OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Longing of Orestes for repose

IV.
LONGING OF ORESTES FOR REPOSE.
One draught from Lethe's flood! reach me one draught, One last cool goblet filled with dewy peace! Soon will the spasm of life departing leave My bosom free! soon shall my spirit flow Along the deep waves of forgetfulness, Calmly and silently! away to you Ye dead! ye dwellers of the eternal cloud, Take home the son of earth, and let him steep His o'erworn senses in your dim repose, For evermore.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Hope of Future Communion with Nature

IV.
HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.
If e'er again my spirit be allowed Converse with Nature in her chambers deep, Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud, She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep, From caves of mystery;—if I roam once more Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar, And voiceful oaks respond;—shall I not reap A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour, From such communion?—yes! I then shall know, That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought, Their long, still work of preparation wrought, For that more perfect sense of God revealed below.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/In Imitation of part of Ode III. Book II.

Based on Horace
IMITATION OF PART OF ODE III. BOOK II.*
Bring, bring odours to the embowering shade Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high; Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade, Snatch every brief delight, for thou must die; Must bid thy groves farewell, thy stately dome, Thy fair retreat on yellow Tyber's shore, Whilst other inmates revel in thy home And claim thy piles of wealth; thine own no more He who relents not, dooms thee soon to tread The shore whence none return—the country of the dead.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Joy of Pylades on hearing his Native Language

FRAGMENTS
FROM THE
IPHIGENIA OF GOETHE.
I.
JOY OF PYLADES ON HEARING HIS NATIVE LANGUAGE.
Oh sweetest voice! Oh blest familiar sound Of mother-words heard in the stranger's land! I see the blue hills of my native shore, The far blue hills again! those cordial tones Before the captive bid them freshly rise For ever welcome! Oh by this deep joy, Know the true son of Greece!
# Poems of Childhood/Krinken

New York, C. Scribner's Sons, pages 3–4
KRINKEN
KRINKEN was a little child,—
It was summer when he smiled.
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Stretched its white arms out to him,
Calling, "Sun-child, come to me;
Let me warm my heart with thee!"
But the child heard not the sea.
Krinken on the beach one day
Saw a maiden Nis at play;
Fair, and very fair, was she,
Just a little child was he.
"Krinken," said the maiden Nis,
"Let me have a little kiss,—
Just a kiss, and go with me
To the summer-lands that be
Down within the silver sea."
Krinken was a little child,
By the maiden Nis beguiled;
Down into the calling sea
With the maiden Nis went he.
​But the sea calls out no more;
It is winter on the shore,—
Winter where that little child
Made sweet summer when he smiled:
Though 't is summer on the sea
Where with maiden Nis went he,—
Summer, summer evermore,—
It is winter on the shore,
Winter, winter evermore.
Of the summer on the deep
Come sweet visions in my sleep;
His fair face lifts from the sea,
His dear voice calls out to me,—
These my dreams of summer be.
Krinken was a little child,
By the maiden Nis beguiled;
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Reached its longing arms to him,
Crying, "Sun-child, come to me;
Let me warm my heart with thee!"
But the sea calls out no more;
It is winter on the shore,—
Winter, cold and dark and wild;
Krinken was a little child,—
It was summer when he smiled;
Down he went into the sea,
And the winter bides with me.
Just a little child was he.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poets of John Company/The Return from India

The Return from India.
I sit beside my lonely hearth. Long years of toil and exile past. My life is in its twilight path, Still I have reached my home at last; But other hands now cull its flowers, But other footsteps tread its floor, That clock still chimes the silver hours, But those who heard it hear no more.
I am a stranger in my hall, The hearts which made it glad are cold. Young voices answer to my call, But not the tones I loved of old; With happy looks they bid me tell Some story of the days gone by. Or speak of those I loved so well, I can but answer with a sigh.
With smiles they urge me to recall The memory of their childhood's prime, For they were happy children all When last I left my native clime; But as they speak some cherished trait Arises with each look and tone, Of those whose love has past away, Of those who are for ever gone.
I wander on the breezy hill, By hazel copse, in dingle green, I pause beside the gushing rill, When summer twilight sings serene; Each well-remembered scene is there Fresh as when first it met my sight, But where are all the feelings, where. Which made it still more dear than bright?
The harvest moon is rising now O'er glorious fields of ripened grain. And on the breeze that cools my brow The bells of many a harvest wain Come soft and sweet; but sweeter yet Yon spire on which the moonshine glows. That tells me where I shall forget Life's toils and hopes in death's repose.
# Poets of John Company/The Song of Kalindi

WILLIAM WATERFIELD.
1832—1907.
The Song of Kalindi.
The fresh wind blows from northern snows; The nights are dank with dew; A mound of fire the Simal glows; The young rice shoots anew; In mornings cool from reedy pool Up springs the whistling crane; The wild fowl fly through sunset sky; The sweet juice fills the cane. Come, Krishna, from the tyrant proud How long shall virtue flee? The lightning loves the evening cloud, And I love thee.
The breeze moves slow with thick perfume From every mango grove; From coral tree to parrot bloom The black bees questing rove; The koil wakes the early dawn, He calls the spring all day; The jasmine smiles by glade and lawn; The lake with buds is gay. Come, Krishna! leave Vaikuntha's bower; Do thou our refuge be; The koil loves the mango flower. And I love thee.
Low from the brink the waters shrink; The deer all sniff for rain: The panting cattle search for drink Cracked glebe and dusty plain;
The whirlwind, like a furnace blast, Sweeps clouds of darkening sand; The forest flames; the beasts aghast Plunge huddling from the land. Come, Krishna! come, beloved one! Descend and comfort me: The lotus loves the summer sun, And I love thee.
With dancing feet glad pea-fowl greet Bright flash and rumbling cloud; Down channels steep red torrents sweep; The frogs give welcome loud; From branch and spray hang blossoms gay; The wood has second birth; No stars in skies, but lantern-flies Seem stars that float to earth. Come, Krishna! in our day of gloom Be thou our Kalpa tree: The wild bee loves the Padma bloom, And I love thee.
The skies are bright with cloudless light, Like silver shells that float; The stars and moon loom large by night; The lilies launch their boat; Fair laughs the plain with ripened grain; With birds resounds the brake: Along the sand white egrets stand; The wild fowl fill the lake. Come, Krishna! let thy servants soon Thy perfect beauty see: The water-lily loves the moon. And I love thee.
The morning mist lies close and still; The hoar-frost gems the lea; The dew falls chill; the wind blows shrill; The leaves have left the tree;
The crops are gone; the fields are bare; The deer pass grazing by; And plaintive through the twilight air Is heard the curlew's cry. Come, Krishna! come, my lord, my own! From prison set me free: The chakravaki pines alone, As I for thee.
# Poets of John Company/The Successful Competitor—1873

The Successful Competitor—1873.
Oh palmy days of old! Oh glorious past! Long years have circled since I sang thee last; Long years of exile on an alien soil, Where weeks of fever temper months of toil; And still I mourn the land, to woes a prey, Where tape accumulates, and men decay.
I mourn the rule the Magistrate of yore, A fostering despot o'er his people bore; He reigned supreme within his little State, His smile shed honour, and his frown was fate. Prompt with the rifle, niggard of the pen, By manly deeds he won the hearts of men; His watchful eye each rival chieftain viewed, And oftener calmed than curbed the rising feud. He knew the intense devotion that reveres Each usage hallowed by a thousand years;
Nor sought to substitute with ruthless hand The alien systems of a distant land. Friend of the people, in their midst he moved, To all familiar and by all beloved; And those who gathered prattling where he came, Grey-headed now, still gossip of his name.
***** For the good Magistrate, our Rulers say, Decides all night, investigates all day; The crack Collector, man of equal might, Reports all day, and corresponds all night. Oh, could I raise my fascinated eyes From Salt, Stamps, Cesses, Income-Tax, Excise, Or quit the bench, and loose my courser's rein, To scour observant o'er the teeming plain. Could I, with Janus, boast a double face Incongruous scenes alternately to grace, To twin tribunals twin delights afford, Please the High Court, and gratify the Board— Then all were well; and I might touch the goal, A square, round, man within a round, square, hole.
# Poets of John Company/To Bera Pennoo

To Bera Pennoo: The Earth Goddess.
An Invocation before Human Sacrifice.
Goddess of earth! Dread source of ill! Thy just revenge o'erwhelms us still For rites unpaid; But oh! forgive!—Our stores are small, Our lessened means uncertain all. Denied thine aid.
Goddess that taught mankind to feel Poison in plants, and death in steel— A fearful lore— Forgive—forgive! and ne'er again Shall we neglect thy shrine to stain With human gore!
Let plenty all our land o'erspread. Make green the ground with living bread. Our pastures fill So close with cattle side by side That no bare spot may be descried From distant hill.
And when unto the broad flat pool. Their thirst to quench, their sides to cool, Our herds are led; So num'rous make them that no form Of fish or frog, or toad or worm, Survive their tread.
So fill with sheep each ample fold That he who digs man-deep the mould, Their compost rare. Meet not a stone. May swine abound Until their plough-like snouts the ground For seed prepare.
So fill our cots with childhood's din The voice be rarely heard within, And ne'er without; Each thatch with crowded poultry hide, Give jars that bruise the fountain's side With metal stout.
Oh! Bera Pennoo! once again Protect us in the grove and plain From beasts of prey; Nor let sly snake or tiger bold Fright children, save in stories old Of Fathers grey.
Oh! make it each man's only care Yearly to build a store-room fair For goods unspent; And we thy rites shall duly pay:— Lo! one bought victim now we slay— One life present.
# Poets of John Company/The Rains

The Rains.
Who is this that driveth near. Heralded by sound of fear? Red his flag, the lightning's glare Flashing through the murky air: Pealing thunder for his drums, Royally the monarch comes.
See, he rides, amid the crowd. On his elephant of cloud. Marshalling his kingly train: Welcome, O thou Lord of Rain! Gathered clouds as black as night Hide the face of heaven from sight, Sailing on their airy road. Sinking with their watery load; Pouring down a flood of tears; Pleasant music to our ears. Woe to him whose love's away; He must mourn, while all are gay. Every cooling drop that flows Swells the torrent of his woes. If he raise his tearful eye, INDRA'S Bow, that spans the sky, Strung with lightning, hurls a dart Piercing through his lonely heart: For the clouds, in fancy's dream. Belted with the lightning's gleam. Conjure up the flashing zone Of the maid he calls his own; And the lines of glory there Match the gems she loves to wear.
Earth, what dame has gems like thine.
When thy golden fire-flies shine? When thy buds of emerald green Deck the bosom of their Queen? Look upon the woods, and see Bursting with new life each tree.
Look upon the river side, Where the fawns in lilies hide. See the peacocks hail the rain. Spreading wide their jewelled train: They will revel, dance, and play In their wildest joy to-day. What delight our bosom fills. As we gaze upon the hills
Where those happy peacocks dance, And the silver streamlets glance, And the clouds, enamoured, rest, Like a crown, upon the crest Of that hill that fainting lay 'Neath the burning summer ray. While the freshening streams they shed Glorify his woody head. Bees, that round the lily throng, Soothe us with their drowsy song; Towards the lotus-bed they fly; But the peacock, dancing by. Spreads abroad his train so fair. That they cling, deluded, there. Oh, that breeze! his breath how cool! He has fanned the shady pool: He has danced with bending flowers, And kissed them in the jasmine bowers; Every sweetest plant has lent All the riches of its scent, And the cloud who loves him flings Cooling drops upon his wings.
# Poets of John Company/The Song of the Koil

The Song of the Koil.
O youths and maidens rise and sing! The Koil is come who leads the Spring: The buds that were sleeping his voice have heard, And the tale is borne on by each nesting bird.
The trees of the forest have all been told; They have donned their mantles of scarlet and gold; To welcome him back they are bravely dressed, But he loves the blossoming mango best.
The Koil is come, glad news to bring! On the blossoming mango he rests his wing; Though its hues may be dull, it is sweet, oh! sweet, And its shade and its fruit the wanderer greet.
The Koil is come, and the forests ring: He has called aloud to awake the Spring, Spring the balmy, the friend of Love, The bodiless god who reigns above.
Oh! sad were the hearts of the gods that day When the worlds all mourned the oppressor's sway; When the oracle promised deliverance none Till Shiva the wrathful should lend his son.
But archly does young-eyed Kama smile On those who would foil him by force or by guile; And his keenest shaft to the string he laid, As he called to that presence the mountain-maid.
The love-shaft flew from the bow-string fast, As the child of the snows in her beauty passed; And the cream-white lotus blushed rosy red Where the blood of the god from his wound was shed.
Oh! sharp is the arrowy blossom's smart, For the mango flower ne'er missed the heart; And the work of the gods is fairly done, And help shall arise out of Shiva's son.
But woe for that image of loveliness, woe! Which the worlds of creation no longer shall know; In Shiva's first wrath at the breach of his vow, Consumed by the flame-darting eye of his brow.
But the flames could not weaken Immortal Might; He is born in the heart in the spring-time bright. Whose is the breast where the god shall dwell? O youths and maidens, you can tell.
# Poets of John Company/The Suppliant Dove

R. T. H. GRIFFITH.
1826-1889.
The Suppliant Dove.
Chased by a hawk, there came a dove With worn and weary wing, And took her stand upon the hand Of Kasi's noble king.
The monarch smoothed her ruffled plumes. And laid her on his breast; And cried, "No fear shall vex thee here, Rest, pretty egg-born, rest!
Fair Kasi's realm is rich and wide, With golden harvests gay, But all that's mine will I resign Ere I my guest betray."
But, panting for his half-won spoil, The hawk was close behind. And with wild eye and eager cry Came swooping down the wind:
"This bird," he cried, "my destined prize, 'Tis not for thee to shield: 'Tis mine by right and toilsome flight O'er hill and dale and field.
Hunger and thirst oppress me sore. And I am faint with toil: Thou should'st not stay a bird of prey. Who claims his rightful spoil.
They say thou art a glorious king, And justice is thy care; Then justly reign in thy domain, Nor rob the birds of air."
Then cried the king: "A cow or deer For thee shall straightway bleed, Or let a ram or tender lamb Be slain, for thee to feed.
Mine oath forbids me to betray My little twice-born guest: See, how she clings, with trembling wings. To her protector's breast."
"No flesh of lambs," the hawk replied, "No blood of deer for me; The falcon loves to feed on doves. And such is Heaven's decree.
But if affection for the dove Thy pitying heart has stirred, Let thine own flesh my maw refresh, Weighed down against the bird."
He carved the flesh from off his side. And threw it in the scale. While women's cries smote on the skies With loud lament and wail.
He hacked the flesh from side and arm, From chest and back and thigh, But still above the little dove The monarch's scale stood high.
He heaped the scale with piles of flesh. With sinews, blood, and skin. And when alone was left him bone He threw himself therein.
Then thundered voices through the air; The sky grew black as night; And fever took the earth that shook To see that wondrous sight.
The blessed Gods, from every sphere, By Indra led, came nigh; While drum and flute and shell and lute Made music in the sky.
They rained immortal chaplets down, Which hands celestial twine, And softly shed upon his head Pure Amrit, drink divine.
Then God and Seraph, Bard and Nymph Their heavenly voices raised. And a glad throng with dance and song The glorious monarch praised.
They set him on a golden car That blazed with many a gem; Then swiftly through the air they flew. And bore him home with them.
Thus Kasi's lord, by noble deed, Won Heaven and deathless fame; And when the weak protection seek From thee, do thou the same.
# Poets of John Company/Three Hunting Songs

Anonymous.
1850.
THREE HUNTING SONGS.
I.
Over the valley, over the level, Through the wide jungle we'll ride like the devil! Hark! for'ard a boar! Away we go, Sit down and ride straight, Tally-ho! Tally-ho!
He's a true-bred one, none of your jinking. Straight across country, no time for thinking. The nullah in front yawns deep as hell, But the boar's gone through—we must go as well.
The ditches and banks are wide and steep, The earth is rotten, the water deep; The boldest horseman holds his breath, But he must cross it to see the death.
Over we go, the game's nearly done. The field is gaining, the race is won; An arm upraised, then a dash, a cheer And the boar has felt the deadly spear.
See how he flashes his fiery eye Ready to charge, to cut and die; A boar that will charge like the light brigade Is the bravest brute that e'er was made.
Swiftly he rushes panting and blowing, Swifter the life-blood torrents are flowing. Game to the last with defiant eye In silent courage he falls to die.
Gentlemen, I won't detain you a minute, I hope every glass has got something in it; Come fill them up with a bumper more, Are your glasses charged? Mr. Vice, the Boar!
CHORUS.
Over the valley and over the level Through the wide jungle we'll ride like the devil. There's a nullah in front and a boar as well; Sit down in your saddles and ride like hell.
II.
Pledge me woman's lovely face, Beaming eye and bosom fair— Every soft and winning grace, Sweetly blended sparkles there. Is there one whose sordid soul Beauty's form hath ne'er adored? From his cold lip dash the bowl, Spurn him from the festal board.
Pledge me next the glorious chase, When the mighty boar's ahead, He, the noblest of the race, In the mountain jungle bred Swifter than the slender deer Bounding over Deccan's plain, Who can stay his proud career, Who can hope his tusks to gain?
Pledge me those who oft have won Tuskëd trophies from the foe, And in many a famous run, Many a gallant hog laid low. Who, on Peeplah's steepy height, And on Gunga's tangled shore, Oft again will dare the fight With the furious jungle boar.
III.
Fill the goblet to the brim, Fill with me and drink to him Who the mountain sport pursues. Speed the boar where'er he choose; Hurrah! Hurrah! one bumper more, A bumper to the grim grey boar!
Hark, the beater's shout on high! Hark, the hunter's shrill reply! Echo leaps from hill to hill, There the chase is challenge still! Hurrah! Hurrah! one bumper more, A bumper to the sturdy boar!
Ride for now the sounder breaks, Ride where'er the grey boar takes, Struggle through the desperate chase, Reckless death itself to face; Hurrah! Hurrah! one bumper more, A bumper to the fearless boar!
See, the jungle verge is won, See, the grey boar dashing on! Bold and brave ones now are nigh, See him stagger, charge and die; Hurrah! Hurrah! one bumper more, A bumper to the fallen boar!
# Poets of John Company/The Rajpoot's Lament

The Rajpoot's Lament.
Shades of the mighty, mighty dead. Then have ye lived and died in vain? And are ye fled, for ever fled. With all the glories of your reign, And left the world ye used to bless, In guilt as deep—in need no less— Than when ye burst upon its guilt, And half the blood it bore was spilt?
The Keytrie's pride—the Brahmin's god— Shall both be trampled and o'erthrown? And the pure land your footsteps trod. Stoop to a race to you unknown; And will ye sleep, for ever sleep, While good men pray, and brave ones weep, And native honour's latest gasp. Is ebbing in the oppressor's grasp?
Whose foot is on the Brahmin's land? A foot the country had not borne. Whose hand is on the soldier brand? A hand the soldier holds in scorn. Whose lance is in the country's heart? A lance more odious than its smart. Who fill the thrones ye reared of old? The slaves of slaves, whose God is gold.
Soft Gunga checks her troubled wave, And slave-like weeps with veiled brow; 'Twas there, 'twas there ye bid us lave, And will ye, can ye bid us now? The pomp and pride of native sway, Our lands, our names have past away. And will ye never, never aid, To guard the rights your glory made.
Shades of the mighty, who shall dare To say ye are not mighty still? Your whispers breathe in every air. Your spirits move in every thrill. Dim—thro' the misty gulf of years— Dim—thro' the glimmering veil of tears— I see ye—warriors stern and grey, I see ye—but no other may.
I breathed it to the rushing flood. The water's murmuring voice replied; I breathed it to the waving wood, The conscious branches bowed and sighed; I told the rock, I told the cloud, And they returned it doubly loud; I spoke it in the haunts of men. And not a voice was heard again.
Stupendous spirits—Ye could mould. And re-create a nation's mind; And will no whispering voice unfold, Till my young heart grew old with thought The magic art that rules mankind? Oh, I have mused on all ye taught, But never yet that sacred gleam Has reached my soul in thought or dream.
'Tis vain, the task is not for me; Fly, dreamy hopes and shadowy throne, My country's soul I cannot free, I will be master of my own; Shades of the mighty—yet, oh yet Shed o'er this heart the proud regret That throbs and thrills in every beat, A little while, and we shall meet.
Tho' ear is deaf, and voice is dumb, I know the spirit dieth not; The ocean sleeps, the storm shall come, When I perchance shall be forgot; Enough for me If freedom's eyes Shall glisten where my ashes lie, And freedom's tardy hand confer A wreath on him who died for her.
# Politics (Emerson)

* "Politics" in Essays: Second Series
* "Politics," in Man or the State? (pp. 57−69), (ed.) by Waldo Ralph Browne, New York: B. W. Huebsch (1919)
# Politics (Emerson poem)

Gold and iron are good
* Politics in May-day and other pieces (1867)
* Politics in Poems (Household Edition, 1904)
# Poems of Passion/Perfectness

All perfect things are saddening in effect. The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes, The matchless tinting on the royal rose Whose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked, Love's supreme moment, when the soul unchecked Soars high as heaven, and its best rapture knows— These hold a deeper pathos than our woes, Since they leave nothing better to expect.
Resistless change, when powerless to improve, Can only mar. The gold will pale to gray; Nothing remains tomorrow as to-day; The lose will not seem quite so fait, and love Must find its measures of delight made less. Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness!