OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/Effusion 12

EFFUSION XII.
METHINKS, how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd Beneath the vast o'er shadowing branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Nor of the busier scenes, we left behind, Aught envying! And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid! Beloved! I were well content to play With thy free tresses the long summer day Cheating the time beneath the green-wood shade. But ah! sweet scenes of fancied bliss, adieu! On rose-leaf beds amid your faery bowers I all too long have lost the dreamy hours! Beseems it now the sterner Muse to woo, If haply she her golden meed impart To realize the vision of the heart.
C. L.
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/Effusion 13, written at Midnight

EFFUSION XIII.
WRITTEN
AT MIDNIGHT,
BY THE
SEA - SIDE, AFTER A VOYAGE.
OH! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind That rushing on it's way with careless sweep Scatters the Ocean waves—and I could weep, Ev'n as a child! For now to my rapt mind On wings of winds comes wild-ey'd Phantasy, And her dread visions give a rude delight!
O winged Bark! how swift along the night Pass'd thy proud keel! Nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood Unbonnetted, and gaz'd upon the flood, And almost wish'd it were no crime to die! How Reason reel'd! What gloomy transports rose! Till the rude dashings rock'd them to repose.
C. L.
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/Effusion 14

Written in 1794. The last four lines were written by Charles Lamb
EFFUSION XIV.
THOU gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile! As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam: What time, in sickly mood, at parting day I lay me down and think of happier years; Of Joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray, Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. O pleasant days of Hope—for ever gone! Could I recall you!—But that thought is vain. Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone To lure the fleet-wing'd Travellers back again: Yet fair, tho' faint, their images shall gleam Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/Absence, a farewell Ode

First published in Weekly Entertainer for 21st October 1793 as 'Absence: An Ode'
ABSENCE.
A FAREWELL ODE.
WHERE grac'd with many a classic spoil Cam rolls his reverend stream along, I haste to urge the learned toil That sternly chides my love-lorn song: Ah me! too mindful of the days Illum'd by Passion's orient rays, When Peace, and Chearfulness, and Health Enrich'd me with the best of wealth.
Ah fair Delights! that o'er my soul On Mem'ry's wing, like shadows, fly!
Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stole While Innocence stood smiling by!— But cease, fond Heart! this bootless moan. Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown Shall yet return, by Absence crown'd, And scatter livelier roses round.
The Sun, who ne'er remits his fires On heedless eyes may pour the day: The Moon, that oft from Heav'n retires, Endears her renovated ray. What tho' she leave the sky unblest To mourn awhile in murky vest? When she resumes her lovely Light, We bless the Wanderer of the Night.
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/Effusion 1, to Bowles

To Bowles was written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and published in the 26 December 1794 Morning Chronicle as part of the Sonnets on Eminent Characters series. William Lisle Bowles's poetry was introduced to Coleridge in 1789 and Bowles had an immediate impact on Coleridge's views of poetry. The sonnet celebrates Bowles's status as a poet and discusses his political beliefs, which also helped shape Coleridge's ideas on government and politics.Warning: template has been deprecated.
Effusions.
page
Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre
He struck with desultory hand, and drew
Some soften'd tones to Nature not untrue.
Bowles.
page
EFFUSION I.
MY heart has thank'd thee, Bowles! for those soft strains Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains
Thro' Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:
And when the darker day of life began,
And I did roam, a thought-bewilder'd man!
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd
To slumber, tho' the big tear it renew'd;
Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Mov'd on the darkness of the unform'd deep.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Milkèn Time

MILKEN TIME.
’Twer when the busy birds did vlee, Wi’ sheenèn wings, vrom tree to tree, To build upon the mossy lim’, Their hollow nestes’ rounded rim; The while the zun, a-zinkèn low, Did roll along his evenèn bow, I come along where wide-horn’d cows, ’Ithin a nook, a-screen’d by boughs, Did stan’ an’ flip the white-hoop’d païls Wi’ heäiry tufts o’ swingèn taïls; An’ there wer Jenny Coom a-gone Along the path a vew steps on. A-beärèn on her head, upstraïght, Her païl, wi’ slowly-ridèn waïght, An’ hoops a-sheenèn, lily-white, Ageän the evenèn’s slantèn light; An’ zo I took her païl, an’ left Her neck a-freed vrom all his heft; An’ she a-lookèn up an’ down, Wi’ sheäpely head an’ glossy crown, Then took my zide, an’ kept my peäce A-talkèn on wi’ smilèn feäce, An’ zettèn things in sich a light, I’d faïn ha’ heär’d her talk all night; An’ when I brought her milk avore The geäte, she took it in to door, An’ if her païl had but allow’d Her head to vall, she would ha’ bow’d, An’ still, as ’twer, I had the zight Ov her sweet smile droughout the night.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Mindèn House

MINDEN HOUSE
’Twer when the vo’k wer out to hawl A vield o’ haÿ a day in June, An’ when the zun begun to vall Toward the west in afternoon, Woone only wer a-left behind To bide indoors, at hwome, an’ mind The house, an’ answer vo’k avore The geäte or door,—young Fanny Deäne.
The air ’ithin the geärden wall Wer deadly still, unless the bee Did hummy by, or in the hall The clock did ring a-hettèn dree, An’ there, wi’ busy hands, inside The iron ceäsement, oben’d wide, Did zit an’ pull wi’ nimble twitch Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deäne.
As there she zot she heärd two blows A-knock’d upon the rumblèn door, An’ laid azide her work, an’ rose, An’ walk’d out feäir, athirt the vloor; An’ there, a-holdèn in his hand His bridled meäre, a youth did stand, ​An’ mildly twold his neäme and pleäce Avore the feäce o’ Fanny Deäne.
He twold her that he had on hand Zome business on his father’s zide, But what she didden understand; An’ zoo she ax’d en if he’d ride Out where her father mid be vound, Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground; An’ there he went, but left his mind Back there behind, wi’ Fanny Deäne.
An’ oh! his hwomeward road wer gaÿ In aïr a-blowèn, whiff by whiff, While sheenèn water-weäves did plaÿ An’ boughs did swaÿ above the cliff; Vor Time had now a-show’d en dim The jaÿ it had in store vor him; An’ when he went thik road ageän His errand then wer Fanny Deäne.
How strangely things be brought about By Providence, noo tongue can tell, She minded house, when vo’k wer out, An’ zoo mus’ bid the house farewell; The bees mid hum, the clock mid call The lwonesome hours ’ithin the hall, But in behind the woaken door, There’s now noo mwore a Fanny Deäne.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Meäry's Smile

MEÄRY’S SMILE.
When mornèn winds, a-blowèn high, Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky, An’ laurel-leaves do glitter bright, The while the newly broken light Do brighten up, avore our view, The vields wi’ green, an’ hills wi’ blue; What then can highten to my eyes The cheerful feäce ov e’th an’ skies,  But Meäry’s smile, o’ Morey’s Mill,  My rwose o’ Mowy Lea.
An’ when, at last, the evenèn dews Do now begin to wet our shoes; An’ night’s a-ridèn to the west, To stop our work, an’ gi’e us rest, Oh! let the candle’s ruddy gleäre But brighten up her sheenèn heäir; ​Or else, as she do walk abroad, Let moonlight show, upon the road,  My Meäry’s smile, o’ Morey’s Mill,  My rwose o’ Mowy Lea.
An’ O! mid never tears come on, To wash her feäce’s blushes wan, Nor kill her smiles that now do plaÿ Like sparklèn weäves in zunny Maÿ; But mid she still, vor all she’s gone Vrom souls she now do smile upon, Show others they can vind woone jaÿ To turn the hardest work to plaÿ.  My Meäry’s smile, o’ Morey’s Mill.  My rwose o’ Mowy Lea.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Moonlight on the Door

MOONLIGHT ON THE DOOR.
A-swaÿèn slow, the poplar’s head,  Above the slopèn thatch did ply, The while the midnight moon did shed  His light below the spangled sky. An’ there the road did reach avore  The hatch, all vootless down the hill;  An’ hands, a-tired by day, wer still, Wi’ moonlight on the door.
A-boomèn deep, did slowly sound  The bell, a-tellèn middle night; The while the quiv’rèn ivy, round  The tree, did sheäke in softest light. ​But vootless wer the stwone avore  The house where I, the maïden’s guest,  At evenèn, woonce did zit at rest By moonlight on the door.
Though till the dawn, where night’s a-meäde  The day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ, Let evenèn zink wi’ quiet sheäde,  Where I do hold my little swaÿ. An’ childern dear to my heart’s core,  A-sleep wi’ little heavèn breast,  That pank’d by day in plaÿ, do rest Wi’ moonlight on the door.
But still ’tis good, woonce now an’ then,  To rove where moonlight on the land Do show in vaïn, vor heedless men,  The road, the vield, the work in hand. When curtains be a-hung avore  The glitt’rèn windows, snowy white,  An’ vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light O’ moonlight on the door.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/My Orcha'd in Lindèn Lea

Set to music by Ralph Vaughan Williams as “Linden Lea”.
MY ORCHA’D IN LINDEN LEA
’Ithin the woodlands, flow’ry gleäded,  By the woak tree’s mossy moot, The sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded,  Now do quiver under voot; An’ birds do whissle over head, An’ water’s bubblèn in its bed, An’ there vor me the apple tree Do leän down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leätely wer a-springèn  Now do feäde ’ithin the copse, An’ païnted birds do hush their zingèn  Up upon the timber’s tops; An’ brown-leav’d fruit’s a-turnèn red, In cloudless zunsheen, over head, Wi’ fruit vor me, the apple tree Do leän down low in Linden Lea.
​Let other vo’k meäke money vaster  In the aïr o’ dark-room’d towns, I don’t dread a peevish meäster;  Though noo man do heed my frowns, I be free to goo abrode, Or teäke ageän my hwomeward road To where, vor me, the apple tree Do leän down low in Linden Lea.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/My love is good

MY LOVE IS GOOD.
My love is good, my love is feäir,  She’s comely to behold, O, In ev’rything that she do wear,  Altho’ ’tis new or wold, O. ​My heärt do leäp to see her walk,  So straïght do step her veet, O, My tongue is dum’ to hear her talk,  Her vaïce do sound so sweet, O. The flow’ry groun’ wi’ floor o’ green Do bear but vew, so good an’ true.
When she do zit, then she do seem  The feäirest to my zight, O, Till she do stan’ an’ I do deem,  She’s feäirest at her height, O. An’ she do seem ’ithin a room  The feäirest on a floor, O, Till I ageän do zee her bloom  Still feäirer out o’ door, O. Where flow’ry groun’ wi’ floor o’ green Do bear but vew, so good an’ true.
An’ when the deäisies be a-press’d  Below her vootsteps waïght, O, Do seem as if she look’d the best  Ov all in walkèn gaït, O. Till I do zee her zit upright  Behind the ho’ses neck, O, A-holdèn wi’ the raïn so tight  His tossèn head in check, O, Where flow’ry groun’ wi’ floor o’ green Do bear but vew, so good an’ true.
I wish I had my own free land  To keep a ho’se to ride, O, I wish I had a ho’se in hand  To ride en at her zide, O. Vor if I wer as high in rank  As any duke or lord, O, ​Or had the goold the richest bank  Can shovel from his horde, O, I’d love her still, if even then She wer a leäser in a glen.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Meäry-Ann's Child

MEARY-ANN’S CHILD.
Meary-Ann wer alwone wi’ her beäby in earms,  In her house wi’ the trees over head, Vor her husban’ wer out in the night an’ the storms,  In his business a-tweilèn vor bread; An’ she, as the wind in the elems did roar, Did grievy vor Robert all night out o’ door.
An’ her kinsvo’k an’ naï’bours did zay ov her chile,  (Under the high elem tree), That a prettier never did babble or smile  Up o’ top ov a proud mother’s knee; An’ his mother did toss en, an’ kiss en, an’ call En her darlèn, an’ life, an’ her hope, an’ her all.
But she vound in the evenèn the chile werden well,  (Under the dark elem tree), An’ she thought she could gi’e all the worold to tell,  Vor a truth what his aïlèn mid be; An’ she thought o’en last in her praÿers at night, An’ she look’d at en last as she put out the light.
An’ she vound en grow wo’se in the dead o’ the night,  (Under the dark elem tree), ​An’ she press’d en ageän her warm bosom so tight,  An’ she rock’d en so sorrowfully; An’ there laid a-nestlèn the poor little bwoy, Till his struggles grew weak, an’ his cries died awoy.
An’ the moon wer a-sheenèn down into the pleäce,  (Under the dark elem tree), An’ his mother could zee that his lips an’ his feäce  Wer so white as cleän axen could be; An’ her tongue wer a-tied an’ her still heart did zwell, Till her senses come back wi’ the vu’st tear that vell.
Never mwore can she veel his warm feäce in her breast,  (Under the green elem tree), Vor his eyes be a-shut, an’ his hands be at rest,  An’ he’s now vrom his païn a-zet free; Vor his soul, we do know, is to heaven a-vled, Where noo païn is a-known, an’ noo tears be a-shed.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Meäry Wedded

MEÄRY WEDDED.
The zun can zink, the stars mid rise, An’ woods be green to sheenèn skies; The cock mid crow to mornèn light, An’ workvo’k zing to vallèn night; The birds mid whissle on the spraÿ, An’ childern leäp in merry plaÿ, But our’s is now a lifeless pleäce, Vor we’ve a-lost a smilèn feäce—  Young Meäry Meäd o’ merry mood,  Vor she’s a-woo’d an’ wedded.
The dog that woonce wer glad to bear Her fondlèn vingers down his heäir, Do leän his head ageän the vloor, To watch, wi’ heavy eyes, the door; An’ men she zent so happy hwome O’ Zadurdays, do seem to come ​To door, wi’ downcast hearts, to miss Wi’ smiles below the clematis,  Young Meäry Meäd o’ merry mood,  Vor she’s a-woo’d an’ wedded.
When they do draw the evenèn blind, An’ when the evenèn light’s a-tin’d, The cheerless vier do drow a gleäre O’ light ageän her empty chair; An’ wordless gaps do now meäke thin Their talk where woonce her vaïce come in. Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleäce, An’ blest the house that ha’ the feäce  O’ Meäry Meäd, o’ merry mood,  Now she’s a-woo’d and wedded.
The day she left her father’s he’th, Though sad, wer kept a day o’ me’th, An’ dry-wheel’d waggons’ empty beds Wer left ’ithin the tree-screen’d sheds; An’ all the hosses, at their eäse, Went snortèn up the flow’ry leäse, But woone, the smartest for the roäd, That pull’d away the dearest lwoad—  Young Meäry Meäd o’ merry mood,  That wer a-woo’d an’ wedded.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Mornèn

MORNÈN.
When vu’st the breakèn day is red,  An’ grass is dewy wet, An’ roun’ the blackberry’s a-spread  The spider’s gliss’nèn net, Then I do dreve the cows across  The brook that’s in a vog, While they do trot, an’ bleäre, an’ toss  Their heads to hook the dog; Vor the cock do gi’e me warnèn,  An’ light or dark,  So brisk’s a lark, I’m up at break o’ mornèn.
Avore the maïden’s sleep’s a-broke By window-strikèn zun, ​Avore the busy wife’s vu’st smoke  Do curl above the tun, My day’s begun. An’ when the zun  ’S a-zinkèn in the west, The work the mornèn brought’s a-done,  An’ I do goo to rest, Till the cock do gi’e me warnèn;  An’ light or dark,  So brisk’s a lark,  I’m up ageän nex’ mornèn.
We can’t keep back the daily zun,  The wind is never still, An’ never ha’ the streams a-done  A-runnèn down at hill. Zoo they that ha’ their work to do,  Should do’t so soon’s they can; Vor time an’ tide will come an’ goo,  An’ never waït vor man, As the cock do gi’e me warnèn;  When, light or dark.  So brisk’s a lark,  I’m up so rathe in mornèn.
We’ve leäzes where the aïr do blow,  An’ meäds wi’ deäiry cows, An’ copse wi’ lewth an’ sheäde below  The overhangèn boughs. An’ when the zun, noo time can tire,  ’S a-quench’d below the west, Then we’ve, avore the bleäzèn vire,  A settle vor to rest,— To be up ageän nex’ mornèn  So brisk’s a lark,  When, light or dark,  The cock do gi’e us warnèn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/My Love's Guardian Angel

MY LOVE’S GUARDIAN ANGEL.
As in the cool-aïr’d road I come by,  —in the night, Under the moon-clim’d height o’ the sky,  —in the night, There by the lime’s broad lim’s as I staÿ’d, Dark in the moonlight, bough’s sheädows plaÿ’d Up on the window-glass that did keep Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep,  —in the night
While in the grey-wall’d height o’ the tow’r,  —in the night, ​Sounded the midnight bell wi’ the hour,  —in the night, There lo! a bright-heäir’d angel that shed Light vrom her white robe’s zilvery thread, Put her vore-vinger up vor to meäke Silence around lest sleepers mid weäke,  —in the night.
“Oh! then,” I whisper’d, do I behold  —in the night. Linda, my true-love, here in the cwold,  —in the night?” “No,” she meäde answer, “you do misteäke: She is asleep, but I that do weäke, Here be on watch, an’ angel a-blest, Over her slumber while she do rest,  —in the night.”
“Zee how the winds, while here by the bough,  —in the night, They do pass on, don’t smite on her brow,  —in the night; Zee how the cloud-sheädes naïseless do zweep Over the house-top where she’s asleep. You, too, goo by, in times that be near, You too, as I, mid speak in her ear  —in the night.”
# Poems (Toke)/Night

September 22, 1836.
# Poems (Toke)/Once more, my love, once more, though faint

October 6, 1855.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm CXLIII

October 5, 1832.
# Poems (Toke)/Once again the day is dawning

October 6, 1853,
# Poems (Toke)/Planting the tree

December 30, 1842.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm CXXIII

September 29, 1832,
# Poems (Toke)/Our wedding morn! and thou art far away

July 4, 1860.
# Poems (Toke)/Peter weeping

May 20, 1833.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm CXXVI

August 4, 1830,
# Political Essays (1819)/Mr. Southey, Poet Laureat

MR. SOUTHEY, POET LAUREAT.
Sept. 18, 1813.
The laurel is at length destined, unexpectedly, to circle the brows of this gentleman, where it will look almost like a civic crown. The patriot and the poet (two venerable names, which we should wish never to see disunited) is said to owe his intended elevation to the intercession of Mr. Croker, to whom, it will be recollected, he has dedicated his Life of Lord Nelson, with an appropriate motto in the title-page, from the poem of Ulm and Trafalgar. Mr. Croker having applied to the Regent in favour of his friend, the Prince is understood to have given his ready assent, observing, that Mr. Southey's efforts in the Spanish cause alone, rendered him highly worthy of the situation. As Mr. Croker, however, was taking his leave, he was met by Lord ​Liverpool and the Marquis of Hertford, the latter of whom, as chamberlain, had, it seems, made an offer of the place to Mr. Walter Scott, who had signified his acceptance of it. Some little difficulty naturally arose on the occasion, but it was agreed that the two poets should settle the point of precedence between themselves. A friendly altercation, unlike that of the shepherds in Virgil, now took place between Mr. Scott and Mr. Southey, each waving his own pretensions, and giving the palm of victory to the other. But it was finally determined, that as Mr. Scott, though he would not allow himself to be the greatest, was at least the richest poet of the two, Mr. Southey, who had most need of this post of honour and of profit, should have it. So ends this important affair; and, without any ill-will to Mr. Southey, we should not have been disappointed if it had ended differently. Whatever may be the balance of poetical merit, Mr. Scott, we are quite sure, has always been a much better courtier than Mr. Southey; and we are of opinion that the honours of a Court can no where be so gracefully or deservedly bestowed as on its followers. His acceptance of this mark of court favour would not have broken in upon that uniformity of character, which we think no less beautiful and becoming in life than in a poem. But, perhaps, a passion for new faces extends to the intrigues of politics as well as of love; and a triumph over the scruples of delicacy enhances the value of the conquest in both cases. To have been the poet of the people, may not render Mr. Southey less a court favourite; and one of his old Sonnets to Liberty must give a peculiar zest to his new Birth-day Odes. His flaming patriotism will easily subside into the gentle glow of grateful loyalty; and the most extravagant of his plans of reform end in building castles in Spain!
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Sands of Dee

The Sands of Dee.
I have often had the pleasure of riding across the coast from Chester, England, to Rhyl, on the north coast of Wales, where stretch "The Sands of Dee" (Charles Kingsley, 1819-75). These purple sands at low tide stretch off into the sea miles away, and are said to be full of quicksands.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee." The western wind was wild and dark with foam And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land; And never home came she.
Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,— A tress of golden hair, A drownèd maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee.
They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.
Charles Kingsley.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Sandpiper

The Sandpiper.
"The Sandpiper," by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it.
Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud, black and swift, across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? ​My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
Celia Thaxter.