OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Oriel Window

POEMS SENTIMENTAL AND MISCELLANEOUS
PART SECOND
Beginning with "The Oriel Window", ending with "Resurgam"
THE ORIEL WINDOW
I pray in the country church, alas! With missal and mind contrary; And in spite of the hymn and the blessed Mass, In spite of my Ave Mary, My fancies are drowned in the faces around, In spite of my Ave Mary!
The bluffs, the breeze, the bulwark trees, Are grand and glad and holy yet; The river as proudly seeks the seas As it did in the days of Joilet— It’s wave-lips stirr’d with the babble of a bird As a psalm and a psalter for Joilet.
And then uprolled from the rafter’s mold, Come the dear ones, the departed— The fair and old ’neath the marigold, The bold and the broken-hearted— Till I shudder to think how we rabble on the brink Of the early broken-hearted.
In mystic trance of my old Romance, I let all my sorrow and sin go; Forgetting the graves as they glance and dance Down—down through the ghastly window— With column and cross and banners of moss, Down—down through the Oriel Window.
A purple band from the Phantom Land, Come the idol-gods I cherished, And lo! they stand by a throne of sand, With palsied brows and perished— And scoop from the shore of the sea no more The shells of the Past and Perished.
But from those shells ring passion bells, Till my soul from its sacred duty Is ravished along with an earthly song, But a song of love and beauty, Till the air is aglow with lustrous hair And dark-eyed songs of beauty.
She kneels in a nook by the dusty choir, With aspect lost and lornful; My breast is gored with spears of fire To see her looking so mournful— Ah, ’tis not meet that one so sweet Should ever be moody and mournful.
She tells, I wist, the beads on her wrist, With a gentle, lyrical motion; And she seems in a mist when the Eucharist Is soared for the people’s devotion; While a glittering crown for the head bowed down Is the meed of her dear devotion.
Have you come in the guise of Paradise Our heart-troth to dissever? In tears, for the lonesome, bitter years, Would you woo me back forever? Oh, speak, love, speak what your sad eyes seek, And win me back forever!
Both overthrown, we both have known How the chains of mortality clank ill— But tonight, tonight a vow we’ll plight, To make our wild hearts tranquil; While the flambeaux shine over thine and mine Untroubled, untortured and tranquil. *********
She kneels in a nook by the dusty choir, Shakes the bloom from my dream-mimosa, I rush to the nook in the choir to greet The Mater Dolorosa! Nought, nought was there but a sculptured prayer Of the Mater Dolorosa.
No more in a trance of my old Romance Shall I let all my sorrow and sin go; But I’ll join the graves as they glance and dance Down—down through the ghastly window, With column and cross, and banners of moss Down—down through the Oriel Window!
Point Coupee on the Mississippi, 1861.
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Sunday Revery

SUNDAY REVERY
Beyond my dingy window pane, This beamy Sunday morn, I watch the red-breast on the vane And the ravens robbing corn; Hard by, the Alabama boils Its sallow flood along, With drift-wood biers and forest spoils-— A melancholy throng!
The rich horizon melts away To an illumined arch, With summer tresses all astray Upon the brows of March; The birds, inebriate with glees, Seem happiest when they sing, Thrilling the aromatic trees With symphonies of Spring.
The pulse of nature throbs anew Impassioned of the sun; The violet, with eyes of blue, Is modest as a nun. The roses reek not of the strife That crashes up the North; Alas! the mockery of life When Death is striding forth.
An alien in this lonely land, I sound an alien strain, Until my own fair State shall stand Inviolate again; The long-lost Pleiad of our sky Is glimmering still afar, And nations yet shall see on high That bright and blessed star.
The church bells toll their solemn chime, From out the minster eaves, Knelling some old religious rhyme, Half stifled by the leaves. A thousand miles away, I hear Those grand Cathedral notes, Which made my youth a fairy sphere With cymbal-clashing throats.
Vibrating to each sturdy tone, My soul remembers well The mild Madonna’s statue-stone Within its ivory cell; The ritual read, the chanting done— The belfry music roll’d, And all my faith, like Whittington, Was in the tales it told!
And, oh! I feel as men must feel Who have not wept for years; Upon my cheek behold the seal Of consecrated tears. A mighty Sabbath calm is mine That baffles human lore, A resurrection of Lang Syne A guiltless child once more.
And mother’s school-boy with his mimes, This beamy Sunday morn, Forgets the grim, tumultuous times That hardened him in scorn. Forgets terrific ocean days Beyond the tropic gates, Where the Magellan clouds down-gaze On Patagonian Straits.
He nothing heeds the long despair Within the savage swamp, The jungle and the thicket where The serpent tribes encamp; He little heeds the dream of Fame, Its treason or its trust, The hope of a sonorous name— A requiem from the dust.
But oh, he heeds Elysian hours That hint of Long Ago! Those dreamful days in college towers He never more shall know— The home he never more may see, A Paradise to him— The books he read at Mother’s knee When her dear eyes grew dim!
O Mother—Mother! Tears must fleet Along the battle track Ere yet thy lonely heart can greet Its weary wanderer back— A deathless love these tears bespeak, For thy devotion shed, With thy pure kisses on my cheek, Thy blessing on my head!
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Lone Sentry

THE LONE SENTRY
Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the ground, exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the officer of the day went to the General’s tent and said:
“General, the men are all wearied and there is not one but is asleep. Shall I wake them?”
“No,” said the noble Jackson. “Let them sleep, and I will watch the camp tonight.”
And all night long he rode around that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel for that brave, but weary, body of Virginia heroes. When glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all unconscious of the vigil kept over their slumbers.
’Twas at the dying of the day, The darkness grew so still The drowsy pipe of evening birds Was hushed upon the hill. Athwart the shadows of the vale Slumbered the men of might, And one lone sentry paced his rounds To watch the camp that night.
A grave and solemn man was he, With deep and somber brow; The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up Some unaccomplished vow. The wistful glance peered o’er the plain Beneath the starry light, And with the murmured name of God He watched the camp that night.
The future opened unto him Its grand and awful scroll— Manassas and the Valley march Came heaving o’er his soul, Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by With that tremendous fight That gave him to the angel host Who watched the camp that night.
We mourn for him who died for us With one resistless moan, While up the Valley of the Lord He marches to the Throne! He kept the faith of men and saints Sublime and pure and bright; He sleeps—and all is well with him Who watched the camp that night.
Brothers! The midnight of our Cause Is shrouded in our fate— The demon Goths pollute our halls With fire and lust and hate! Be strong, be valiant, be assured— Strike home for Heaven and Right! The soul of Jackson stalks abroad And guards the camp tonight.
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Damsel of Mobile

THE DAMSEL OF MOBILE
I met thee in the Summer time, The Summer of my youth— In days of my melodious prime And thine unsullied truth. I met thee when the jasmine buds, Their velvet locks reveal; ’Til I loved thee, ’til I loved thee, Darling Damsel of Mobile!
O shining tresses of the sun! O eyes of ocean blue! O dainty feet to nimbly run Upon the glittering dew! The cypress breathes its gloomy buds On all I felt and feel— Still I love thee! Still I love thee! Darling Damsel of Mobile!
And now the Summer time no more, The vikings of the rain Thunder their turf-steeds on the shore And prowl the jasmine plain; The night shade blackens on my brow, The lightnings gash like steel— But a Summer heart still throbs for thee, Darling Damsel of Mobile!
I know, I know that Summer goes, Like some divine disguise; I know that Summer rapture flows By ringlets and blue eyes— But thou, my Psyche and my soul! To thee alone I kneel, With the Summer sunshine in thy hair, Darling Damsel of Mobile!
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Dying Girl

THE DYING GIRL
Written at the Age of Sixteen
Earth is fading—heaven beaming— All around grows dark and chill; White robed phantoms near me streaming— Streaming, streaming, streaming still.
Clasp me, mother, clasp me lightly, Lest you press the soul too soon From the form that once shone brightly— Quenched its brilliance in its noon.
Kiss me, father, kiss me sweetly; Smoothe the ringlets from my brow— Quick—oh quick—for fleetly, fleetly Speeds life’s current from me now!
Where is Harry, where is Harry? Far from Stella’s weeping bed; Who to him my words shall carry— Who shall tell him I am dead!
Far away, he thinks me blooming Into beauty proud and dear, While before my orbs are looming Visions of the shroud and bier.
Take these withered lilies to him— Whence this tremor, whence this gloom? Show the buds, all drooping, show him— Let him strew them o’er my tomb.
Icy drops upon me gleaming— Slower, slower pants my breath; Tell me, mother, am I dreaming— Tell me, am I tasting death?
I am going! I am going! Far from Harry—far from home, Where eternal truth is glowing— Where the meteor angels roam.
The spoiler comes, on flashing pinions, Thirsting is his eager dart; Now he beckons to his minions— Now his keen lance drinks my heart!
Farewell, father! farewell, mother! Catch my latest look and sigh; Farewell, Harry—more than brother— God of life! I die—I die!
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Grand Duke

THE GRAND DUKE
You gave me flowers in the crimson eves, Down by the garden gate, Where, on his throne of glad geranium leaves, The Grand Duke sat in state.
You pitied him—the Grand Duke—and you sent A rare and budding bride, A lithe and fragrant Duchess, dew-be-sprent, Snow-bosomed and blue-eyed.
Anon, the Grand Duke frowned and stood apart— The cold and bashful churl! Until you bound them, darling, heart to heart, With one enamored curl.
Ah me! I have the plaintive bouquet here, With all its lustre fled; The lissome bride on her geranium bier, And the dear Grand Duke—dead.
And many sad and sombre thoughts arise Within me and without; Spectres of flowerets pictured on mine eyes, Robed in a shroud of doubt.
Here, in the hot June midnight, grave and lone, By the dull candle’s flare, I weave unutterable words, and moan Over a woman’s hair.
“Only a woman’s hair!” and still I sob O’er memory with her pearls, Crushing my brows with anguish till they throb— Writhing my soul with curls.
No—no! I must not ponder things like these; Be mine a breast of mail— Though but a Nautilus of frenzied seas, Swift—solitary—frail.
The world will know you not, my song, for you Speak but to one, and say Something I dare not, to an eve of blue When I am far away.
I dare not—for I flit the waif of chance, A riddle few have read, Like the Grand Duke, I’ve had my day’s romance, Like the Grand Duke, am dead.
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Only Boy

THE ONLY BOY
Though heaven has gained one angel more, My heart, dear God, is wondrous sore; For that bright angel Thou hast won Was my sweet lamb, my only son.
How shall an earthly mother bear Such awful anguish and despair? How shall she live, and living, know Such depths of overwhelming woe?
Without Thy aid, dear God, my soul Is shipwrecked in a sea of dole. Without Thy rescuing hand, I sink Beyond the world’s absymal brink.
He was my pride, my hope, my joy— Ah, bitterest thought, my only boy! And now, while night-winds madly rave My heart is buried in his grave.
Too much I worshiped him, perchance Too much I drifted from Thy glance. Thou art a jealous God, and Thou Hast put Thy crown upon my brow.
I pass beneath Thy rod; I pray To find salvation’s thorny way— I care not boy what pangs beguiled, So it but lead me to my child.
Ah, blessed thought to know that he Is safe from sin and misery; That, in the young May of his life, He fell unsullied in the strife.
I treasure up his image fair, I kiss his tress of shining hair, Thrilling to hope, in heaven, that he Will be “the first to welcome me.”
Within Thy sheltering arms, I place My idol, glorified by grace; And, with the dear ones left, my eyes Gaze through the gates of Paradise.
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Cobra Capello

THE COBRA CAPELLO
“The cobra, though exceedingly venomous, has an aspect of gentleness and docility.”—Encyclopedia.
Beautiful—yes! for her basilisk eyes Gleam out when the features are luscious and mellow; Beautiful—yes! but adown the disguise, I detect just a tinge of the Cobra Capello.
And I think Mother Eve looked exactly like this When she played such a prank on uxorious Adam; I’ve a chronic dislike to a serpentine kiss, And never eat apples in any style, Madam.
Beautiful—yes! as she paddles her fan ’Mid the bordered lagoons of her robe of white muslin; And the tight little boot taps a quick rataplan, In a way most piratical, not to say puzzling.
She prates of Tom Noddy, the handsome young goose Of Don Trombonetti, divine on the flute; And then, with a smile that’s as arch as—the deuce, Quotes pert panegyrics on somebody’s foot!
She’ll sing you a hymn or tell you a fib, (Just one of those cynical, feathery trifles,) And then, with a smirk that I think rather glib, Sigh after some monster that left with the Rifles.
She vows I’m a miracle walking with men— (Ugh! I swallow it all with a groan and a cough), For I know that most women are comical, when Their nightcaps are on and the visitors off!
Ay, rattle ahead and prattle away, But, in sepulchred thought, I brood over another; We parted, alas! about nine months today, And we never must meet again—somehow or other.
They tell me, poor bird, it is painful to see How you’ve changed, since we rode in the warm summer weather; And oh, if I felt you were pining for me, I’d hew me a path that would bring us together.
In your solitude still, do you sing the old songs? O, the “Long Weary Day!” shall it cease for us never? But here, in the ruck of the sumptuous throngs, Your name in my lone heart is sacred forever!
Ah me! I am chill, for ’tis fearful to sit By the Cobra, when languished with tenderer matters— Ha! I see that my secret is guessed—every bit— For she’s nibbling her lip, and the fan is in tatters.
Beautiful—yes! but I shall not succumb, Though wifeless from Beersheba even to Dan; Heigho! if my heart were but under her thumb, She’d crumple it, too, like the innocent fan!
# Little Grey Ships/Advertisements

Advertisements. Front and back inner covers, and back cover.
MURRAY'S SHILLING NOVELS
LADDIE By Gene Stratton-Porter.
NOTWITHSTANDING. By Mary Cholmondeley.
LOOT. By Horace A. Vachell.
MR. WYCHERLY'S WARDS. By L. Allen Harker.
TOWER OF IVORY. By Gertrude Atherton.
AN IMPENDING SWORD. By Horace A. Vachell.
FRECKLES. By Gene Stratton-Porter.
QUINNEYS'. By Horace A. Vachell.
MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY. By L. Allen Harker.
SEPTIMUS. By W. J. Locke.
THE COMPLEAT BACHELOR. By Oliver Onions.
THE FLORENTINE FRAME. By Elizabeth Robins.
FLEMINGTON. By Violet Jacob.
MURRAY'S SHILLING LIBRARY
Even in these days of cheap books the volumes of these series arrest attention as remarkable. They are Crown 8vo (7.3 X 5 in.) in size, well printed, and tastefully bound in red cloth boards—their general appearance, indeed, leaves nothing to be desired.
The following is a selection of the volumes—complete list will be posted on request:
A. C. Benson—The Thread of Gold.
A. C. Benson—The House of Ouiet.
Michael Fairless—The Gathering of Brother Hilarius.
Darwin—Origin of Species (Copyright edition).
W. G. Blaikie—Life of David Livingstone.
Dean Stanley—Historical Memorials of Canterbury.
Dean Stanley—Sinai & Palestine.
Basil Lubbock—Round the Horn Before the Mast.
Gordon Cumming—The Lion Hunter of South Africa.
Bishop Gore—The Sermon on the Mount.
Admiral Giffard—Deeds of Naval Daring.
Queen Victoria—A Selection from Her Majesty's Correspondence, 1837-1861. 3 vols.
H. W. Bates—Naturalist on the River Amazons.
War-time Reading
RED CROSS & IRON CROSS
By A DOCTOR IN FRANCE. “One of the most fearful and poignant indictments of German militarism that has ever been uttered by word or pen. There is something at the back of the strong emotion with which he writes that stamps even the ghastliest of his revelations with the unmistakable mark of truth.—Pall Mall Gazette. 4TH Impression. 2s. 6d. net
BATTERY FLASHES By “WAGGER.”
“Makes extraordinarily good reading. It is a homely account by a signaller in the Territorial Artillery of his day's work in training and at the Front. He writes of the little things of a soldier's life, quite as much as of the bigger things, bursting shells, collapsing dug-outs, the perilous crossing of shot-swept zones, and other incidents of actual fighting. The book as a whole gives us a deep insight into the mind of the modern soldier.”—Daily Mail. 2s. 6d. net
BALLADS OF BATTLE
Written and illustrated by Corporal JOSEPH LEE. “Here is a soldier and a poet and a black-and-white artist of merit, and we wouldn't exchange him fof a dozen professional versifiers who cannot write with a spade or draw with a bayonet, or blow martial music out of a mouth-organ.”—Morning Post. 2s. 6d. net
A PUBLIC SCHOOL IN WAR-TIME
By S. P. B. MAIS. “You must read this book from beginning to end if you wish to understand how triumphantly the Public School spirit has justified all that has been said of it, in prose or poetically, in the last fifty years.”—Morning Post. 3s. 6d. net
LONDON: JOHN MURRAY
# Little Grey Ships/Mines

“We're poachin' them eggs, as a poet might say— / Slow work, but excitin', too, / For maybe ye poaches yer egg o.k., / An' maybe it scrambles you!

### MINES

What are ye trawlin' for, Lucky Jack, Out on the old North Sea? An' why is yer trawler all greyish black,
As glum as a T.B.D.?
An' what o' the hundreds o' East Coast chaps
On trawlers made likewise glum?
They goes somewhere ... comes home—well, p'raps.
There's one, now an' then, don't come.
But never a fish do they land—an' fish
Is fetchin' a 'normous price!...
What are ye trawlin' for, Lucky Jack,
Wi' yer decks all slush an' ice?
“We're trawlin' from dawnin' till dusk, Old Sam;
We're doin' a roarin' trade—
(The roarin', ye'd hear it ten mile, by Jam!)
In eggs which the Huns ha' laid.
“We're poachin' them eggs, as a poet might say—
Slow work, but excitin', too,
For maybe ye poaches yer egg o.k.,
An' maybe it scrambles you!
“I'm gettin' half-used to beholdin' 'em bust,
But wishin' to God they was done,
For ev'ry one 'minds me o' good ships lost,
Good chaps as did harm to none...”
How would ye punish 'em, Lucky Jack,
As ordered such things to be?
How would ye serve 'em as brought such wrack
An' grief on the old North Sea?
“Why, Sam, I would give 'em a beautiful ship
An' put 'em on board, well found.
Ten thousand mile I would make their trip,
An' they should be home'ard bound.
“An' ev'ry mile would be sowed wi' mines—
Leastways, they'd be warned 'twas so...
Think I would waste on the blushin' swines
A ha'penny squib?—hell, no!
“So they'd sail an' sail till... Excuse me, Sam,
'Tis seldom I really smiles....”
But, Jack, are ye daft? If 'twas all a sham
'Bout the mines, what'd matter the miles?
They'd all win home!... “Which I'll not deny—
If a wheel knows how to steer!
But ten thousand mile on a minefield—Why,
They'd all ha' died—mad—o' fear!”
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 130/Issue 1676/"Rejected"

* "REJECTED."
* [A PICTURE IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY, BY MARCUS STONE.]
* Her little face is white with woe,
* Her downcast eyes are wet;
* She had not meant to grieve him so,
* At least, — at least, — not yet;
* It was so pleasant to be wooed,
* So hateful to be won, —
* Ah! why should many a merry mood
* End in so drear a one!
* She draws the curtain back, and peers
* Into the world beyond;
* The garden gleams in flowery tiers,
* The fish leap in the pond;
* Behind there is a misty hill, —
* How grey it all has grown!
* Perhaps it was her father's will,
* Perhaps it is her own.
* He turns aside, — he pleads no more,
* But goes with drooping head;
* A man is often wounded sore,
* Who dons a coat of red.
* And so he sadly rides away,
* Slowly o'er hill and plain;
* But, let us hope, some other day
* He will ride back again!
* H. E. DUFF.
* Spectator.
* June I
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 130/Issue 1675/Harvest

* HARVEST.
* With throbbing heart and tearful eye
* I watched the spring-time fleeting by.
* I saw the snowdrop at its birth
* Felled, by spears of rain, to earth;
* The iris burst her emerald sheath,
* And shew the amethyst beneath;
* The painted tulip fade and close
* Before the glory of the rose;
* And now, down fields of sunburnt grass
* I see the withering rose-leaves pass;
* And, night by night, and day by day,
* The life of summer ebbs away,
* I see the granaries overflow,
* The mellowing orchards bending low,
* God! my heart in awe and fear
* Looks back upon thy perfect year.
* Thy bounty covers all the lands;
* I lift in prayer my empty hands.
* Of all the summer of my life
* My harvest is but sin and strife.
* Oh! could these tears, like April rain,
* Make moist my heart's hard soil again,
* And stir the seeds which Thou didst sow,
* Oh! never should they cease to flow.
* Could prayer but melt this ice away,
* Oh! never would I cease to pray,
* Till thou in mercy, Lord, didst bring
* Into my soul a second spring.
* Oh! then what rich reward and sweet
* To lay its harvest at Thy feet!
* Katherine Saunders.
* Good Words.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 130/Issue 1676

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XV. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1676. — July 22, 1876. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXX. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Physics and Physiology of Harmony, | Westminster Review, | 195 |
| II. | The Lady Candidate. Conclusion, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 207 |
| III. | Ordeals and Oaths, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 220 |
| IV. | Walther von der Vogelweide, | Cornhill Magazine, | 229 |
| V. | Leigh Hunt and Lord Brougham. With Original Letters. By S. R. Townshend Meyer, | Temple Bar, | 239 |
| VI. | Partial Deafness, | Spectator, | 247 |
| VII. | The Extradition Quarrel, | Economist, | 249 |
| VIII. | Lunar Studies, | Spectator, | 252 |
| IX. | The Remington Type-Writing Machine, | Nature, | 254 |
| X. | Physical Influences upon Character, | Victoria Magazine, | 255 |
| XI. | A Free Spanish University, | Nature, | 256 |
POETRY. :
| To a Young Lady on the Approach of the Season, | 194 | Leisure and Love, | 194 |
| To a Young Lady on the Approach of the Season, | 194 | "Rejected", | 194 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 130/Issue 1675/Miscellany

​Absorptive Power of Milk. — Attention has been called in the daily papers to a practice prevalent in some parts of the country, which appears to illustrate the power possessed by milk of absorbing atmospheric impurities. It is that of placing a saucer of new milk in a larder, to preserve meat or game from taint. It is said that not only does it answer that purpose, but that the milk after a few hours becomes so bad that no animal will touch it.