OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Looks a-know'd Avore

LOOKS A-KNOW’D AVORE.
While zome, a-gwaïn from pleäce to pleäce, Do daily meet wi’ zome new feäce, When my day’s work is at an end, Let me zit down at hwome, an’ spend A happy hour wi’ zome wold friend,  An’ by my own vire-zide rejaïce  In zome wold naïghbour’s welcome vaïce,  An’ looks I know’d avore, John.
Why is it, friends that we’ve a-met By zuns that now ha’ long a-zet, Or winter vires that bleäzed for wold An’ young vo’k, now vor ever cwold, Be met wi’ jaÿ that can’t be twold?  Why, ’tis because they friends have all  Our youthvul spring ha’ left our fall,—  The looks we know’d avore, John.
​’Tis lively at a feäir, among The chattèn, laughèn, shiften drong, When wold an’ young, an’ high an’ low, Do streamy round, an’ to an’ fro; But what new feäce that we don’t know,  Can ever meäke woone’s warm heart dance  Among ten thousan’, lik’ a glance  O’ looks we know’d avore, John.
How of’en have the wind a-shook The leaves off into yonder brook, Since vu’st we two, in youthvul strolls, Did ramble roun’ them bubblèn shoals! An’ oh! that zome o’ them young souls,  That we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi’ then  Could come back now, an’ bring ageän  The looks we know’d avore, John.
So soon’s the barley’s dead an’ down, The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun’, An’ wolder feäzen do but goo To be a-vollow’d still by new; But souls that be a-tried an’ true  Shall meet ageän beyond the skies,  An’ bring to woone another’s eyes  The looks they know’d avore, John.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Martin's Tide

MARTIN’S TIDE.
Come, bring a log o’ cleft wood, Jack, An’ fling en on ageän the back, An’ zee the outside door is vast,— The win’ do blow a cwoldish blast. Come, so’s! come, pull your chairs in roun’ Avore the vire; an’ let’s zit down, An’ keep up Martin’s-tide, vor I Shall keep it up till I do die. ​’Twer Martinmas, and ouer feäir, When Jeäne an’ I, a happy peäir, Vu’st walk’d, a-keepèn up the tide, Among the stan’ens, zide by zide; An’ thik day twel’month, never faïlèn, She gi’ed me at the chancel raïlèn A heart—though I do sound her praise— As true as ever beät in staÿs. How vast the time do goo! Do seem But yesterday,—’tis lik’ a dream!
Ah, sō’s! ’tis now zome years agoo You vu’st knew me, an’ I knew you; An’ we’ve a-had zome bits o’ fun, By winter vire an’ zummer zun. Aye; we’ve a-prowl’d an’ rigg’d about Lik’ cats, in harm’s way mwore than out, An’ busy wi’ the tricks we plaÿ’d In fun, to outwit chap or maïd. An’ out avore the bleäzèn he’th, Our naïsy tongues, in winter me’th, ’V a-shook the warmèn-pan, a-hung Bezide us, till his cover rung. There, ’twer but tother day thik chap, Our Robert, wer a child in lap; An’ Poll’s two little lags hung down Vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun’. An’ now the saucy wench do stride About wi’ steps o’ dree veet wide. How time do goo! A life do seem As ’twer a year; ’tis lik’ a dream!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Me'th below the Tree

ME’TH BELOW THE TREE.
O when theäse elems’ crooked boughs, A’most too thin to sheäde the cows, Did slowly swing above the grass As winds o’ Spring did softly pass, An’ zunlight show’d the shiftèn sheäde, While youthful me’th wi’ laughter loud, Did twist his lim’s among the crowd Down there below; up there above Wer bright-ey’d me’th below the tree.
Down there the merry vo’k did vill The stwonèn doorway, now so still; An’ zome did joke, wi’ ceäsement wide, Wi’ other vo’k a-stood outside, Wi’ words that head by head did heed. Below blue sky an’ blue-smok’d tun, ’Twer jaÿ to zee an’ hear their fun, But sweeter jaÿ up here above Wi’ bright-ey’d me’th below the tree.
​Now unknown veet do beät the vloor, An’ unknown han’s do shut the door, An’ unknown men do ride abrode, An’ hwome ageän on thik wold road, Drough geätes all now a-hung anew. Noo mind but mine ageän can call Wold feäces back around the wall, Down there below, or here above, Wi’ bright-ey’d me’th below the tree.
Aye, pride mid seek the crowded pleäce To show his head an’ frownèn feäce, An’ pleasure vlee, wi’ goold in hand, Vor zights to zee vrom land to land, Where winds do blow on seas o’ blue:— Noo wealth wer mine to travel wide Vor jäy, wi’ Pleasure or wi’ Pride: My happiness wer here above The feäst, wi’ me’th below the tree.
The wild rwose now do hang in zight, To mornèn zun an’ evenèn light, The bird do whissle in the gloom, Avore the thissle out in bloom, But here alwone the tree do leän. The twig that woonce did whiver there Is now a limb a-wither’d beäre: Zoo I do miss the sheäde above My head, an’ me’th below the tree.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Meäken up a Miff

MEAKEN UP A MIFF.
Vorgi’e me, Jenny, do! an’ rise Thy hangèn head an’ teary eyes, An’ speak, vor I’ve a-took in lies,  An’ I’ve a-done thee wrong; But I wer twold,—an’ thought ’twer true,— That Sammy down at Coome an’ you Wer at the feäir, a-walkèn drough  The pleäce the whole day long.
An’ tender thoughts did melt my heart, An’ zwells o’ viry pride did dart Lik’ lightnèn drough my blood; a-peärt  Ov your love I should scorn, An’ zoo I vow’d, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I’d trample ye down under veet,  Or let ye goo forlorn.
But still thy neäme would always be The sweetest, an’ my eyes would zee Among all maïdens nwone lik’ thee  Vor ever any mwore; Zoo by the walks that we’ve a-took By flow’ry hedge an’ zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an’ look  As you’ve a-look’d avore.
Look up, an’ let the evenèn light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light ​ O’ zunzet in the west; An’ let’s stroll here vor half an hour, Where hangèn boughs do meäke a bow’r Above theäse bank, wi’ eltrot flow’r  An’ robinhoods a-drest.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Lizzie

LIZZIE.
O Lizzie is so mild o’ mind,  Vor ever kind, an’ ever true; A-smilèn, while her lids do rise  To show her eyes as bright as dew. An’ comely do she look at night, A-dancèn in her skirt o’ white, An’ blushèn wi’ a rwose o’ red Bezide her glossy head.
Feäir is the rwose o’ blushèn hue,  Behung wi’ dew, in mornèn’s hour, Feäir is the rwose, so sweet below  The noontide glow, bezide the bow’r. Vull feäir, an’ eet I’d rather zee The rwose a-gather’d off the tree, An’ bloomèn still with blossom red, By Lizzie’s glossy head.
​Mid peace droughout her e’thly day,  Betide her waÿ, to happy rest, An’ mid she, all her weanèn life,  Or maïd or wife, be loved and blest. Though I mid never zing anew To neäme the maïd so feäir an’ true, A-blushèn, wi’ a rwose o’ red, Bezide her glossy head.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Lullaby

LULLABY.
The rook’s nest do rock on the tree-top Where vew foes can stand; The martin’s is high, an’ is deep In the steep cliff o’ zand. But thou, love, a-sleepèn where vootsteps Mid come to thy bed, Hast father an’ mother to watch thee An’ shelter thy head.  Lullaby, Lilybrow. Lie asleep;  Blest be thy rest.
​An’ zome birds do keep under ruffèn Their young vrom the storm, An’ zome wi’ nest-hoodèns o’ moss And o’ wool, do lie warm. An’ we wull look well to the houseruf That o’er thee mid leäk, An’ the blast that mid beät on thy winder Shall not smite thy cheäk.  Lullaby, Lilibrow. Lie asleep;  Blest be thy rest.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Meäple Leaves be Yollow

MEAPLE LEAVES BE YOLLOW.
Come, let’s stroll down so vur’s the poun’,
Avore the sparklèn zun is down: The zummer’s gone, an’ days so feäir As theäse be now a-gettèn reäre. The night, wi’ mwore than daylight’s sheäre  O’ wat’ry sky, do wet wi’ dew  The ee-grass up above woone’s shoe,  An’ meäple leaves be yollow.
The last hot doust, above the road, An’ vu’st dead leaves ha’ been a-blow’d By plaÿsome win’s where spring did spread The blossoms that the zummer shed; An’ near blue sloos an’ conkers red  The evenèn zun, a zettèn soon,  Do leäve a-quiv’rèn to the moon,  The meäple leaves so yollow.
​Zoo come along, an’ let’s injaÿ The last fine weather while do staÿ; While thou canst hang, wi’ ribbons slack, Thy bonnet down upon thy back, Avore the winter, cwold an’ black,  Do kill thy flowers, an’ avore  Thy bird-cage is a-took in door,  Though meäple leaves be yollow.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830

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Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter’s Wreath, 1830
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Minster
* The Song of Night
* The Shadow of a Flower
* The Stranger on Earth
* The Exile's Dirge
* The Voice of the Waves
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Minster

The Minster.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined Our hopes of immortality. Byron.
Speak low!—the place is holy to the breath  Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer: Tread lightly!—for the sanctity of death  Broods with a voiceless influence on the air; Stern, yet serene!—a reconciling spell Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!  —Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow-glory down through arch and aisle,  Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:
Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,  Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are nigh; Nor yet for torch and cross, and stole, revealing  Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry; Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour,
But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord  Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour'd  Their anguish forth, are with me and around: I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, Known to these altars of a thousand years.
Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!  That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head! And Thou, still battling with the tempest's force,  Thou, whose bright spirit through all time hath bled, Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?
No voice, no breath!—of conflicts past no trace!  —Doth not this hush give answer to my quest? Surely the dread religion of the place  By every grief hath made its might confest! —Oh! that within my heart I could but keep Holy to Heaven a spot, thus pure, and still, and deep!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Exile's Dirge

The Exile's Dirge.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,  Nor the furious Winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,  Home art gone and ta'en thy wages. Cymbeline.
"I attended a funeral where there were a number of the German settlers present. After I had performed such service as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-looking old man came forward, and asked me if I were willing that they should perform some of their peculiar rites. He opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, and they all began to sing, in German, so loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was something affecting in the singing of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and using the language and rites which they had brought with them over the sea from the Vaterland, a word which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, and mournful air, which they sung as they bore the body along: the words "mein Gott"—"mein Bruder,"—and "Vaterland," died away in distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall long remember that funeral hymn."—Flint's Recollections of the Valley of the Mississippi.
There went a dirge through the forest's gloom. —An Exile was borne to a lonely tomb.
"Brother!" (so the chaunt was sung In the slumberer's native tongue) "Friend and brother! not for thee Shall the sound of weeping be, Long the Exile's woe hath lain On thy life a withering chain; Music from thine own blue streams Wandered through thy fever-dreams; Voices from thy Country's vines Met thee 'midst the alien pines, And thy true heart died away, And thy spirit would not stay."
So swell'd the chaunt; and the deep wind's moan Seemed through the cedars to murmur—"gone!"
"Brother! by the rolling Rhine Stands the home that once was thine; Brother! now thy dwelling lies Where the Indian's arrow flies! He that blest thine infant head Fills a distant greensward bed; She that heard thy lisping prayer Slumbers low beside him there; They that earliest with thee played, Rest beneath their own oak-shade, Far, far hence!—yet sea nor shore Haply, Brother! part ye more; God hath called thee to that band In the immortal Father-land!"
"The Father-land!"—with that sweet word A burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard.
"Brother! were we there with thee, Rich would many a meeting be! Many a broken garland bound, Many a mourn'd one lost and found! But our task is still to bear, Still to breathe in changeful air; Lov'd and bright things to resign As ev'n now this dust of thine, Yet to hope!—to hope in Heaven, Though flowers fall, and trees be riven; Yet to pray—and wait the hand Beckoning to the Father-land."
And the requiem died in the forest's gloom, They had reached the Exile's lonely tomb.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Song of Night

The Song of Night.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Abwarts wend' ich mich zu der heiligen, unaussprechlichen, geleimnissvollen Nacht. Fernab liegt die Welt, in eine tiefe Gruft versenkt; in den Saiten der Brust weht tiefe Wehmuth. Fernen der Erinnerung, der Kindheit Traume, der ganzen Lebens Freuden und Hoffnungen kommen in grauen Kleidern, wie Abendnebel nach der Sonne Untergang. Novalis.
I come to thee, O Earth! With all my gifts:—for every flower sweet dew, In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew  The glory of its birth.
 Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills or forest-leaves, But, through its veins of beauty, so receives  A spirit of fresh dyes.
 I come with every star: Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back,  Mirrors of Worlds afar.
 I come with Peace; I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,  The hyacinth's meek head.
On my own heart I lay The weary babe, and sealing with a breath Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath  The shadowing lids to play.
 I come with mightier things! Who calls me silent?—I have many tones— The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans  Borne on my sweeping wings.
 I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,  Till the bright day is done.
 But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake  The mantle of its rest.
 I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush'd affections, which though long o'erborne,  Make their tone heard at last.
 I bring them from the tomb: O'er the sad couch of late repentant love, They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove,  Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train: Who calls me lonely?—Hosts around me tread, Th' intensely bright, the Beautiful, the Dread—  Phantoms of heart and brain!
 Looks from departed eyes, These are my lightnings!—filled with anguish vain Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,  They smite with agonies.
 I, that with soft controul Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, I am th' Avenging One!—the Armed, the Strong,  The Searcher of the soul!
 I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!—the tempest-birth Of Memory, Thought, Remorse:—be holy, Earth!  —I am the solemn Night!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Stranger on Earth

The Stranger on Earth.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Das Land, das Land, so hoffnungsgrun, Das Land wo meine Rosen bluhn, Wo meine Todten aufersteh'n, Wo meine Freunde wandelnd geh'n; Das Land, das meine Sprache spricht, Das theure Land—hier ist es nicht!
Where art thou? Tell me, where?  Land of my native air, That I might feel thy breathing on my cheek!  And ye, whose being's tone  Would give me back my own, Where dwell ye, children of my country? Speak!
 Show me your home, your place,  O ye, my kindred race! —My spirit on the dust its wealth hath flung,  Striving for words of power,  A boundless love to shower O'er hearts that knew not e'en that feeling's tongue.
 Along the sounding sea,  And 'midst the mountains free, My voice finds echoes here; my soul hath none!  Shrinking, I feel around,  The solitude profound, Ev'n as a child on desert-plains alone.
I know that in me lie,—  As buried harmony In the Lyre's chord await the master's hand,—  Powers, never to unclose  From dark and cold repose, Save in thine air, my Home, my viewless land!
 For in thy glorious bowers,  Dreading no changeful hours, Dwells the pure Love, so faintly shadow'd here;  Finding its language known,  Ev'n to the deepest tone, A native melody in that bright sphere!
 And thou, O sunny shore!  Hast music, that no more Shall trouble the worn heart with vague desires;  Like summer o'er the deep,  I know thy songs will sweep Over those restless thoughts and wandering fires.
 Where art thou? Tell me, where?  Home of the Good and Fair! I seek thy trace in all things, yet in vain;  Thy meanings, bright, and high,  And earnest, in each eye, An echo of thy sounds in every strain.
Do mighty mountains old  Thy loveliness enfold? Or deserts guard thee with their burning gloom?  As the dread flaming brand  That hung o'er Eden's land, Shut up the pathway to that world of bloom?
 Or art thou some lone isle,  Girt ever by the smile Of waves, wherein Heaven's azure slumbering lies?  Oh! send by breeze or bird,  A sign, a leaf, a word, A guiding flower-breath from thine own pure skies!
 Yes! mournfully profound,  Within my soul, a sound Speaks, like a shell's low murmur for the sea;  Whispering, thou radiant clime!  That but o'er Death and Time, The Exile-Spirit can be borne to thee!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Shadow of a Flower

The Shadow of a Flower.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
La voila telle que la mort nous l'a faite! Bossuet.
"Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful, than that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby and others, who discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of roses say they, will again revive with roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment." Curiosities of Literature.
'Twas a dream of olden days,  That art, by some strange power, The visionary form could raise  From the ashes of a flower.
That a shadow of the Rose,  By its own meek beauty bow'd, Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose  Like Pictures in a cloud.
Or the Hyacinth to grace  As a second rainbow, Spring; Of Summer's path a dreary trace,  A fair, yet mournful thing!
For the glory of the bloom  That a flush around it shed, And the Soul within, the rich perfume,  Where were they?—fled, all fled!
Nought but the dim faint line  To speak of vanished hours— Memory! What are joys of thine?  Shadows of buried flowers.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Voice of the Waves

The Voice of the Waves.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
How perfect was the calm!—It seem'd no sleep, No mood, which Season takes away, or brings; I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. ****** But welcome Fortitude and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
Wordsworth.
Answer, ye chiming Waves!  That now in sunshine sweep; Speak to me, from thy hidden caves,  Voice of the solemn Deep!
Hath man's lone spirit here  With storms in battle striven? Where all is now so calmly clear,  Hath anguish cried to Heaven?
—Then the Sea's voice arose  Like an earthquake's under-tone: "Mortal! the strife of human woes  "When hath not Nature known?
"Here to the quivering mast  "Despair hath wildly clung, "The shriek upon the wind hath past,  "The midnight sky hath rung.
"And the youthful and the brave  "With their beauty and renown, "To the hollow chambers of the wave  "In darkness have gone down.
"They are vanished from this place—  "Let their homes and hearths make moan! "But the rolling waters keep no trace  "Of pang or conflict gone."
—Alas! thou haughty Deep!  The strong, the sounding-far! My heart before thee dies—I weep  To think on what we are!
To think that so we pass,  High hope, and thought, and mind, Even as the breath-stain from the glass,  Leaving no sign behind!
Saw'st thou nought else, thou Main?  Thou and the midnight sky? Nought, save the struggle brief and vain,  The parting agony!
—And the Sea's voice replied,  "Here noble things have been! "Power with the valiant when they died,  "To sanctify the scene:
"Courage, in fragile form,  "Faith, trusting to the last, "Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro' the storm:  "But all alike have pass'd!"
Sound on, thou haughty Sea!  These have not passed in vain; My soul awakes, my hope springs free  On victor-wings again.
Thou, from thine empire driven,  May'st vanish with thy powers; But, by the hearts that here have striven,  A loftier doom is ours!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1831/A Farewell to Abbotsford

A Farewell to Abbotsford.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
—————————The love Of mighty minds doth hallow, in the care Of human hearts, the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee
How much more, "Home of Beauty!" do we feel
The wild glow of that not ungentle real,
Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud!.....Byron.
Home of the gifted! fare thee well,
 And a blessing on thee rest;
While the heather waves its purple bell
 O'er moss and mountain crest;
While stream to stream around thee calls,
 And banks with broom are drest,
Glad be the harping in thy halls—
 A blessing on thee rest!
While the high voice, from thee sent forth,
 Bids rock and cairn reply,
Wakening the spirits of the North,
 Like a chieftain's gathering cry;
While its deep master-tones hold sway,
 As a king's, o'er every breast,
Home of the Legend and the Lay!
 A blessing on thee rest.
Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower!
 Long honours to thy line!
And hearts of proof, and hands of power,
 And bright names worthy thine!
By the merry step of childhood still
 May thy free sward be prest!
—While one proud pulse in the land can thrill,
 A blessing on thee rest!