ye tell what pangs were there,
What keen regrets, what sickness of the heart,
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth,
Their distant, dear ones?—
 Long, with straining eye
They watch the lessening speck.—Heard ye no shriek
Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness
Sank down into their bosoms?—No! they turn
Back to their dreary, famish'd huts, and pray!—
Pray,—and the ills that haunt this transient life
Fade into air.—Up in each girded breast
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength,—
A loftiness,—to face a world in arms,—
To strip the pomp from sceptres,—and to lay
Upon the sacred altar, the warm blood
Of slain affections, when they rise between
The soul and God.—
 —And can ye deem it strange
That from their planting such a branch should bloom
As nations envy?—Would a germ embalm'd
With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root
Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew
Upon the winds, to reap the winds again?
Hid by its veil of waters, from the hand
Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth
In giant strength.—
 —Its early clusters crush'd
In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host
A draught of deadly wine.——Oh! ye who boast
In your free veins the blood of sires like these,
Lose not their lineaments.—Should Mammon cling
Too close around your heart,—or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue,—or the tempting world
Make faint the christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth's beach,—and on that rock
Kneel in their foot-prints, and renew the vow
They breath'd to God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Parting of Lovers

PARTING OF LOVERS.
Ah! who shall paint the anguish that attends
The parting of fond hearts? The tear suppress'd
Lest it awake its fellow,—the long sob
Of agony,—the shade involving all
Fair objects, save one brow alone,—where seems
Centred all light and beauty.—When that turns
From the fix'd gaze,—when in dim distance fades
The form,—the shadowy mantle,—the white sail,—
Or when the echo of receding wheels
Dies on the ear—(not like those wheels desired, When Sisera's mother from the lattice look'd, Eager the pompous chariot to behold)—
Then the wild egress of imprison'd grief
Defies control.—How sacred every spot
That speaks of the departed,—every scene
Of mutual intercourse,—and every seat
Where he reclined!—The flower which he hath touch'd,
The page, o'er which his eye enamour'd hung,—
Robe, ring, or portrait press upon the heart
Even as his representatives, to swell
The tide of tender sorrow. Every word
Which he hath utter'd,—every varying tone,
And e'en each change of feature, are consign'd
As gems to Memory's casket. Thither flies
The lone heart in its poverty, as turns
The miser to his hoard.
 —Yet he who goes,
Hath but the lighter burden. The bright charms
Of Nature's landscape,—graceful hills, and streams
Sparkling and musical,—or crested wave,
Or e'en the buffet of the wintry storm,
The tossing ship,—the busy face of man,—
And pride, that shames the weakness of the heart,
Parry the shafts of anguish.—Still, at times, Deep sadness overwhelms the wanderer's soul;
And the light tongue of those who idly strive
To laugh away dejection,—is a probe
To the fresh, quivering wound.—Perchance, the morn
Whose kindling blushes tint the uncolour'd sky,
Reminds him of that roseate brow,—now pale, And bloodless for his sake.—The evening star
Restores those blissful walks,—when first he found
That Heaven, as with a wreath of Eden's flowers,
Had bound their sympathies.—The full-orb'd moon
Reveals upon her silver page, those hours
So exquisite to thought,—when speech was sighs;
And new-born Love, like some fair infant roused
From pictured dreams, mingled the timid tear
With the soft certainty of waking bliss.—
Perchance, close-wrapt in the still arms of night,
The lover, when no prying eye is near,
Draws from his bosom's cell, a shining tress,
And presses to his lips; or o'er the brow
Fresh from the pencil of the artist, hangs
And thinks of her, whose prayer may never rise
Without his name. Yet there 's a sex in hearts,
One loves with strong and passionate embrace;
The other trusts its all,—stakes life on love,—
With deathless ardour clasps one idol-prop,
And in its breaking,—breaks.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To a Wasp

TO A WASP.
Bless me, kind friend!—who canst thou wish to see?
 Thus climbing onward with untiring labor,
 A deal of friendship thou must have for me,
 To take such wondrous pains, obliging neighbour,
What may thy business be, a formal call? Then take a chair and sit, as if thou 'dst none at all.
 Be amiable, I pray thee now, sweet guest!
 I would not harm thee, that were sport unkind,
 Thou cam'st, Sir Wasp, like knight with lance in rest,
 Hoping perchance, some tournament to find,
But yet I mean not thou my veins shalt probe,
So find some other tilt-yard, prithee, than my robe.
 Thou giv'st a warrior's warning, bold and fair,
 Like Ajax valiant, or Achilles proud,
 Thou lay'st no ambush, no deceitful snare,
 But sound'st thy tiny trumpet long and loud,
Through which, a moral lesson thou art teaching
Backbiters and false friends.—Would that they heeded preaching!
 Who knows but what among thy kindred brood
 Some leech thou art, of credit and renown,  And so thou com'st, forsooth, to let me blood!—
 Haste—leave my arm, or I must help thee down!
I 've fear'd the doctors marvellously, ever
Since they gave brandy in the spotted fever.—
 Mayhap I do misconstrue thee.—Well! well—
 The best are fallible,—and I will strive
 If but thy hidden virtues thou wilt tell,
 To be as just as any one alive;—
I would not, even fly or flea should say,
I took their reputations wilfully away.—
 Dost thou make honey? Sure! I had not thought it,
 Such beverage must be exceeding rare,
 I trow the critic gentry may have bought it,
 To neutralize their very acid fare.—
Some cordial they must need, who toil so hard
To pickle and to hack each poor adventurous bard.—
 I 've read in school-boy days,—thy cousin bees,
 (Mauger the din of warming-pans and matrons)
 Would swarm around the lips of Sophocles
 Mistaking the sweet muses for their patrons;
But thou, more wise, dost better things secure,
Trucking thy surplus wares with some well-paid Reviewer.
 Good bye!—but why that angry hiss? I pray,
 Go vent in thy own nest, thy heighten'd spleen,
 Upon thy wife and babies, that 's the way,  It breaks the dulness of too tame a scene,
But if they chance to sting, as well as thee,
Thou 'lt need the stock of venom thou hast spared from me.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Sainted Mother

THE SAINTED MOTHER.
What see'st thou, parting soul, through falling clay?
 Through the deep chasms of time and sickness pale?
What fires the fix'd eye thus with rapture's ray
 Mid thy drear passage through the darken'd vale?—
See'st thou their smile who bow the seraph head
 In guardian friendship o'er salvation's heirs?—
Is their white wing in sister-welcome spread
 To waft thee gently o'er a world of cares?—
Doth melody, unknown to mortal ear,
 With full, enchanting tide mellifluent flow?—
The perfect language of that glorious sphere
 Which thy meek lip so well essay'd below?—
Come sceptic near this sacred couch, and try
 The strength of virtue's panoply, while pain
Uproots of life and love the cherish'd tie
 And rends a mother from the mourning train.
Go—king of terrors!—prompt to thin the band
 Whose pure monitions guide us to the sky,—
This barbless arrow from thy vengeful hand
 But points the christian's triumph,—how to die.
Oh privileged were those who mark'd thee rise
 Thou placid victor o'er the spoiler's power!—
Imbibed they not the wisdom of the skies
 From the deep lesson of that awful hour?—
Adieu!—we dare not mourn thee save with tears
 Of holy gratitude,—raised as thou art
Above the changes of these chastening years,
 And blissful number'd with the pure in heart.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To an Absent Child

TO AN ABSENT CHILD.
Where art thou, Bird of Song?—
 Brightest one, and dearest!—
Other groves among,
 Other nests thou cheerest,
Sweet thy warbling skill
 To each ear that heard thee,
But 't was sweetest still
 To the heart that rear'd thee.—
Lamb! where dost thou rest?—
 On stranger-bosoms lying?—
Flowers thy path that drest
 Now uncropp'd are dying,
Streams where thou didst roam
 Murmur on without thee,
Lov'st thou still thy home?—
 Can thy mother doubt thee?—
Seek thy Saviour's flock,
 To his blest fold going,
Seek that smitten rock
 Whence our peace is flowing;
Still should Love rejoice,
 Whatsoe'er betide thee,
If that Shepherd's voice
 Evermore would guide thee.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To an ancient Rocking Chair

TO AN ANCIENT ROCKING CHAIR.
Whom have thy curving arms embraced
 Thou ancient, stately chair? Since first thy form the parlor graced
 And claim'd the housewife's care.
For full a century, I ween,
 Its mighty round has made,
Since first thy columns black and sheen
 Their maker's skill display'd.
The slippery Sofa's glossy dress
 Allures the weary wight,
But soon his sliding limbs confess
 Their most uneasy plight,—
Though still it decks the modern hall
 The eye of taste to please:
While thou, a favourite art of all
 Who love the balm of ease.
On thee, the invalid reclined,
 His form by sickness chain'd,
Though haply still, his soaring mind
 Its prison house disdain'd,—
And wandering wide o'er fairy land
 Collected rainbow rays,
Or waked with memory's magic wand
 Fair forms of other days.
Here has some ancient maiden bright
 Repell'd encroaching Time,
Ensconced in stiff-laced stays upright
 With high-heel'd shoe sublime.
And here the meeker matron view'd
 Her children trooping round,
Who guide with shouts of laughter rude
 The ball's elastic bound,—
Anon to aid their sports would spread
 Her gay-flower'd ample gown,
Or at their quarrels shake her head
 And awe them with a frown.
Here, in thy arms,—the nodding nurse
 Has slumber'd out the night, Regardless of the mutter'd curse
 Of the poor, gouty wight;
Or frighten'd from her stolen dream
 Has heard in deep dismay
The falling infant's piteous scream
 Who on her bosom lay.
Here beauty, like some blighted flower
 Smit by unfriendly sky,
Consumed the wakeful,—restless hour
 With bright, unearthly eye.
While on her cheek, the hectic glow
 Dire symbol of decay,
Reveal'd how fast the treacherous foe
 Was mining on his way.
Ah!—wouldst thou speak,—thou ancient Chair,
 What secrets couldst thou tell?
Of hidden Love's mysterious care
 Breathed in thy hermit cell.
What mad resolves,—what deep-laid schemes
 What fancies bold and free,—
What dazzling hopes, and airy dreams
 Were born and died with thee.
Then wouldst thou chide her idle rhyme,  Who lolling thus at ease,
Mispends the untold wealth of time
 In lays so light as these.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To the Evening Primrose

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
Pale Primrose!—lingering for the evening star
 To bless thee with its beam,—like some fair child
Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car,
 Doth wait his mother's blessing, pure and mild, To hallow his gay dream.—His red lips breathe
 The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's knee,
Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath
 To matron Evening, while she smiles on thee.—
Go to thy rest, pale flower!—The star hath shed
 His benison upon thy bosom fair,
The dews of Summer bathe thy pensive head,
 And weary man forgets his daily care;—
Sleep on, my rose! till morning gild the sky,
 And bright Aurora's kiss unseal thy trembling eye.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To the Eye

TO THE EYE.
Sublime ambassador from soul to soul!—
By thee Hope sends her passport,—Hate defies,— Genius a flood ethereal bids roll,
And Love speaks what the treacherous tongue denies.
To thee, all languages of earth are known,
Unbought by student's toil thy science flows,
Alike to thee the hovel or the throne,
The sands of Afric, or the polar snows.—
When Grief her darts of agony doth hurl,
Ruling the heated brain with baneful sway,
Thou, through thy silent, mystic gate of pearl,
Dost kindly give the liquid sorrow way.
When man the weary hours of Pain does tell,
Worn down with sickness or consumed by care,
Thou, to the calmness of thy fringed cell
Dost woo sweet slumber, and his strength repair.
At that dread hour when soul and body part,
When with an icy seal the lip is bound,
Thou bear'st the message of the expiring heart
To lover and to friend, who weep around.
But holiest is thy last deputed care,—
When this frail vesture seeks its native clod,
To pour Devotion's deep and voiceless prayer
In trembling glances to a pardoning God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Suttee

THE SUTTEE.
She sat upon the pile by her dead lord,
And in her full, dark eye, and shining hair
Youth revell'd.—The glad murmur of the crowd
Applauding her consent to the dread doom,
And the hoarse chanting of infuriate priests
She heeded not, for her quick ear had caught
An infant's wail.—Feeble and low that moan,
Yet it was answer'd in her heaving heart,
For the Mimosa in its shrinking fold
From the rude pressure, is not half so true,
So tremulous, as is a mother's soul
Unto her wailing babe.—There was such wo
In her imploring aspect,—in her tones
Such thrilling agony, that even the hearts
Of the flame-kindlers soften'd, and they laid
The famish'd infant on her yearning breast.
There with his tear-wet cheek he lay and drew
Plentiful nourishment from that full fount
Of infant happiness,—and long he prest
With eager lip the chalice of his joy.—
And then his little hands he stretch'd to grasp
His mother's flower-wove tresses, and with smile
And gay caress embraced his bloated sire,—
As if kind Nature taught that innocent one
With fond delay to cheat the hour which seal'd
His hopeless orphanage.—But those were near
Who mock'd such dalliance, as that Spirit malign
Who twined his serpent length mid Eden's bowers
Frown'd on our parents' bliss.—The victim mark'd
Their harsh intent, and clasp'd the unconscious babe
With such convulsive force, that when they tore
His writhing form away, the very nerves
Whose deep-sown fibres rack the inmost soul
Uprooted seem'd.—
 With voice of high command
Tossing her arms, she bade them bring her son,—
And then in maniac rashness sought to leap
Among the astonish'd throng.—But the rough cord
Compress'd her slender limbs, and bound her fast
Down to her loathsome partner.—Quick the fire
In showers was hurl'd upon the reeking pile;—
But yet amid the wild, demoniac shout
Of priest and people, mid the thundering yell
Of the infernal gong,—was heard to rise
Thrice a dire death-shriek.—And the men who stood
Near the red pile and heard that fearful cry,
Call'd on their idol-gods, and stopp'd their ears,
And oft amid their nightly dream would start
As frighted Fancy echoed in her cell
That burning mother's scream.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/To the First Slave Ship

TO THE FIRST SLAVE SHIP.
First of that train which cursed the wave,  And from the rifled cabin bore,
Inheritor of wo,—the slave
 To bless his palm-tree's shade no more,
Dire engine!—o'er the troubled main
 Borne on in unresisted state,—
Know'st thou within thy dark domain
 The secrets of thy prison'd freight?—
Hear'st thou their moans whom hope hath fled?—
 Wild cries, in agonizing starts?—
Know'st thou thy humid sails are spread
 With ceaseless sighs from broken hearts?—
The fetter'd chieftain's burning tear,—
 The parted lover's mute despair,—
The childless mother's pang severe,—
 The orphan's misery, are there.
Ah!—could'st thou from the scroll of fate
 The annal read of future years,
Stripes,—tortures,—unrelenting hate,  And death-gasps drown'd in slavery's tears.
Down,—down,—beneath the cleaving main
 Thou fain would'st plunge where monsters lie,
Rather than ope the gates of pain
 For time and for Eternity.—
Oh Afric!—what has been thy crime?—
 That thus like Eden's fratricide,
A mark is set upon thy clime,
 And every brother shuns thy side.—
Yet are thy wrongs, thou long-distrest!—
 Thy burdens, by the world unweigh'd,
Safe in that Unforgetful Breast
 Where all the sins of earth are laid.—
Poor outcast slave!—Our guilty land
 Should tremble while she drinks thy tears,
Or sees in vengeful silence stand,
 The beacon of thy shorten'd years;—
Should shrink to hear her sons proclaim
 The sacred truth that heaven is just,—
Shrink even at her Judge's name,—
 "Jehovah,—Saviour of the opprest."
The Sun upon thy forehead frown'd,
 But Man more cruel far than he, Dark fetters on thy spirit bound:—
 Look to the mansions of the free!
Look to that realm where chains unbind,—
 Where the pale tyrant drops his rod,
And where the patient sufferers find
 A friend,—a father in their God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Toil

TOIL.
When Man from Eden's blissful bowers
 Was driven before the vengeful sword,—
Stern Toil, companion of his hours,
 With him the sterile Earth explored.
But lo! the frowning desert smiled,
 His hardy hand its thorns expell'd, He deck'd with fruits the wondering wild,
 And the invading billow quell'd.
Fresh streams o'er Egypt's vales he led,
 Assyria's hanging gardens drest,
Cloth'd fruitful Israel's fields with bread,
 And roused her shepherd sons from rest.
Even now, he hails the vernal star,
 Bids fervid Summer own his sway,
Binds Autumn to his harvest-car,
 And makes even hoary Winter gay.
First in his train is jocund Health,
 Content, who o'er her distaff sings,
And from the plough that honest Wealth
 Which scorns the tear-bought robe of kings.—
Pour forth His praise ye hymning choir,
 Who makes stern Toil a blessing prove,
And wisely like a pitying Sire
 Ordains his discipline in love.