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

MUSINGS.
I did not dream, but yet fantastic thought
Wrought such wild changes on the spirit's harp,
It seemed that slumber ruled.
 A structure rose,
Deep-founded and gigantic. Strangely blent
Its orders seemed. The solemn Gothic arch—
The obelisk antique—the turret proud
In castellated pomp—the palace dome—
The grated dungeon—and the peasant's cot—
Were grouped within its walls.
 A throne was there;
A king, with all his gay and courtly train,
In robes of splendour, and a vassal throng,
Eager to do their bidding, and to wear
A gilded servitude. The back-gound seemed
Darkened by misery's pencil. Famine cast
A tinge of paleness o'er the brow of toil,
While Poverty, to soothe her naked babes,
Shrieked forth a broken song.
 Then came a groan—
A rush—as if of thunder. The grey rocks
From yawning clefts breathed forth volcanic flames,
While the huge fabric, parting at its base,
A ruin seemed. A miserable mass
Of tortured life rolled through the burning gates,
And spread destruction o'er the scorching soil,
Like Etna's lava-stream.
There was a pause!
Mad revolution mourned its whirlwind wreck,
And even 'mid smouldering fires, the artificers
Wrought to uprear the pile.
 But all at once,
A bugle blast was heard—a courser's tramp—
While a young warrior waved his sword and cried—
"Away! Away!"—Like dreams the pageant fled,
Monarch, and royal dome, and nobles proud.
 So there he stood, in solitary power—
Supreme and self-derived. Where the rude Alps
Mock with their battlements the bowing cloud,
His eagle banner streamed. Pale Gallia poured
Strong incense to her idol, mixed with blood
Of her young conscript-hearts. Chained in wild wrath
The Austrian lion crouched. Even Cæsar's realm
Cast down its crown pontifical, and bade
The Eternal City lay her lip in dust.
The land of pyramids bent darkly down,
And from the subject nations rose a voice
Of wretchedness, that awed the trembling globe.
 Earth, slowly rising from her thousand thrones,
Did homage to the Corsican, as he
The favoured patriarch in his dream beheld
Heaven, with her sceptred blazonry of stars,
Bow to a reapers sheaf.
 But fickle man,
Though like the sea, he boast himself awhile,
Hath bounds to his supremacy. I saw
A listed field, where the embattled kings
Drew in deep wrath their armed legions on.
 The self-made warrior blenched not, and his eye
Was like the flashing lightning, when it cleaves
The vaulted firmament.
 In vain!—In vain!
The hour of fate had come. From a far isle,
'Gainst whose firm rocks the foiled Pacific roars,
The wondering surges listened to the moan
Of a chafed spirit warring with its lot:
And there, where every element conspired
To make ambition's prison doubly sure,
The mighty hero gnawed his chain—and died.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/My Native Place

MY NATIVE PLACE.
Blest land! where first without a thorn,
The germs of infant hope were born,
Where budding joys sprang fair and new
To meet the sun, and drink the dew;
Though scenes more wonderful and wild,
Have since my charmed eye beguiled,
Yet none have with such graphic art
Impressed their semblance on my heart,
And none can boast thy magic power
To rule the musing, twilight hour.
 Come in thy garb of rock and stream,
With wind-swept harp and sunset gleam,
And eye o'er dizzy heights ascending,
And voice with falling waters blending;
Come!—for my filial feelings greet
Thine image with communion sweet.
 Nurse of my earliest dreams! how dear
Still steals thy music o'er my ear,
From warbling nest, or summer-shower,
Or mountain streamlet's murmuring power,
Or liquid flute, where graceful glides
Some fairy boat, o'er moon-lit tides;
Still rise those tones, with tuneful swell
From miser-memory's treasure-cell.
 Nurse of my youth! what clime hath spread
In sheltered nook, or vernal bed,
Violets so fresh, so deeply blue,
Or snow-drops of such pearly hue,
As thou didst strew, with aspect bland,
To roving eye and careless hand.
 Stern winter now hath hushed thy lay,
And mixed thy russet locks with grey,
And dashed thy frost-bound chalice down,
And reft the blossoms from thy crown;
But breasts that glow with love for thee,
From wintry torpor still are free,
And hearts that drew from thee their breath,
Should know no ice, save that of death.
 Those rugged features, sternly fair,
Those craggy summits, bleak and bare,
But most of all, yon sylvan shades,
Deep-hidden dells and lone cascades,
From richer climes, and scenes more gay,
Have won my soul's first love away.
 Home of my birth! old Time hath not,
To mar and scathe thy brow forgot,
Dark stains upon thy walls to fling,
And shade thy casements with his wing;
And pampered taste, and frowning pride
Might well thy humble roof deride,
But childhood's careless heart, its rest
Doth build, as light as ring-dove's nest,
And to the lowly dwelling bring
A wealth that mocks the sceptred king.
Thee, too, embowered 'mid rocks, I spy,
Meek dome where science met our eye,
Where knowledge spread her infant lore,
Revealing joys unknown before,
While friendship's charms, that ne'er can cloy,
Enhanced the student's silent joy.
 Return once more, ye much loved throng!
Replete with beauty, youth and song,
Your greeting smiles were fond and fair,
I stretch my arms—ye are not there;
I call—ye answer not the strain,
Haunt, bower and hearth, I search in vain,
Where are ye?—distant echoes drear,
And Death's dark caverns answer—here.
 Thus like the pageant of a dream,
This shadowy span of life doth seem,
Thus, in the twinkling of an eye
The mourner with the mourned shall lie.
Land of my birth! a few times more
Winter may scathe thy temples hoar,
Or Summer, with unsandled foot,
Her sickle to thy harvest put;
And then, should kind remembrance save
One wild-flower garland for my grave,
Or from Oblivion's voiceless shore
One solitary trace restore,
Then let the cherished record be,
My hope in heaven, my love to thee.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On Laying the Corner-Stone of the Monument to the Mother of Washington

ON LAYING THE CORNER-STONE OF THE MONUMENT TO THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.
Long hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole
In her soft ministry around thy bed,
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemmed,
And pearled with dews.
 She bade bright Summer bring
Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak
Sternly of man's neglect.
 But now we come
To do thee homage—mother of our chief!
Fit homage—such as honoureth him who pays.
 Methinks we see thee—as in olden time—
Simple in garb—majestic and serene,
Unmoved by pomp or circumstance—in truth
Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal
Repressing vice, and making folly grave.
Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth—to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave,
There fleet, like the ephemeron, away,
Building no temple in her children's hearts,
Save to the vanity and pride of life
Which she had worshipped.
For the might that clothed
The "Pater Patriæ," for the glorious deeds
That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine
For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due,
Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought,
We know not—Heaven can tell.
 Rise, sculptured pile!
And show a race unborn, who rests below,
And say to mothers what a holy charge
Is theirs—with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind.
Warn them to wake at early dawn—and sow
Good seed, before the world hath sown her tares;
Nor in their toil decline—that angel-bands
May put the sickle in and reap for God,
And gather to his garner.
 Ye, who stand,
With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise,
Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike chief—
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son,
What though no high ambition prompts to rear
A second Washington; or leave your name
Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears
Of deathless gratitude—yet may you raise
A monument above the stars—a soul
Led by your teachings, and your prayers to God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Dying Mother's Prayer

THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER.
I heard the voice of prayer—a mother's prayer—
 A dying mother, for her only son.
 Young was his brow, and fair.
 Her hand was on his head,
 Her words of love were said,
 Her work was done.
 And there were other voices near her bed—
 Sweet, bird-like voices—for their mother dear
 Asking, with mournful tear.
 Ah, by whose hand shall those sad tears be dried,
 When one brief hour is fled,
And her's shall pulseless rest, low with the silent dead.
Yes, there was Death's dark valley drear and cold!
 And the hoarse dash of Jordan's swelling wave,
Alone she treads: is there no earthly hold,
 No friend—no helper—no strong arm to save?
 Down to the fearful grave,
 In the firm courage of a faith serene,
 Alone she prest—
 And as she drew the chord
 That bound her to the Lord
 More closely round her breast,
 The white wing of the waiting angel spread
 More palpably, and earth's bright things grew pale.
 Even fond affection's wail
Seemed like the far-off sigh of spring's forgotten gale,
And so the mother's prayer,
 So often breathed above,
 In agonizing love,
 Rose high in praise of God's protecting care.
Meek on his arm her infant charge she laid,
 And, with a trusting eye,
 Of christian constancy,
 Confiding in her blest Redeemer's aid,
 She taught the weeping band
 Who round her couch of pain did stand,
 How a weak woman's hand,
 Fettered with sorrow and with sin,
 Might from the King of Terror's win
 The victory.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Execution

THE EXECUTION.
There's silence 'mid yon gathered throng—why move they on so slow?
With neither sign nor sound of mirth, to break their pause of woe?
And why upon yon guarded man is bent each gazing eye? Where do his measured footsteps tend?—He cometh forth to die!
To die! No sickness bows his frame, or checks the flowing breath,
Say, why doth Justice sternly rise to do the work of death? Still boasts his brow a bitter frown, his eye a moody fire.
Oh Guilt! unbind thy massive chains, and let the soul respire.
He standeth on the scaffold's verge, the holy priest is near,
Yet no contrition heaves his breast, or wrings the parting tear;
O! wilt thou bear with cold disdain the pangs of mortal strife,
And thus in mad defiance drain the forfeit cup of life?
Look round upon thy native earth, the glorious and the fair,
Cliff, thicket and resounding stream, thy boyhood sported there;
Think of thy sire, that aged man, with white locks scattered thin,
And call these blest affections back, that melt the ice of sin.
Bethink thee of thy cradle-hours, and of a mother's prayer,
Who nightly laid her cheek to thine, with guardian angel's care,
And, for her sake, propitiate Him who shields the sinner's head,
And take repentance to thy breast, ere thou art of the dead.
There's yet a moment. To his ear reveal thy hidden pain,
Give passage to one suppliant sigh—one prayer—in vain, in vain.
Look, look to Him, whose mercy heard the dying felon's sigh,
Say, "Jesus save me!" who can tell but he will heed thy cry.
A shuddering horror shakes the crowd, young eyes are veiled in dread,
Affrighted childhood wails aloud, and veterans bow the head,
For guilt unhumbled, unannealed, hath felt the avenger's rod,
And sped, with falsehood's sullen front, to dare the glance of God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On Seeing the Deaf, Dumb and Blind Girl Sitting for her Portrait

ON SEEING THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL, SITTING FOR HER PORTRAIT.
Heaven guide thee artist! Though thy skill
 Can make the enthusiast's passion tear,
And catch expression's faintest thrill,
 What power shall prompt thy pencil here?
She hath no eye—God quenched its beam,
 No ear—though thunder's trump be blown,
No speech—her spirit's voiceless stream
 Flows dark, unfathomed and unknown.
Yet hath she joys, though none may know
 Their germ, their impulse, or their power.
And oft her kindling features glow
 In meditation's lonely hour,
Or when unfolding blossoms breathe
 Their fragrance 'neath a vernal sky,
Or feeling weaves its wild-flower wreath
 As some remembered friend draws nigh,
Then doth the heart its lore reveal
 Though lip and eye are sealed the while,
And then do wildering graces steal
 To paint their language on her smile.
For still the undying soul may teach
 Without a glance, a tone, a sigh,
And well canst thou its mirrored speech
 Interpret to the wondering eye.
What though her locked and guarded mind
 Doth foil philosophy divine,
Till even reason fails to find
 A clue to that untravelled shrine.
Yet may thine art with victor sway
 Win laurels from this desert wild,
And to a future age pourtray
 Mysterious Nature's hermit child.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On a Picture of Penitence

ON A PICTURE OF PENITENCE.
Aye, look to Heaven. Earth seems to lend
 Refuge nor ray thy steps to guide,
Bids pity with suspicion blend,
 And slander check compassion's tide.
We will not ask what thorn hath found
 Admittance to thy bosom fair,
If love hath dealt a traitor's wound,
 Or hopeless folly wake despair:
We only say, that sinless clime,
 To which is raised thy streaming eye,
Hath pardon for the deepest crime,
 Though erring man the boon deny:
We only say, the prayerful breast,
 The gushing tear of contrite pain,
Have power to ope that portal blest,
 Where vaunting pride doth toil in vain.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On the Death of Dr. Adam Clarke

ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE.
Know ye a prince hath fallen? They who sit
On gilded throne, with rubied diadem,
Caparisoned and guarded round, till death
Doth stretch them 'neath some gorgeous canopy,
Yet leave no foot-prints in the realm of mind—
Call them not kings—they are but crowned men.
Know ye a prince hath fallen?
 Nature gave
The signet of her royalty, and years
Of mighty labour won that sceptred power
Of knowledge, which from unborn ages claims
Homage and empire, such as time's keen tooth
May never waste. Yea,—and the grace of God
So witnessed with his spirit, so impelled
To deeds of christian love, that there is reared
A monument for him, which hath no dread
Of that fierce flame which wrecks the solid earth.
 I see him 'mid the Shetlands, spreading forth
The riches of the Gospel—kneeling down
To light its lamp in every darkened hut:—
Not in the armour of proud learning braced,
But with a towel girded—as to wash
The feet of those whom earthly princes scorn,
I see him lead the rugged islander,
Even as a brother, to the Lamb of God,
Counting his untaught soul more precious far
Than all the lore of all the lettered world.
I hear his eloquence—but deeper still,
And far more eloquent, there comes a dirge
O'er the hoarse wave. "All that we boast of man,
Is as the flower of grass."
 Farewell—Farewell!
Pass on with Wesley, and with all the great
And good of every nation. Yea!—pass on
Where the cold name of sect, which sometimes throws
Unholy shadow o'er the heaven-warmed breast,
Doth melt to nothingness—and every surge
Of warring doctrine, in whose eddying depths,
Earth's charity was drowned, is sweetly lost
In the broad ocean of eternal love.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Dying Philosopher

THE DYING PHILOSOPHER.
I have crept forth to die among the trees,
They have sweet voices that I love to hear,
Sweet, lute-like voices. They have been as friends
In my adversity—when sick and faint
I stretched me in their shadow all day long;
They were not weary of me. They sent down
Soft summer breezes fraught with pitying sighs
To fan my blanching cheek. Their lofty boughs
Pointed with thousand fingers to the sky,
And round their trunks the wild vine fondly clung,
Nursing her clusters, and they did not check
Her clasping tendrils, nor deceive her trust,
Nor blight her blossoms, and go towering up
In their cold stateliness, while on the earth
She sank to die.
 But thou, rejoicing bird,
Why pourest thou such a rich and mellow lay
On my dull ear? Poor bird!—I gave thee crumbs,
And fed thy nested little ones; so thou
(Unlike to man!) thou dost remember it.
O mine own race!—how often have ye sate
Gathered around my table, shared my cup,
And worn my raiment, yea! far more than this,
Been sheltered in my bosom, but to turn
And lift the heel against me, and cast out
My bleeding heart in morsels to the world,
Like catering cannibals.
Take me not back
To those imprisoned curtains, broidered thick
With pains, beneath whose sleepless canopy
I've pined away so long. The purchased care,
The practised sympathy, the fawning tone
Of him who on my vesture casteth lots,
The weariness, the secret measuring
How long I have to live, the guise of grief
So coarsely worn—I would not longer brook
Such torturing ministry. Let me die here,
'Tis but a little while. Let me die here.
Have patience, Nature, with thy feeble son,
So soon to be forgot, and from thine arms,
Thou gentle mother, from thy true embrace,
Let my freed spirit pass.
 Alas! how vain
The wreath that Fame would bind around our tomb—
The winds shall waste it, and the worms destroy,
While from its home of bliss the disrobed soul
Looks not upon its greenness, nor deplores
Its withering loss. Ye who have toiled to earn
The fickle praise of far posterity,
Come, weigh it at the grave's brink, here with me,
If ye can weigh a dream.
 Hail, holy stars!
Heaven's stainless watchers o'er a world of woe,
Look down once more upon me. When again,
In solemn night's dark regency, ye ope
Your searching eyes, me shall ye not behold,
Among the living. Let me join the song,
With which ye sweep along your glorious way;
Teach me your hymn of praise. What have I said?
I will not learn of you, for ye shall fall.
Lo! with swift wing I mount above your sphere,
To see the Invisible, to know the Unknown,
To love the Uncreated!—Earth, farewell!
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On the Death of Miss Hannah Adams

ON THE DEATH OF MISS HANNAH ADAMS.
She was the author of a "View of Religious Opinions," "History of the Jews," and other works. She died, respected and beloved, at the age of seventy-six; and was the first who was buried in the Mount Auburn Cemetery, in Boston.
Gentle and true of heart! I see thee still,
Abstractly bending o'er the storied tome,
While the deep lines of meditation steal,
Unfrowning, o'er thy brow. I see thee still,
Thine eye upraised at friendship's sacred smile,
Pouring the heart's warm treasures freely forth,
In guileless confidence. Methinks I hear
That eloquence, which sometimes bore thy soul
High o'er its prison-house of timid thought,
And round the ancient people of thy God,
And on the hill of Zion, joyed to bind
Its choicest wreath. Thy stainless life was laid
A gift on virtue's altar, and thy mind,
Commingling wisdom with humility,
Passed on its sheltered pilgrimage in peace,
Lonely—but not forgot. When thou didst mourn
One generation of thy friends laid low,
Another came. Most fair and youthful forms,
Such as man's love doth worship, in the hour
Of its idolatry, did turn aside
To seat them at thy feet, and strew thy home
With offerings of fresh flowers. 'Twas sweet to see
Beauty, and grace, and wealth, such tribute pay
At wisdom's lowly shrine. Yes, they who moved
On the high places of the earth, came down
To do thee honour, and to comfort thee
With an untiring ardour. Say no more
That humble merit, fashionless and poor,
Hath none to lift it from its upas-shade,
And guard its welfare with unswerving zeal
Through the long vale of helplessness and age.
It is not so. Thy grateful shade responds—
It is not so.
 Farewell. Thy rest shall be
In such companionship as thou hast loved,
Even from thy being's dawn; pure-breathing plants,
Soft melodies of waters and of trees,
The brightest, holiest charms of earth and sky;
Nor yet unchronicled, or unbeloved
Of faithful memory, shall be thy sleep,
Meek worshipper of nature and of God.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/On the Death of a Mother, soon after her Infant Son

ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER, SOON AFTER HER INFANT SON.
There's a cry from that cradle-bed,
 The voice of an infant's woe;
Hark! hark! to the mother's rushing tread,
In her bosom's fold she hath hid his head,
 And his wild tears cease to flow.
 Yet he must weep again,
 And when his eye shall know
 The burning brine of manhood's pain
 Or youth's unuttered woe,
 That mother fair
With her full tide of sympathies, alas! may not be there.
 On earth, the tree of weeping grows
 Fast by man's side where'er he goes,
And o'er his brightest joys, its bitterest essence flows.
 But she, from her sweet home
 So lately fled away,
She for whose buried smile the fond heart mourns this day,
 Hath tasted rapture undefiled;
She hath gone to her child—she hath gone to her child,
 Where sorrow may never come.
 He was the precious one,
 The prayed for, the adored—
And from each rising sun
 Till Night her balmy cup of silence poured,
 For him the paths of knowledge she explored,
 Feeding his eager mind with seraph's bread,
Till intellectual light o'er his fair features spread.
 But ah ! he bowed to die,
 Strange darkness sealed his eye,
 And there he lay, like marble in his shroud;
He, at whose infant might even trembling Love was proud.
 Yet she who bore him shrank not 'neath the rod,
 Laying her chastened soul low at the feet of God.
 Now is her victory won,
 Her strife of battle o'er,
She hath found her son—she hath found her son,
 Where Death is a king no more.
 She hath gone to see how bright doth shine
 In eternity's sphere that lamp divine,
 Which here 'mid the storms of earth severe
 She tenderly nursed with a mother's fear:
 Forgotten are all her toils,
 The pang hath left no trace,
 When Memory hoardeth in Heaven its spoils
 These have no place.
 Mothers! whose speechless care,
 Whose unrequited sigh,
 Weary arm and sleepless eye
Change the fresh rose-bud on the cheek to paleness and despair,
 Look up! Look up to the bountiful sky,
Earth may not pay your debt, your record is on high.
 Ye have gazed in doubt on the plants that drew
 From your gentle hand their nightly dew—
 Ye have given with trembling your morning kiss,
 Ye have sown in pain—ye shall reap in bliss;
The mother's tear, the mother's prayer,
 In faith for her offspring given,
Shall be counted as pearls at the judgment-bar,
 And win the gold of heaven.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Knell

THE KNELL.
A silver sound was on the summer-air,
And yet it was not music. The sweet birds
Went warbling wildly forth from grove and dell
Their thrilling harmonies, yet this low tone
Chimed not with them. But in the secret soul
There was a deep response, troubling the fount
Where bitter tears are born. Too well I knew
The tomb's prelusive melody. I turned,
And sought the house of mourning.
 Ah, pale friend !
Who speak'st not—look'st not—dost not give the hand,
Hath love so perished in that pulseless breast,
Once its own throne?
 Thou silent, changeless one,
The seal is on thy virtues now no more,
Like ours to tremble in temptation's hour,
Perchance, to fall. Fear hath no longer power
To chill thy life-stream, and frail hope doth fold
Her rainbow wing, and sink to rest with thee.
How good to be unclothed, and sleep in peace!
 Friend!—Friend!—I grieve to lose thee. Thou hast been
The sharer of my sympathies, the soul
That prompted me to good, the hand that shed
Dew on my drooping virtues. In all scenes
Where we have dwelt together—walking on
In friendship's holy concord, I am now
But a divided being. Who is left
To love, as thou hast loved?
Yet still to share
A few more welcomes from thy soft blue eye,
A few more pressures of thy snowy hand,
And ruby lip, could I enchain thee here
To all that change and plenitude of ill
Which we inherit? Hence thou selfish grief!
Thy root is in the earth, and all thy fruits
Bitter and baneful. Holy joy should spring
When pure hearts take their portion.
 Go beloved!
First, for thou wert most worthy.—I will strive,
As best such frail one may, to follow thee.