OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/Lines to her who can understand them

LINES
TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM.
Air: “To ladies’ eyes a round, boy!”
he song that o’er me hovered, In summer’s hour, in summer’s hour, To-day with joy has covered My winter bower, my winter bower. Blest be the lips that breathe it, As mine have been, as mine have been, When pressed in dreams beneath it, To hers unseen, to hers unseen. And may her heart, wherever Its hope may be, its hope may be, Beat happily, though never To beat for me, to beat for me!
Is she a spirit given One hour to earth, one hour to earth, To bring me dreams from heaven, Her place of birth, her place of birth? Or minstrel maiden hidden, Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun, A bud, a flower forbidden, To air and sun, to air and sun?
For had I power to summon, With harp divine, with harp divine, The angel or the woman, The last were mine, the last were mine.
If earth-born beauty’s fingers Awaked the lay, awaked the lay, Whose echoed music lingers Around my way, around my way, Where smiles the hearth she blesses With voice and eye, with voice and eye? Where binds the night her tresses, When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh! Is Fashion’s bleak cold mountain Her bosom’s throne, her bosom’s throne? Or love’s green vale and fountain, With one alone, with one alone?
Why ask! why seek a treasure Like her I sing, like her I sing? Her name nor pain nor pleasure To me should bring, to me should bring. Love must not grieve or gladden My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow, Nor woman soothe or sadden My path below, my path below. Before a worldlier altar I’ve knelt too long, I’ve knelt too long; And if my footsteps falter, ’Tis but in song, ’tis but in song.
Nor would I break the vision Young fancies frame, young fancies frame, That lights with stars Elysian A poet’s name, a poet’s name. For she whose gentle spirit Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime, Gives hues they do not merit To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme, But place the proudest near her, Whate’er their pen, whate’er their pen, She’ll say (be mute who hear her) Mere mortal men, mere mortal men!
Yet though unseen, unseeing, We meet and part, we meet and part, Be still my worshipped being, In mind and heart, in mind and heart. And bid thy song that found me, My minstrel-maid, my minstrel-maid! Be winter’s sunbeam round me, And summer’s shade, and summer’s shade. I could not gaze upon thee, And dare thy spell, and dare thy spell, And when a happier won thee, Thus bid farewell, thus bid farewell.
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/Forget-Me-Not

FORGET-ME-NOT.
here flows the fountain silently, It blooms a lovely flower; Blue as the beauty of the sky, It speaks, like kind fidelity, Through fortune’s sun and shower— “Forget-me-not!”
’Tis like thy starry eyes, more bright Than evening’s proudest star; Like purity’s own halo-light, It seems to smile upon thy sight, And says to thee from far— “Forget-me-not!”
Each dew-drop on its morning leaves Is eloquent as tears, That whisper, when young passion grieves, For one beloved afar, and weaves His dream of hopes and fears— “Forget-me-not!”
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/From the French of General Lallemand

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF GENERAL LALLEMAND.
weet maid! whose life the frost of destiny Withered while yet its first spring-leaves were green; Pure, sainted being! from thy home on high, Look with thine eyes of love, upon the scene Where, for one little hour, thy spirit moved, A visitant—to love, and to be loved, And where thy song of youth to virtue gave The music of its praises—the green bowers Of home and friendship wreathed with fadeless flowers, And made the laurel dearer to the brave.
Still do the hearts that loved thee, beat for thee Warmly, as when they beat beside thy bier. And still to them, of earthly things most dear And sacred, is thy pledge of memory— A father’s gift, whose every cherished word Bids the sweet echo of thy song be heard; And fain would bid their sorrows cease to be. Would it could soothe a mother’s griefs but they Are graven deep, and will not pass away!
Blest spirit! long as at the name alone Of their Eliza, tears are seen to start, And sighs are breathed, whose birthplace is the heart. Look on thy friends from thine ethereal throne, With smiles that greeted them in happier days; And pardon one to thee, and thine unknown, Whose Stranger hand strews flowers upon thy tomb, For he hath heard the music of thy lays, And who can listen to its tones, nor raise His thoughts to thee, and thine Eternal home?
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/Lamentings

LAMENTINGS.
“I cannot but remember such things were, And were most precious to me.”
Macduff.
h! where are now the lights that shed A lustre o’er my darkened hours, The priests of pleasure’s fane, who spread, Each night beneath my weary head, Endymion’s moonlight couch of flowers?
No more in chains of music bound, I listen to those airy reels, When quavering Philipps cuts around Fantastic pigeon-wings of sound, Like Byrne, who, without touching ground, Eleven times can cross his heels.
No longer Cooper’s tongue of tongues, Pumps thunder from his stormy lungs; Turner has shut his classic pages, Southward his face Magenis turns, And for the halls of Congress spurns The mansion of our civic sages.
And Wallack, too, no longer dips In bathos, for the tragic prize; And Bartley, a melalogue that slips Melodious from her honeyed lips, No more in murmured music dies.
Yet, though fell Fortune has bereft My heart of all, one mode is left In slumber’s vision to restore ’em; Weekly I’ll buy with pious pence, A dose of opiate eloquence, And sleep in quiet at the Forum.
D.
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/Honor to Woman

HONOR TO WOMAN.
FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
ll honor to woman, the Sweetheart, the Wife, The delight of our homesteads by night and by day, The darling who never does harm in her life, Except when determined to have her own way.
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/From the Italian

FROM THE ITALIAN.
yes with the same blue witchery as those Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles; Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose, That move but with kind words and sweetest smiles; A power of motion and of look, whose art Throws, silently, around the wildest heart The net it would not break; a form which vies With that the Grecian imaged in his mind, And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find His breathing marble could not realize. Know ye this picture? There is one alone Can call its pencilled lineaments her own. She whom, at morning, when the summer air Wanders, delighted, o’er her face of flowers, And lingers in the ringlets of her hair, We deem the Hebe of Jove’s banquet-hours; She who, at evening, when her fingers press The harp, and wake its harmonies divine, Seems sweetest-voiced and loveliest of the Nine, The minstrel of the bowers of happiness, She whom the Graces nurtured—at her birth, The sea-born Goddess and the Huntress maid,
Beings whose beauty is not of the earth, Came from their myrtle home and forest shade, Blending immortal joy with mortal mirth And Dian said, “Fair sister, be she mine In her heart’s purity, in beauty thine.” The smiling infant listened and obeyed.
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/Index

INDEX TO FIRST LINES.
THE END.
# The Philosophy of Beards/Preface

Preface.
The following Lecture, the first I believe on the specific subject, met with a warm reception from a numerous and good-humoured auditory; and received long and flattering notices from the local papers, "the Ipswich Journal," and "the Suffolk Chronicle." My enterprising and liberal publisher, has thought it worthy of more extended circulation. May the public think with him, and take it off his hands as freely as he has taken it off mine! I have modified the passages which referred to the illustrations; the greater portion of which it would, independently of expense, have been impossible to give with any effect on a small scale. Mr. F. B. Russel, (to whom ​with his worthy brother artist, Mr. Thomas Smyth, I was indebted for the original design,) has, with a kindness I can better appreciate than acknowledge, anastatieized the humorous drawing of the ape and the goat, (page 21,) with which their joint talents enriched my Lecture. Mr. Russel has also very skilfully introduced into the title page, reduced copies of the three views of the Greek head of Jupiter, referred to at page 14.
Since its delivery, many notes have been added to the Lecture, which it is hoped will afford both amusement and information. It now only remains for me to make my bow, wish my "fatres barbati," long life to their Beards, and shout
Vivat Regina!
Florent Barba!
# The Reciter/Address to the ocean

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, ​From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue oceal---roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin---his control Stops with the shore;---upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shaddow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown
His steps are not upon thy paths,---thy fields Are not a spoil for him,---thou dost arise And shake him from; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou doest all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him shivering in thy playful spra And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:---there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarches tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which man Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
​Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:---not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play--- Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow--- Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convuls'd---in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;---boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity---the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have lov'd thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers---they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror---'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near And laid my hand upon thy mane---as I do here.
# The Reciter/Lord Ullin's daughter

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry.'-
​'Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?'--- O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
'And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together; For, should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.
'His horsemen hard behind us ride, Should they our steps discover, Then who would cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?'
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, 'I'll go, my chief---I'm ready:--- It is not for your silver bright ; But for your winsome lady:
And, by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry!'
By this the storm grew loud арасе, The water-wraith was shrieking, And in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.--
​'Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries ' Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.'
The boat has left a stormy land, A story sea before her,— When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing
For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely arm she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover.
'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief, 'Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!---oh! my daughter!
'Twas vain! the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child-- And he was left lamenting.
# The Reciter/Ode to eloquence

ODE TO ELOQUENCE
Heard ye those loud contending waves, That shook Cecropia's pillar'd state? Saw ye the mighty from their graves Look up, and tremble at her fate?
Who shall calm the angry storm? Who the mighty task perform And bid the raging tumult cease. See, the son of Hermes rise, With syren tongue, and speaking eyes, Hush the noise, and sooth to peace!
See the olive branches waving O'er Illissus winding stream, Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving, The Muses smiling by, supreme!
See the nymphs and swains advancing, To harmonious measures dancing: Grateful Io Paens rise To thee, O Power! who canst inspire Soothing words---or words of fire, And shookst thy plumes in Attic skies!
​Lo! from the regions of the north, The reddening storm of battle pours, Rolls along the trembling earth, Fastens on the Olynthian towers.
"Where rests the sword?---where sleep the brave? Awake! Cecropia's ally save From the fury of the blast: Burst the storin on Plocis' walls! Rise! or Greece for ever falls; Up! or Freedom breathes her last!"
The jarring states, obsequious now, View the Patriot's hand on high; Thunder gathering on his brow, Lightning flashing from his eye!
Borne by the tide of words along, One mind, one voice, inspire the throng! --- "To arms! to arms! to arms!" they cry, "Grasp the shield, and draw the sword, Lead us to Philippi's lord, Let us conquer him, or die!"
Ah, eloquence! thou wast undone; Wast from thy native country driven When Tyranny eclipsed the sun, And blotted out the stars of heaven!
When liberty from Greece withdrew, And o'er the Adriatic flew To where the Tiber pours his urn--- She struck the rude Tarpeian rock, Sparks were kindled by the stroke--- Again thy fires began to burn!
​Now shining forth, thou mad'st compliant The conscript fathers to thy charms, Roused the world-bestriding giant, Sinking fast in Slavery's arms!
I see thee stand by freedom's fane, Pouring the persuasive strain, Giving vast conceptions birth: Hark! I hear thy thunders sound, Shake the Forum round and round Shake the pillars of the earth!
First-born of Liberty divine! Put on Religion's bright array: Speak! and the starless grave shall shine The portal of eternal day!
Rise, kindling with the orient beam, Let Calvary's hill inspire the theme, Unfold the garments roll'd in blood! Oh, touch the soul---touch all her chords With all thy omnipotence of words, And point the way to heaven---to God
# The Reciter/Billy Dip

BILLY DIP.
Chloe, a maid at fifty-five, Was at her toilette dressing ; Her waiting-maid, with iron hot, Each paper'd curl was pressing. ​The looking-glass her eyes engross, While Betty humm'd a ditty; She gazed so much upon her face, She really thought it pretty. Her painted cheeks and pencil brows, She could not but approve. Her thoughts on various subjects turn'd, At length they fix'd on love: "And shall," said she, "a virgin life Await these pleasing charms? And will no sighing blooming youth Receive me to his arms?- Forbid it, Love!" She scarce had spoke, When Cupid laid a trap; For, at the chamber door was heard A soft and gentle rap: Cried Betty, "who is at the door?" "Aye tell," quoth Chloe, "true:" When straight a tender voice replied, "Dear ma'am, I dye for you "What's that,” she said, "O, Betty, say! A man! and die for me! And can I see the youth expire--- Oh, no! it must not be! Haste, Betty,---open quick the door:" 'Tis done ; and, lo! to view, A little man with bundle stood, In sleeves and apron blue Ye Powers!" cried Chloe, "what is this? What vision do I see? Is this the man, oh, mighty Love!--- Тhe man that dies for me?" "Yes ma'am; your ladyship is right," The figure straight replied; "And hard for me it would have been If I had never dyed. ​La! ma'am, you must have heard of me, Although I'm no highflyer; I live just by at No. 1, I'm Billy Dip, the dyer. Twas I, ma'am, Betty there employed To dye your lustering gown; And I not only dye for you But I dye for the whole town."
# The Reciter/Hohenlinden

HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry,
Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rappidly.
Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
​The combat deepens-On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave; Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!---
Few, few shall part where many meet,- The snow shall be their winding sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
# The Reciter

THE
RECITER,
A CHOICE SELECTION
OF THE MOST
POPULAR POEMS,
FOR
RECITATION.
CONTENTS:
"The manner of speaking is as important as the matter."
Chesterfield.
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
15.
* Glenara
* The burial of Sir John Moore
* Lord Ullin's daughter
* Billy Dip
* The well of St. Keyne
* Hohenlinden
* Ode to eloquence
* Tell's speech
* The star of Bethlehem
* The three black crows
* The orphan boy
* The pig in a pock
* Address to the ocean
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
# The Reciter/Glenara

THE
RECITER.
GLENARA.
Oh! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire and her people are call'd to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They march'd all in silence—they look'd to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar, 'Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn- Why speak ye no word?' said Glenara the stern.
'And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?' So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
'I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud,' Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; 'And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'
​Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen. Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn--- 'Twas the youth that had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn.
'I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief, I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found; From the rock of the ocean that beauty is borne; Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
Campbell.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/John Woolman
## John Woolman

Meek, humble, sinless as a very child, Such wert thou,—and, though unbeheld, I seem Oft-times to gaze upon thy features mild, Thy grave, yet gentle lip, and the soft beam Of that kind eye, that knew not how to shed A glance of aught save love, on any human head.
Servant of Jesus! Christian! not alone In name and creed, with practice differing wide, Thou didst not in thy conduct fear to own His self-denying precepts for thy guide. Stern only to thyself, all others felt Thy strong rebuke was love, not meant to crush, but melt.
Thou, who didst pour o'er all the human kind The gushing fervour of thy sympathy! E'en the unreasoning brute, fail'd not to find A pleader for his happiness in thee. Thy heart was moved for every breathing thing, By careless man exposed to needless suffering.
But most the wrongs and sufferings of the slave, Stirr'd the deep fountain of thy pitying heart; And still thy hand was stretch'd to aid and save, Until it seem'd that thou hadst taken a part In their existence, and couldst hold no more A separate life from them, as thou hadst done before.
How the sweet pathos of thy eloquence, Beautiful in its simplicity, went forth Entreating for them! that this vile offence, So unbeseeming of our country's worth, Might be removed before the threatening cloud, Thou saw'st o'erhanging it, should burst in storm and blood.
So may thy name be reverenced,—thou wert one Of those whose virtues link us to our kind, By our best sympathies; thy day is done, But its twilight lingers still behind, In thy pure memory; and we bless thee yet, For the example fair thou hast before us set.