OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/To a Beautiful Coquette

TO A BEAUTIFUL COQUETTE.
Say on; if I but hear thy lips Make music with their balmy breath, It is enough! I do not ask That they revoke their doom of death.
Yes, I did take the poisoned cup From thy fair hand, and madly drink; And now, when I have found 'tis death, Now, even now, I do not shrink.
Speak! tell me that my fevered brain Was phrensied when I've thought thou'st smiled; That the sweet hope I nursed so long Was ill-begotten—Fancy's child.
Call me thy slave—a fond, mad fool— Thou'lt say, alas, one mournful truth, For I have wasted in this dream The best of life, the pride of youth.
Say this, and more, and with the scorn That suits thee better than thy smile, Thy frown, though bitter, can not harm— 'Tis in the sweetness lurks the guile!
​Ay, let thy proud lip wear for me The scornful curve it graces so; The challenge may perchance call forth My slumbering pride—I do not know.
Yet hardly still can I despise The falsehood that hath been so sweet; Hardly, when thinking on our past, My burning words of scorn repeat.
Yet do I scorn thee; in my soul My nobler nature spurns thy art; And though my senses are enthralled, A higher shrine must have my heart.
Go, fair enchantress; not thy brow, Or lip, or cheek, or witching grace, Or seeming worth, can ever win In this changed heart a lasting place.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/To ⸻ (Frances)

TO ——
Had I not known all that the heart can tell Of bliss or sorrow, ere thy love was told, My heart had broken at thy last farewell— Proud, tender, thrilling, yet that seemed so cold. But sad regret was all that I could give— Regret, that all that might have been my own My heart rejected loathingly, to live In its mute passion, grieving and alone; And a sharp sorrow for the pang I gave, Though it had been thy "double death" to save.
'Twas no new tale that thy lips whispered me; It is the curse of genius thus to steal The hearts of many after it, yet be Lonely and longing ever; and to feel That though 'tis love we want, the love we win Is a poor, earthly sense, to which the dream We cherish is a heavenly; and the sin Of hollow-heartedness is made to seem Ours, and a strange ingratitude, while we Crush in our full hearts our hushed misery.
Yet not thus thou: there was a nobleness That won me unto thee as friend to friend; And though I could not suffer thy caress, Nor to thy love a joyful listening lend, It was a joy sometimes to hear thy tone, In its full depth more eloquent than song, Blend with the spell of poesy its own, And in its soothing cadence flow along, While my heart stole the music of the rhyme, And beat harmoniously with the sweet chime.
​Thy praise was pleasant and thy kindness dear, And all was won that can be given, but love; And that was a closed fountain; not a tear, Of all its old-time fullness would there move To the wild breath of passion! all was still. The calm but mocked the tumult in thy soul, And Hope's death brought the agonies that kill; While all thy manhood struggled for control, My heart was writhing in its bitterness, That it could not be loved, and yet loved less.
And for this we are parted. Each has lost Something they prized the highest; and both feel As if their path of fortune had been crossed: Thou with thy wound too rankling soon to heal, And me with my sad heart made still more sad; But in the hearts of both is a consoling grief, A mournfulness more sweet than being glad, That could not find in pleasure a relief; Yet would I lose my memory of thee, To know thy burdened spirit once more free.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/To One Who Bade Me "Go Win a Name"

TO ONE WHO BADE ME "GO WIN A NAME."
Poet! whose prophetic numbers Seem to point me to a name, Know that in my bosom slumbers Every pulse that wakes to fame.
Themes like mine are not for glory! Thoughts like mine win feeble praise; Mine is not the classic story, Mine are not scholastic lays.
Not from tome of art or learning Came the spark of sacred fire; But the heart within me burning, Formed itself into a lyre.
And among its frail shreds ever Spirit-voices whisper low— Spirit-voices which are never Echoed in this world below.
Mind may be renowned for ages, Reason rear her altar high, But the heart's more humble pages Live unread, and darkened die.
​Like Eolian harp-chords waking To each starting of the gale, And in some strong tempest breaking With a wild and mournful wail—
So the heart-strings thrill and quiver To the world's rude borean breath, Till the "silver cords" do sever, Or are gently loosed by death.
So, as notes Eolian perish, When the breeze has died away, Will the soul-strains now I cherish Live but only for a day.
# Poems of Sidney Lanier

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY KUHN & CUMMINS.
POEMS
OF
SIDNEY LANIER
EDITED BY HIS WIFE
WITH A MEMORIAL BY WILLIAM HAYES WARD
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1884
Copyright, 1884, by MARY D. LANIER
TROW'S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK
CONTENTS
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1931, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 92 years or less. 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
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/To Edith May

TO EDITH MAY.
I have not seen thee, Edith May; they say thy face is fair— But I know thy soul, that is not seen, and know it high and rare; And I love thee by a sign that's given to every poet soul— That spirit-linking sympathy beyond our own control. There is a lyre within my heart as there is one in thine, But a plaintive, low-voiced, murmuring thing is this frail lyre of mine; Not grand, and wild, and proudly toned, yet scorning mirth withal, Like the harps our fancy hears at times in some old knightly hall; But softly glad and wildly sad, with a thousand nameless strings That wake, as doth the rose-leaf wake, to the breath of unseen things.
​Not less for this it echoes all the tones of higher skill, And trembles most with rapture when another's touch can thrill. For this I love thee, Edith May, thy spirit's voice I hear, Like the strain of some grand melody resounding in my ear; And visions rise before my eyes of hosts in armor bound, And like a voice within a dream, I hear the clarion's sound; And gorgeous banners broidered o'er with many a strange design, With burnished lance and waving plume, deck out the shadowy line— Anon the sunset's crimson cloud is fading o'er the hill, And the chieftain's farewell bugle-note is sounding sad and shrill;
And standing on the castle wall I see a lady fair, With pallid face, and waving scarf, and unbound raven hair; While winding up the distant hill the long defile hath passed, And the lady on the chief she loved hath fondly looked her last. All old-time scenes of war and pomp, of love and minstrelsy, Of kingly sports, and courtly dames, and knightly rivalry; All by-gone themes once wont to stir the blood of princely men, Swell my dreaming heart with lofty pride, and the dead past lives again; And I love thy harp's grand tone that wakes my spirit's high romance, And praise thee that thou hast for thine this rich inheritance.
I have a sister, Edith May, a sister pure and young, With a holy heart, and gifted mind, and sweetly eloquent tongue; And to her I bear a feeling which can have no earthly name, But our souls are linked, our hearts are joined, and our loves are aye the same; And a glorious world of dreams have we, a rare poetic world, Where fancy's restless golden wings are glittering unfurled— Where love sits like a household form, a dear, familiar thing, And countless fairy visions float forever on the wing; And here amid the whispered strains of spirit-minstrelsy, I listen with my dreaming soul for one wild note from thee.
I have not seen thee, Edith May—they call thy youthful face The lovely index of the soul, its poetry and grace; ​And blest I deem that thou must be, so gifted, young, and fair, Yet these alone fill not the heart if love be wanting there; For hearts like ours, dear Edith May, need love as do the flowers The breath of the caressing wind and heaven's genial showers: And I would breathe a prayer to God to bless thy heart's young dream, But with those peerless gifts of thine my prayer would idle seem. Then fare-thee-well, young poetess! may not my waiting ear List long in vain for that wild strain it loveth most to hear.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/To —

This volume contains two poems by this title, one by each sister.
* To — by Frances A. Fuller (Victor)
* To — by Metta V. Fuller (Victor)
Similar titles by Frances A. Fuller (Victor):
* To a Beautiful Coquette
* To Edith May
* To One Who Bade Me "Go Win a Name"
* To the Blue Nemophela
* To M——
* To Mrs. ——
* To My Valentine
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/True Love

TRUE LOVE.
As evenèn aïr, in green-treed Spring, Do sheäke the new-sprung pa’sley bed, An’ wither’d ash-tree keys do swing An’ vall a-flutt’rèn roun’ our head: There, while the birds do zing their zong In bushes down the ash-tree drong, Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet’s the pleäce Your vaïce an’ feäce can meäke vor me.
Below the buddèn ashes’ height We there can linger in the lew, While boughs, a-gilded by the light, Do sheen avore the sky o’ blue: But there by zettèn zun, or moon A-risèn, time wull vlee too soon Wi’ Jessie Lee, vor sweet’s the pleäce Her vaïce an’ feäce can meäke vor me.
Down where the darksome brook do flow, Below the bridge’s archèd wall, Wi’ alders dark, a-leanèn low, Above the gloomy watervall; There I’ve a-led ye hwome at night, Wi’ noo feäce else ’ithin my zight ​But yours so feäir, an’ sweet’s the pleäce Your vaïce an’ feäce ha’ meäde me there.
An’ oh! when other years do come, An’ zettèn zuns, wi’ yollow gleäre, Drough western window-peänes, at hwome, Do light upon my evenèn chair: While day do weäne, an’ dew do vall, Be wi’ me then, or else in call, As time do vlee, vor sweet’s the pleäce Your vaïce an’ feäce do meäke vor me.
Ah! you do smile, a-thinkèn light O’ my true words, but never mind; Smile on, smile on, but still your flight Would leäve me little jaÿ behind: But let me not be zoo a-tried Wi’ you a-lost where I do bide, O Jessie Lee, in any pleäce Your vaïce an’ feäce ha’ blest vor me.
I’m sure that when a soul’s a-brought To this our life ov aïr an’ land, Woone mwore’s a-mark’d in God’s good thought, To help, wi’ love, his heart an’ hand. An’ oh! if there should be in store An angel here vor my poor door, ’Tis Jessie Lee, vor sweet’s the pleäce Her vaïce an’ feäce can meäke vor me.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Vields by Watervalls

VIELDS BY WATERVALLS.
When our downcast looks be smileless,  Under others’ wrongs an’ slightèns, When our daily deeds be guileless,  An’ do meet unkind requitèns, You can meäke us zome amends Vor wrongs o’ foes, an’ slights o’ friends;— O flow’ry-gleäded, timber-sheäded Vields by flowèn watervalls!
Here be softest aïrs a-blowèn  Drough the boughs, wi’ zingèn drushes, Up above the streams, a-flowèn  Under willows, on by rushes. Here below the bright-zunn’d sky The dew-bespangled flow’rs do dry, In woody-zided, stream-divided Vields by flowèn watervalls.
Waters, wi’ their giddy rollèns;  Breezes wi’ their plaÿsome wooèns; Here do heal, in soft consolèns,  Hearts a-wrung wi’ man’s wrong doèns. Day do come to us as gaÿ As to a king ov widest swaÿ, In deäisy-whitèn’d, gil’cup-brightèn’d Vields by flowèn watervalls.
Zome feäir buds mid outlive blightèns,  Zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow, After days of wrongs an’ slightèns  There mid break a happy morrow. We mid have noo e’thly love; But God’s love-tokens vrom above Here mid meet us, here mid greet us, In the vields by watervalls.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Turnèn things off

TURNÈN THINGS OFF.
Upzides wi’ Polly! no, he’d vind That Poll would soon leäve him behind. To turn things off! oh! she’s too quick To be a-caught by ev’ry trick. Woone day our Jimmy stole down steäirs On merry Polly unaweäres, The while her nimble tongue did run A-tellèn, all alive wi’ fun, To sister Anne, how Simon Heäre Did hanker after her at feäir. “He left,” cried Polly, “cousin Jeäne, An’ kept wi’ us all down the leäne, An’ which way ever we did leäd He vollow’d over hill an’ meäd; An’ wi’ his head o’ shaggy heäir, An’ sleek brown cwoat that he do weäre, An’ collar that did reach so high ’S his two red ears, or perty nigh, He swung his taïl, wi’ steps o’ pride, Back right an’ left, vrom zide to zide, A-walkèn on, wi’ heavy strides A half behind, an’ half upzides.” “Who’s that?” cried Jimmy, all agog; An’ thought he had her now han’-pat, “That’s Simon Heäre,” but no, “Who’s that? Cried she at woonce, “Why Uncle’s dog, Wi’ what have you a-been misled I wonder. Tell me what I zaid.” Woone evenèn as she zot bezide The wall the ranglèn vine do hide, A-prattlèn on, as she did zend Her needle, at her vinger’s end. ​On drough the work she had in hand, Zome bran-new thing that she’d a-plann’d, Jim overheärd her talk ageän O’ Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leäne, “Oh! no, what he!” she cried in scorn, “I wouldèn gie a penny vor’n; The best ov him’s outzide in view; His cwoat is gaÿ enough, ’tis true, But then the wold vo’k didden bring En up to know a single thing, An’ as vor zingèn,—what do seem His zingèn’s nothèn but a scream.” “So ho!” cried Jim, “Who’s that, then, Meäry, That you be now a-talkèn o’?” He thought to catch her then, but, no, Cried Polly, “Oh! why Jeäne’s caneäry, Wi’ what have you a-been misled, I wonder. Tell me what I zaid.”
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Uncle an' Aunt

UNCLE AN’ AUNT.
How happy uncle us’d to be O’ zummer time, when aunt an’ he
O’ Zunday evenèns, eärm in eärm, Did walk about their tiny farm, While birds did zing an’ gnats did zwarm, Drough grass a’most above their knees, An’ roun’ by hedges an’ by trees  Wi’ leafy boughs a-swaÿèn.
​His hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown, Wi’ two long flaps a-hangèn down; An’ vrom his knee went down a blue Knit stockèn to his buckled shoe; An’ aunt did pull her gown-taïl drough Her pocket-hole, to keep en neat, As she mid walk, or teäke a seat  By leafy boughs a-zwaÿèn.
An’ vu’st they’d goo to zee their lots O’ pot-eärbs in the geärden plots; An’ he, i’-may-be, by the hatch, Would zee aunt’s vowls upon a patch O’ zeeds, an’ vow if he could catch Em wi’ his gun, they shoudden vlee Noo mwore into their roostèn tree,  Wi’ leafy boughs a-swaÿèn.
An’ then vrom geärden they did pass Drough orcha’d out to zee the grass, An’ if the apple-blooth, so white, Mid be at all a-touch’d wi’ blight; An’ uncle, happy at the zight, Did guess what cider there mid be In all the orcha’d, tree wi’ tree,  Wi’ tutties all a-swaÿèn.
An’ then they stump’d along vrom there A-vield, to zee the cows an’ meäre; An’ she, when uncle come in zight, Look’d up, an’ prick’d her ears upright, An’ whicker’d out wi’ all her might; An’ he, a-chucklèn, went to zee The cows below the sheädy tree,  Wi’ leafy boughs a-swaÿen.
An’ last ov all, they went to know How vast the grass in meäd did grow ​An’ then aunt zaid ’twer time to goo In hwome,—a-holdèn up her shoe, To show how wet he wer wi’ dew. An’ zoo they toddled hwome to rest, Lik’ doves a-vleèn to their nest  In leafy boughs a-swaÿen.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Trees be Company

TREES BE COMPANY.
When zummer’s burnèn het’s a-shed Upon the droopèn grasses head, A-drevèn under sheädy leaves The workvo’k in their snow-white sleeves. ​We then mid yearn to clim’ the height,  Where thorns be white, above the vern; An’ aïr do turn the zunsheen’s might  To softer light too weak to burn—  On woodless downs we mid be free,  But lowland trees be company.
Though downs mid show a wider view O’ green a-reachèn into blue Than roads a-windèn in the glen, An’ ringèn wi’ the sounds o’ men; The thissle’s crown o’ red an’ blue  In Fall’s cwold dew do wither brown, An’ larks come down ’ithin the lew.  As storms do brew, an’ skies do frown—  An’ though the down do let us free,  The lowland trees be company.
Where birds do zing, below the zun, In trees above the blue-smok’d tun, An’ sheädes o’ stems do overstratch The mossy path ’ithin the hatch; If leaves be bright up over head,  When Maÿ do shed its glitt’rèn light; Or, in the blight o’ Fall, do spread  A yollow bed avore our zight—  Whatever season it mid be,  The trees be always company.
When dusky night do nearly hide The path along the hedge’s zide, An’ dailight’s hwomely sounds be still But sounds o’ water at the mill; Then if noo feäce we long’d to greet  Could come to meet our lwonesome treäce Or if noo peäce o’ weary veet, ​ However fleet, could reach its pleäce—  However lwonesome we mid be,  The trees would still be company.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Tweil

TWEIL.
The rick ov our last zummer’s haulèn  Now vrom grey’s a-feäded dark, An’ off the barken raïl’s a-vallèn,  Day by day, the rottèn bark.— But short’s the time our works do stand, So feäir’s we put em out ov hand. Vor time a-passèn, wet an’ dry, Do spweïl em wi’ his changèn sky, ​The while wi’ strivèn hope, we men,  Though a-ruèn time’s undoèn, Still do tweil an’ tweil ageän.
In wall-zide sheädes, by leafy bowers,  Underneath the swaÿèn tree, O’ leäte, as round the bloomèn flowers,  Lowly humm’d the giddy bee, My childern’s small left voot did smite Their tiny speäde, the while the right Did trample on a deäisy head, Bezïde the flower’s dousty bed, An’ though their work wer idle then,  They a-smilèn, an’ a-tweilèn, Still did work an’ work ageän.
Now their little limbs be stronger,  Deeper now their vaïce do sound; An’ their little veet be longer,  An’ do tread on other ground; An’ rust is on the little bleädes  Ov all the broken-hafted speädes, An’ flow’rs that wer my hope an’ pride Ha’ long agoo a-bloom’d an’ died, But still as I did leäbor then  Vor love ov all them childern small, Zoo now I’ll tweil an’ tweil ageän.
When the smokeless tun’s a-growèn  Cwold as dew below the stars, An’ when the vier noo mwore’s a-glowèn  Red between the window bars, We then do laÿ our weary heads In peace upon their nightly beds, An’ gi’e woone sock, wi’ heavèn breast, An’ then breathe soft the breath o’ rest, ​Till day do call the sons o’ men
 Vrom night-sleep’s blackness, vull o’ sprackness,
Out abroad to tweil ageän.
Where the vaïce o’ the winds is mildest,  In the plaïn, their stroke is keen; Where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest,  In the grove, the grove’s our screen. An’ where the worold in their strife Do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life, Why there Almighty ceäre mid cast A better screen ageän the blast. Zoo I woon’t live in fear o’ men,  But, man-neglected, God-directed, Still wull tweil an’ tweil ageän.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Two an’ Two

TWO AN’ TWO.
The zun, O Jessie, while his feäce do rise  In vi’ry skies, a-sheddèn out his light On yollow corn a-weävèn down below  His yollow glow, is gaÿ avore the zight.  By two an’ two,  How goodly things do goo,  A-matchèn woone another to fulvill  The goodness ov their Meäkfèr’s will.
How bright the spreadèn water in the lew  Do catch the blue, a-sheenèn vrom the sky; How true the grass do teäke the dewy bead  That it do need, while dousty roads be dry.  By peäir an’ peäir  Each thing’s a-meäde to sheäre  The good another can bestow,  In wisdom’s work down here below.
The lowest lim’s o’ trees do seldom grow  A-spread too low to gi’e the cows a sheäde; The aïr’s to bear the bird, the bird’s to rise;  Vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light’s a-meäde. ​ ’Tis gi’e an’ teäke,  An’ woone vor others’ seäke;  In peäirs a-workèn out their ends,  Though men be foes that should be friends.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Treat well you Wife

TREAT WELL YOUR WIFE.
No, no, good Meäster Collins cried, Why you’ve a good wife at your zide; Zoo do believe the heart is true That gi’ed up all bezide vor you, ​An’ still beheäve as you begun To seek the love that you’ve a-won  When woonce in dewy June, In hours o’ hope soft eyes did flash, Each bright below his sheädy lash,  A-glisnèn to the moon.
Think how her girlhood met noo ceäre To peäle the bloom her feäce did weär, An’ how her glossy temple prest Her pillow down, in still-feäced rest, While sheädes o’ window bars did vall In moonlight on the gloomy wall,  In cool-aïr’d nights o’ June; The while her lids, wi’ bendèn streäks O’ lashes, met above her cheäks,  A-bloomèn to the moon.
Think how she left her childhood’s pleäce, An’ only sister’s long-known feäce, An’ brother’s jokes so much a-miss’d, An’ mother’s cheäk, the last a-kiss’d; An’ how she lighted down avore Her new abode, a husband’s door,  Your weddèn night in June; Wi’ heart that beät wi’ hope an’ fear, While on each eye-lash hung a tear,  A-glisnèn to the moon.
Think how her father zot all dum’, A-thinkèn on her, back at hwome, The while grey axan gather’d thick, On dyèn embers, on the brick; An’ how her mother look’d abrode, Drough window, down the moon-bright road, ​ Thik cloudless night o’ June, Wi’ tears upon her lashes big As raïn-drops on a slender twig,  A-glisnèn to the moon.
Zoo don’t zit thoughtless at your cup An’ keep your wife a-wäitèn up, The while the clock’s a-tickèn slow The chilly hours o’ vrost an’ snow, Until the zinkèn candle’s light Is out avore her drowsy sight,  A-dimm’d wi’ grief too soon; A-leävèn there alwone to murn The feädèn cheäk that woonce did burn,  A-bloomèn to the moon.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Vellèn o' the Tree

VELLEN O’ THE TREE.
Aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun’ War a-stannèn this mornèn, an’ now’s a-cut down. Aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun’ an’ so high, Where the mowers did goo to their drink, an’ did lie In the sheäde ov his head, when the zun at his heighth Had a-drove em vrom mowèn, wi’ het an’ wi’ drîth, ​Where the haÿ-meäkers put all their picks an’ their reäkes, An’ did squot down to snabble their cheese an’ their ceäkes, An’ did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi’ their eäle, An’ did meäke theirzelves merry wi’ joke an’ wi’ teäle.
Ees, we took up a rwope an’ we tied en all round At the top o’n, wi’ woone end a-hangèn to ground, An’ we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a’most drough, An’ we bent the wold head o’n wi’ woone tug or two; An’ he swaÿ’d all his limbs, an’ he nodded his head, Till he vell away down like a pillar o’ lead: An’ as we did run vrom en, there, clwose at our backs, Oh! his boughs come to groun’ wi’ sich whizzes an’ cracks; An’ his top wer so lofty that, now he is down, The stem o’n do reach a-most over the groun’. Zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun’ Wer a-stannèn this mornèn, an’ now’s a-cut down.
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Hope and Love

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A PROJECT.
The sun was setting o'er the sea,
 A beautiful and summer sun;
Crimson and bright, as if not night,
 But rather day had just begun:
That lighted sky, that lighted sea,
They spoke of Love and Hope to me.
I thought how Love, I thought how Hope,
 O'er the horizon of my heart
Had poured their light like yonder sun;
 Like yon sun, only to depart:
Alas! that ever suns should set,
Or Hope grow cold, or Love forget!
Blanchard’s title is:
HOPE AND LOVE
A ‘Song’ from The London Literary Gazette, 25th December 1824
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Humanity Angelic

CHAPTER XIX.
THE SICK ROOM.
If ever angels walked on weary earth
In human likeness, thou wert one of them.
Thy native heaven was with thee, but subdued
By suffering life's inevitable lot;
But the sweet spirit did assert its home
By faith and hope, and only owned its yoke
In the strong love that bound it to its kind.
Blanchard’s title is:
HUMANITY ANGELIC
Also appeared as Woman in Lyra Sacra, 1862