OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Patriotism/A Good Soldier

A Good Soldier
He writes to us most every day, and how his letters thrill us! I can’t describe the joys with which his quaint expressions fill us. He says the military life is not of his selection, He’s only soldiering today to give the flag protection. But since he’s in the army now and doing duties humble, He’ll do what all good soldiers must, and he will never grumble.
He’s not so keen for standing guard, a lonely vigil keeping, “But when I must,” he writes to us, “they’ll never find me sleeping! I hear a lot of boys complain about the tasks they set us And there’s no doubt that mother’s meals can beat the ones they get us, But since I’m here to do my bit, close to the job I’m sticking; I’ll take whatever comes my way and waste no word in kicking.
“I’d like to be a captain, Dad, a major or a colonel, I’d like to get my picture in some illustrated journal; I don’t exactly fancy jobs that now and then come my way, Like picking bits of rubbish up that desecrate the highway. But still I’ll do those menial tasks as cheerfully as could one, For while I am a private here I’m going to be a good one.
“A soldier’s life is not the way I’d choose to make my living, But now I’m in the ranks to serve, my best to it I’m giving. Oh, I could name a dozen jobs that I’d consider finer, But since I’ve got this one to do I’ll never be a whiner. I’m just a private in the ranks, but take it from my letter, They’ll never fire your son for one who’ll his duty better.”
# Poems of Patriotism/A Battle Prayer

A Battle Prayer
God of battles, be with us now: Guard our sons from the lead of shame, Watch our sons when the cannons flame, Let them not to a tyrant bow.
God of battles, to Thee we pray: Be with each loyal son who fights In the cause of justice and human rights, Grant him strength and lead the way.
God of battles, our youth we give To the battle line on a foreign soil, To conquer hatred and lust and spoil; Grant that they and their cause shall live.
# Poems of Patriotism/A Father’s Thoughts

A Father’s Thoughts
Because I am his father, they Expect me to put grief away; Because I am a man, and rough And sometimes short of speech and gruff, The women folks at home believe His absence doesn’t make me grieve; But how I felt, they little know, The day I smiled and let him go.
They little know the dreams I had Long cherished for my sturdy lad; They little guess the wrench it meant That day when off to war he went; They little know the tears I checked While standing, smiling and erect; They never heard my smothered sigh When it was time to say good-by.
“What does his father think and say?” The neighbors ask from day to day. “Oh, he’s a man,” they answer then. “And you know how it is with men.
But little do they ever say, They do not feel the self-same way; He seems indifferent and grim And yet he’s very proud of him.”
Indifferent and grim! Oh, heart, Be brave enough to play the part, Let not the grief in you be shown, Keep all your loneliness unknown, To you the women folks must turn For comfort when their sorrows burn. You must not at this time reveal The pain and anguish that you feel.
Oh, tongue, be silent through the years, And, eyes, keep back always the tears, And let them never see or know My hidden weight of grief and woe. Though every golden dream I had Was centered in my little lad, Alone my sorrow I must bear. They must not know how much I care.
Though women folks may talk and weep, A man, unseen, his grief must keep,
And hide behind his smile and pride The loneliness that dwells inside. And so, from day to day, I go, Playing the part of man, although Beneath the rough outside and grim, I think and dream and pray for him.
# Poems of Patriotism/A Father’s Tribute

A Father’s Tribute
I don’t know what they’ll put him at, or what his post may be; I cannot guess the task that waits for him across the sea, But I have known him through the years, and when there’s work to do, I know he’ll meet his duty well, I’ll swear that he’ll be true.
I sometimes fear that he may die, but never that he’ll shirk; If death shall want him death must go and take him at his work; This splendid sacrifice he makes is filled with terrors grim, And I have many thoughts of fear, but not one fear of him.
The foe may rob my life of joy, the foe may take my all, And desolate my days shall be if he shall have to fall,
But this I know, whate’er may be the grief that I must face, Upon his record there will be no blemish of disgrace.
His days have all been splendid days, there lies no broken trust Along the pathway of his youth to molder in the dust; Honor and truth have marked his ways, in him I can be glad; He is as fine and true a son as ever a father had.
# Oregon Historical Quarterly/Volume 22/Number 4

* John Boit's Log of the Columbia 1790-1793. by F. G. Young
* Remnant of Official Log of the Columbia. by annot. by T. C. Elliott
* "Document": Whitman Letter
# Oregon Historical Quarterly/Volume 22
## Number 1 (March)

* A Sketch of the Rogue River Valley and Southern Oregon History. by Alice Applegate Sargent
* Notes and Reminiscences of Laying Out and Establishing the Old Emigrant Road into Southern Oregon in the Year 1846. by Lindsay Applegate
* The First Stage of the Federal Indian Policy in the Pacific Northwest, 1849-1852. by C. F. Coan

## Number 2 (June)

* The Origin of the Name Oregon. by T. C. Elliott
* "Documentary": Letters of S. H. Taylor to the Watertown [Wisconsin] Chronicle

## Number 3 (September)

* The Last Phase of the Oregon Boundary Question: The Struggle for San Juan Island. by Andrew Fish
* "Documentary": The Letters of the Rev. William M. Roberts. ed. by R. M. Gatke
* "Review: Pacific Northwest Americana". by E. Ruth Rockwood

## Number 4 (December)

* John Boit's Log of the Columbia 1790-1793. by F. G. Young
* Remnant of Official Log of the Columbia. by annot. by T. C. Elliott
* "Document": Whitman Letter

## Index

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Oregon Historical Quarterly/Volume 22/Number 3

* The Last Phase of the Oregon Boundary Question: The Struggle for San Juan Island. by Andrew Fish
* "Documentary": The Letters of the Rev. William M. Roberts. ed. by R. M. Gatke
* "Review" [1, essay-length]. by E. Ruth Rockwood
# Poems (Terry, 1861)/Rosalind

BALLADS.
BALLADS.
# Poems (Terry, 1861)/Semele

SEMELE.
"For there bee none of those pagan fables in whiche there lyeth not a more subtle meanynge than the extern expression thereof should att once signifye."—Marriages of ye Deade.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Old Man's Favorite

THE OLD MAN'S FAVORITE.
Do you ask where she has fled— Fanny, with the laughing eyes? Should I tell you "She is dead," You would mimic tears and sighs, And pretend a sad surprise.
Yester-week, when you were here, She was sitting on your knee, Whispering stories in your ear With an air of mystery, And a roguish glance at me.
​Fanny's heart was always light, Light and free as plumed bird; When she glanced within our sight, Or her merry voice we heard, Music in our hearts was stirred.
Ask you still where Fanny hides? I will tell you by and by; Look you where the river glides, In whose depths the shadows lie, Mingled of the earth and sky.
Fanny always loved that spot; There her favorite ﬂowers grew— Violet, Forget-me-not, And the Iris' gold and blue, With its pearly beads of dew.
Oft on the old rustic bridge, Made of supple boughs entwined, Hanging from each margin's ridge Like a hammock in the wind, Fanny fearlessly reclined.
And she told me, while her eyes Filled with tears of childish bliss, That she could see Paradise, From her rocking resting-place, Mirrored in the river's face;
That she saw the tall trees wave; Bright—winged birds among their bowers; And a river that did lave Banks o'ergrown with fairest ﬂowers, And a sky more bright than ours.
Then she asked, with such a smile As an angel face might wear, If she watched a long, long while, ​She should see her mother there, Walking in the groves so fair.
When to soothe the child I said, She should see mamma in heaven, To that frail old bridge she sped As if wings to her were given; And—but look—you see 'tis riven!
Ah! you start—your looks are wild— Calm yourself old man, I pray; Fanny was an angel child, And 'tis well she's gone away To her Paradise so gay!
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The River's Secret

THE RIVER'S SECRET.
A lady sought the river's side at night, A lovely lady, delicately fair; With eyes and jewels gloriously bright, And flowing robe, and flowing sable hair; Fair was the lady beyond poesy, Fairer than knight or minstrel ever dreamed; Proud was the lady, as would lady be, By all the land the Queen of Beauty deemed.
Unto the river's side she came alone, That fair proud lady in the hush of night; And kneeling 'neath the stars, began to moan, Clasping her forehead with her fingers white; "Oh, Harold, Harold! comest thou no more, Even to mourn, where we so oft have met? Ah, woe is me, the haughty Isadore, When Harold proves the readiest to forget!"
Thus grieved the lady for her cruelty, And called upon her Harold's name with tears; But midnight came and parted silently, And yet no Harold soothed the lady's fears. ​And still she mourned, and still the sullen river Rolled onward, without heeding her complain— The cold, dark, ruthless, unrelenting river, Whose bosom held the mystery of her pain.
A night agone, a secret had been given Into its keeping, and it kept it well; No witness was there save the stars and heaven, And what the angels see they do not tell. Down, down beneath the flood, upon a pillow Of moss-grown rock the form of Harold lay; Sleeping as sweetly as 'twere not the billow That sung to him, instead of lady gay!
After a time the cold dark river parted, And two forms lay beneath the sullen wave; A lovely lady, pale and broken-hearted, Had found unconsciously her lover's grave. And side by side, beneath the darksome river, That kept their secret well for evermore, Sleep hearts once brave, that broke in life's wild fever, The noble Harold, and fair Isadore.
Strange are the legends that the minstrels tell Of "fairie ladie," and of knight betrayed; But the dark river keeps their secret well, And none e'er found where their deep graves were made; The river, dark and sullen as of yore, Told only me the fate of Isadore.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Spirit of My Song

THE SPIRIT OF MY SONG.
Tell me—have you ever met her— Met the spirit of my song— Have her wave-like footsteps glided Through the city's worldly throng? You will know her by a wreath, Woven all of starry light, That is lying 'mid her hair— Braided hair as dark as night.
A short band of radiant summers Is upon her forehead laid, Twining half in golden sunlight, Keeping half in dreamy shade; Five white fingers clasp a lyre, Five its silvery strings awake, And bewildering to the soul Is the music that they make.
Though her glances sleep like shadows 'Neath each falling, silken lash, Yet at aught that wakes resentment, They magnificently flash. Though you loved such dewy dream-light, And such glances of sweet surprise, You could never bear the scorn Of these proud and brilliant eyes.
There's a sweet and winning curving In her bright lip's crimson hue, And a glittering tint of roses From her soft cheek gleaming through; Do you think that you have met her? She is young and pure and fair, And she wears a wreath of starlight In her braided ebon hair.
Often at her feet I'm sitting, With my head upon her knee, While she tells me dreams of beauty In low words of melody; And when my unskillful fingers Strive her silvery lyre to wake, She will smooth my tresses, smiling At the discord which I make.
But of late days I have missed her— The bright being of my love— And perchance she's stolen pinions, And has floated up above. Tell me—have you ever met her— Met the spirit of my song— Have her wave-like footsteps glided Through the city's worldly throng?
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Midnight Banner

THE MIDNIGHT BANNER.
Once upon a night of sorrow, Sat I waiting for the morrow, With my hand upon my forehead, And a grief upon my heart; One I loved had rashly spoken Words by which our hearts are broken— Fatal words, of bitter meaning, Such as force our souls apart; And I sat in tearless sorrow Till the midnight should depart.
Then, to cool the fever burning Like a flame my forehead, turning To the closely-curtained window, I had drawn the folds aside; When I saw, all bathed in moonlight, Floating in the face of midnight, Like a robed and winged spirit, A dark banner, long and wide, Streaming out upon the night-wind In its lone and solemn pride.
With a motion slow and even, Up against the starry heaven, Floated that mysterious banner; Like a proud and mournful soul, ​Brooding o'er a sorrow hidden In a heart-cell, which, unbidden, Human eye may ne'er discover— Human love may not console; Sadly and in silence mourning Fate which nothing can control.
Like a disembodied spirit, The wan moon was hovering near it, With a face all dim and pallid, Just above the banner's height; While it kept its murmuring motion, Like a wave upon the ocean, Or a sigh within a bosom Struggling back from human sight; Heedless of the spirit shedding Round it her caressing light.
Long I gazed, almost forgetting My own grieving and regretting, On that dark, mysterious banner, Floating on the midnight wind; And I borrowed from its seeming Thoughts in that strange hour of dreaming, That have left undying tokens Of themselves upon my mind; And my spirit gathered from them Knowledge holy and refined.
All the wildness of my madness Altered to a calmer sadness— Under that dim banner marshaled, Memory viewed her countless host; And my soul looked on confessing, With a murmured prayer and blessing, Each endearing reminiscence In the tide of passion lost; And a thrill of hope and gladness My tumultuous bosom crossed.
​Then the banner, like my spirit, Ceased to waver, and more near it Rode the pale moon, slow descending To the chambers of the west; And then for one blissful minute, The dark banner held within it The pale spirit's lovely vision, Like a face within a breast; And I knew by that sweet omen I should be forgiven and blessed.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Post-Boy's Song

THE POST-BOY'S SONG.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Setting Sun

THE SETTING SUN.
The sun sank down, a crimson ball, In the sad, waveless sea of night; A sullen gloom was over all, Streaked with that strange and fiery light.
The tide of twilight slowly rose, Tinged with the same unhappy glare, And all the stars' sweet silver glows Were lost in the thick, vaporous air.
A moment, ere in sadness down The sun sank red and silently, His forehead with its fiery crown Shone wild and lurid o’er the sea.
So in the black sea of despair, Sullen and fiery sank my heart, And hot and glowing from the air Of hope and beauty did depart.
Sullen and hot my heart sank low, And its red, wild, and sickly glare Glowed as a maniac's eyes will glow From out black brows and hanging hair.
As one by one the sun's red gleams Died out upon the surging sea, So passion's once delightful dreams Within my breast died sullenly.
I watched the long and hopeless night— The storm furled up its pinions black— The sun rose sweet, and fresh, and bright— The tide of twilight murmured back!
But from its sea of endless night My mad heart never rose again; Long looked I for one gleam of light, But kept a desolate watch in vain.
Cold, dark, and senseless, still it lies Within a black and waveless sea, In splendor never more to rise, And shine in love and melody.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Talisman

THE TALISMAN.
What would ye give, ye triflers, say, Young men and maidens, what would ye Bestow to know the mystery Of what an angel said to me— An angel said to me one day?
Ah, dark and heavy was my soul! Once had it been all gay and light, And fearing not the coming blight, Had perched itself on pleasure's height, And writ its name on pleasure's scroll.
But soon, too soon, a change o'ercame My spirit, and my heart was broke— Was broke and bowed beneath the yoke Of grief too sacred to be spoke, Yet eating out my soul like ﬂame.
Then, to my side an angel stole— An angel with bright shining hair, And sweet young face divinely fair— Speaking with voice more soft and rare Than music's most voluptuous roll.
​"Peace, peace," the radiant being spoke; And on my heart's tumultuous swell The oil of holy stillness fell, And calmed it with a sacred spell Too sweet and reverent to be broke.
"Thy soul is dark," the angel said; "A land of shadow round thee lies; And shapes of fear thy soul surprise, From which thou canst not turn thine eyes, Lest thou shouldst be pursued with dread.
"But I will give to thee a light Whose beams shall fright the shades away, And make for thee a perfect day; That light is love; and with its ray Thy soul shall shine serenely bright.
"Love thou thy God—thy friend—the world— And labor for thy love's true sake; Then shall no gloom thy path o'ertake Which thou hast not the power to break; The wings of darkness shall be furled
"For evermore; and on thy heart The freshness of new joys descend; And with thy hopes a trust shall blend That shall not fail thee to the end, Though all life's pleasing dreams depart.
"Take thou the talisman, and go Upon the path of life once more; It can not fail thee;" and before The music of his voice was o'er, The angel melted in a glow Of golden light along the floor.
# Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant/No Man Knoweth his Sepulchre

"NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE."
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
# Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant/A Walk at Sunset

A WALK AT SUNSET.
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
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Light of Other Days

The Light of Other Days.
Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, ​Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
When I remember all The friends so link'd together I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
Thomas Moore.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Nautilus and the Ammonite

While attributed to "Anonymous" in this work, the poem appears in Sketches in Prose and Verse (1838) by G. F. Richardson (1796–1848) and later in Gideon Mantell's Thoughts on a Pebble (1849), other natural history books, and in various poetry compilations.
The Nautilus and the Ammonite.
"The Nautilus and the Ammonite" finds a place here out of respect to a twelve-year-old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years ago. It made a profound impression on the fifty pupils assembled. I never read it without feeling that it stands test. Anonymous.
The nautilus and the ammonite Were launched in friendly strife, Each sent to float in its tiny boat On the wide, wide sea of life.
For each could swim on the ocean's brim, And, when wearied, its sail could furl, And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, In its palace all of pearl.
And theirs was a bliss more fair than this Which we taste in our colder clime; For they were rife in a tropic life— A brighter and better clime.
They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles Were dimmed by no alloy; Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, And life one only joy.
They sailed all day through creek and bay, And traversed the ocean deep; ​And at night they sank on a coral bank, In its fairy bowers to sleep.
And the monsters vast of ages past They beheld in their ocean caves; They saw them ride in their power and pride, And sink in their deep-sea graves.
And hand in hand, from strand to strand, They sailed in mirth and glee; These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, Twin sisters of the sea.
And they came at last to a sea long past, But as they reached its shore, The Almighty's breath spoke out in death, And the ammonite was no more.
So the nautilus now in its shelly prow, As over the deep it strays, Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, Its companion of other days.
And alike do we, on life's stormy sea, As we roam from shore to shore, Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, And find them on earth no more.
Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet, As we look to a distant strand, Where heart meets heart, and no more they part Who meet in that better land.
Anonymous.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The New Arrival

A New Arrival.
"The New Arrival" is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a young father over his new baby. If girls should be educated to be good mothers, so should boys be taught that fatherhhod is the highest and holiest joy and right of man. The child is educator to the man. He teaches him how to take responsibility, how to give unbiased judgments, and how to be fatherly like "Our Father who is in Heaven." (1844-.)
There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked and laughed. It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself right in my room, My daughter, O my daughter!
​Yet by these presents witness all She's welcome fifty times, And comes consigned to Hope and Love And common-meter rhymes. She has no manifest but this, No flag floats o'er the water, She's too new for the British Lloyds— My daughter, O my daughter!
Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too! Ring out the lover's moon! Ring in the little worsted socks! Ring in the bib and spoon! Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse! Ring in the milk and water! Away with paper, pen, and ink— My daughter, O my daughter!
George W. Cable.