OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Name

A NAME
Addressed to my grand-nephew, Greenleaf Whittier Pickard. Jonathan Greenleaf, in A Genealogy of the Greenleaf Family, says briefly: “From all that can be gathered, it is believed that the ancestors of the Greenleaf family were Huguenots, who left France on account of their religious principles some time in the course of the sixteenth century, and settled in England. The name was probably translated from the French Feuillevert.”
The name the Gallic exile bore, St. Malo! from thy ancient mart, Became upon our Western shore Greenleaf for Feuillevert.
A name to hear in soft accord Of leaves by light winds overrun, Or read, upon the greening sward Of May, in shade and sun.
The name my infant ear first heard Breathed softly with a mother’s kiss; His mother’s own, no tenderer word My father spake than this.
No child have I to bear it on; Be thou its keeper; let it take From gifts well used and duty done New beauty for thy sake.
The fair ideals that outran My halting footsteps seek and find— The flawless symmetry of man, The poise of heart and mind.
Stand firmly where I felt the sway Of every wing that fancy flew, See clearly where I groped my way, Nor real from seeming knew.
And wisely choose, and bravely hold Thy faith unswerved by cross or crown, Like the stout Huguenot of old Whose name to thee comes down.
As Marot’s songs made glad the heart Of that lone exile, haply mine May in life’s heavy hours impart Some strength and hope to thine.
Yet when did Age transfer to Youth The hard-gained lessons of its day? Each lip must learn the taste of truth, Each foot must feel its way.
We cannot hold the hands of choice That touch or shun life’s fateful keys; The whisper of the inward voice Is more than homilies.
Dear boy! for whom the flowers are born, Stars shine, and happy song-birds sing, What can my evening give to morn, My winter to thy spring!
A life not void of pure intent, With small desert of praise or blame, The love I felt, the good I meant, I leave thee with my name.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Song for the Time

A SONG FOR THE TIME
Written in the summer of 1856, during the political campaign of the Free Soil party under the candidacy of John C. Frémont.
Up, laggards of Freedom!—our free flag is cast To the blaze of the sun and the wings of the blast; Will ye turn from a struggle so bravely begun, From a foe that is breaking, a field that ’s half won?
Whoso loves not his kind, and who fears not the Lord, Let him join that foe’s service, accursed and abhorred! Let him do his base will, as the slave only can,— Let him put on the bloodhound, and put off the Man!
Let him go where the cold blood that creeps in his veins Shall stiffen the slave-whip, and rust on his chains; Where the black slave shall laugh in his bonds, to behold The White Slave beside him, self-fettered and sold!
But ye, who still boast of hearts beating and warm, Rise, from lake shore and ocean’s, like waves in a storm, Come, throng round our banner in Liberty’s name, Like winds from your mountains, like prairies aflame!
Our foe, hidden long in his ambush of night, Now, forced from his covert, stands black in the light. Oh, the cruel to Man, and the hateful to God, Smite him down to the earth, that is cursed where he trod!
For deeper than thunder of summer’s loud shower, On the dome of the sky God is striking the hour! Shall we falter before what we ’ve prayed for so long, When the Wrong is so weak, and the Right is so strong?
Come forth all together! come old and come young, Freedom’s vote in each hand, and her song on each tongue; Truth naked is stronger than Falsehood in mail; The Wrong cannot prosper, the Right cannot fail!
Like leaves of the summer once numbered the foe, But the hoar-frost is falling, the northern winds blow; Like leaves of November erelong shall they fall, For earth wearies of them, and God ’s over all!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Woman

A WOMAN
Oh, dwarfed and wronged, and stained with ill, Behold! thou art a woman still! And, by that sacred name and dear, I bid thy better self appear. Still, through thy foul disguise, I see The rudimental purity, That, spite of change and loss, makes good Thy birthright-claim of womanhood; An inward loathing, deep, intense; A shame that is half innocence. Cast off the grave-clothes of thy sin! Rise from the dust thou liest in, As Mary rose at Jesus’ word, Redeemed and white before the Lord! Reclaim thy lost soul! In His name, Rise up, and break thy bonds of shame. Art weak? He ’s strong. Art fearful? Hear The world’s O’ercomer: “Be of cheer!” What lip shall judge when He approves? Who dare to scorn the child He loves?
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Christmas Carmen

A CHRISTMAS CARMEN
I
Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands, The chorus of voices, the clasping of hands; Sing hymns that were sung by the stars of the morn, Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was born! With glad jubilations Bring hope to the nations! The dark night is ending and dawn has begun: Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!
II
Sing the bridal of nations! with chorals of love Sing out the war-vulture and sing in the dove, Till the hearts of the peoples keep time in accord, And the voice of the world is the voice of the Lord! Clasp hands of the nations In strong gratulations: The dark night is ending and dawn has begun; Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!
III
Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace; East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease: Sing the song of great joy that the angels began, Sing of glory to God and of good-will to man! Hark! joining in chorus The heavens bend o’er us! The dark night is ending and dawn has begun; Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Day

A DAY
Talk not of sad November, when a day Of warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon, And a wind, borrowed from some morn of June, Stirs the brown grasses and the leafless spray.
On the unfrosted pool the pillared pines Lay their long shafts of shadow: the small rill, Singing a pleasant song of summer still, A line of silver, down the hill-slope shines.
Hushed the bird-voices and the hum of bees, In the thin grass the crickets pipe no more; But still the squirrel hoards his winter store, And drops his nut-shells from the shag-bark trees.
Softly the dark green hemlocks whisper: high Above, the spires of yellowing larches show, Where the woodpecker and home-loving crow And jay and nut-hatch winter’s threat defy.
O gracious beauty, ever new and old! O sights and sounds of nature, doubly dear When the low sunshine warns the closing year Of snow-blown fields and waves of Arctic cold!
Close to my heart I fold each lovely thing The sweet day yields; and, not disconsolate, With the calm patience of the woods I wait For leaf and blossom when God gives us Spring!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Dream of Summer

A DREAM OF SUMMER
Bland as the morning breath of June The southwest breezes play; And, through its haze, the winter noon Seems warm as summer’s day. The snow-plumed Angel of the North Has dropped his icy spear; Again the mossy earth looks forth, Again the streams gush clear.
The fox his hillside cell forsakes, The muskrat leaves his nook, The bluebird in the meadow brakes Is singing with the brook. “Bear up, O Mother Nature!” cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; “Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee!”
So, in those winters of the soul, By bitter blasts and drear O’erswept from Memory’s frozen pole, Will sunny days appear. Reviving Hope and Faith, they show The soul its living powers,
And how beneath the winter’s snow Lie germs of summer flowers!
The Night is mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall; For God, who loveth all His works, Has left His hope with all!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Memory

A MEMORY
[The singer in this poem was a daughter of Whittier’s early friend, N. P. Rogers.]
Here, while the loom of Winter weaves The shroud of flowers and fountains, I think of thee and summer eves Among the Northern mountains.
When thunder tolled the twilight’s close, And winds the lake were rude on, And thou wert singing, Ca’ the Yowes, The bonny yowes of Cluden!
When, close and closer, hushing breath, Our circle narrowed round thee, And smiles and tears made up the wreath Wherewith our silence crowned thee;
And, strangers all, we felt the ties Of sisters and of brothers; Ah! whose of all those kindly eyes Now smile upon another’s?
The sport of Time, who still apart The waifs of life is flinging; Oh, nevermore shall heart to heart Draw nearer for that singing!
Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, And twilight’s fire is gleaming, I hear the songs of Scotland’s bard Sound softly through my dreaming!
A song that lends to winter snows The glow of summer weather,— Again I hear thee ca’ the yowes To Cluden’s hills of heather!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Greeting

A GREETING
Read at Harriet Beecher Stowe’s seventieth anniversary, June 14, 1882, at a garden party at ex-Governor Claflin’s in Newtonville, Mass.
Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours!
To her who, in our evil time, Dragged into light the nation’s crime With strength beyond the strength of men, And, mightier than their swords, her pen! To her who world-wide entrance gave To the log-cabin of the slave; Made all his wrongs and sorrows known, And all earth’s languages his own,— North, South, and East and West, made all The common air electrical, Until the o’ercharged bolts of heaven Blazed down, and every chain was riven!
Welcome from each and all to her Whose Wooing of the Minister Revealed the warm heart of the man Beneath the creed-bound Puritan, And taught the kinship of the love Of man below and God above; To her whose vigorous pencil-strokes Sketched into life her Oldtown Folks; Whose fireside stories, grave or gay, In quaint Sam Lawson’s vagrant way, With old New England’s flavor rife, Waifs from her rude idyllic life, Are racy as the legends old By Chaucer or Boccaccio told; To her who keeps, through change of place And time, her native strength and grace, Alike where warm Sorrento smiles, Or where, by birchen-shaded isles, Whose summer winds have shivered o’er The icy drift of Labrador, She lifts to light the priceless Pearl Of Harpswell’s angel-beckoned girl! To her at threescore years and ten Be tributes of the tongue and pen; Be honor, praise, and heart-thanks given, The loves of earth, the hopes of heaven!
Ah, dearer than the praise that stirs The air to-day, our love is hers! She needs no guaranty of fame Whose own is linked with Freedom’s name. Long ages after ours shall keep Her memory living while we sleep; The waves that wash our gray coast lines, The winds that rock the Southern pines, Shall sing of her; the unending years Shall tell her tale in unborn ears. And when, with sins and follies past, Are numbered color-hate and caste, White, black, and red shall own as one The noblest work by woman done.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/A Song inscribed to the Frémont Clubs

A SONG
INSCRIBED TO THE FRÉMONT CLUBS
Written after the election in 1856, which showed the immense gains of the Free Soil party, and insured its success in 1860.
Beneath thy skies, November! Thy skies of cloud and rain, Around our blazing camp-tires We close our ranks again. Then sound again the bugles, Call the muster-roll anew; If months have well-nigh won the field, What may not four years do?
For God be praised! New England Takes once more her ancient place; Again the Pilgrim’s banner Leads the vanguard of the race. Then sound again the bugles, etc.
Along the lordly Hudson, A shout of triumph breaks; The Empire State is speaking, From the ocean to the lakes. Then sound again the bugles, etc.
The Northern hills are blazing, The Northern skies are bright; And the fair young West is turning Her forehead to the light! Then sound again the bugles, etc.
Push every outpost nearer, Press hard the hostile towers! Another Balaklava, And the Malakoff is ours! Then sound again the bugles, Call the muster-roll anew; If months have well-nigh won the field, What may not four years do?
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I am the only being whose doom

XVII
I am the only being whose doom No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn; I've never caused a thought of gloom, A smile of joy, since I was born.
In secret pleasure, secret tears, This changeful life has slipped away, As friendless after eighteen years, As lone as on my natal day.
There have been times I cannot hide, There have been times when this was drear, When my sad soul forgot its pride And longed for one to love me here.
But those were in the early glow Of feelings that subdued by care, And they have died so long ago, I hardly now believe they were.
First melted off the hope of youth, Then fancy's rainbow fast withdrew; And then experience told me truth In mortal bosoms never grew.
'Twas grief enough to think mankind All hollow, servile, insincere; But worse to trust to my own mind And find the same Corruption there.
May 17, 1839.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I know that to-night the wind it is sighing

LIX
I know that to-night the wind it is sighing, The soft August wind, over forest and moor; While I in a grave-like chill am lying On the damp black flags of my dungeon floor.
I know that the harvest-moon is shining; She neither will soar nor wane for me; Yet I weary, weary, with vain repining, One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see.
For this constant darkness is wasting the gladness, Fast wasting the gladness of life away; It gathers up thoughts akin to madness, That never would cloud the world of day.
I chide with my soul—I bid it cherish The feelings it lived on when I was free, But sighing it murmurs, 'Let memory perish, Forget, for my friends have forgotten me.'
Alas! I did think that they were weeping Such tears as I weep—it is not so! Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping; Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe. ​Might I go to their beds, I'd rouse that slumber, My spirit should startle their rest and tell, How hour after hour, I wakefully number, Deep buried from light in my lonely cell!
Yet let them dream on; tho' dreary dreaming Would haunt my pillow if they were here; And I were laid warmly under the gleaming Of that guardian moon and her comrade star.
Better that I my own fate mourning, Should pine alone in this prison gloom; Then waken free on the summer morning And feel they were suffering this awful doom.
August 1845.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I would have touched the heavenly key

XII
I would have touched the heavenly key That spoke alike of bliss and thee; I would have woke the evening song, But its words died upon my tongue. But then I knew that he stood free, Would never speak of joy again, And then I felt . . . [unfinished].
November 1837.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I'm happiest now when most away

LVI
I'm happiest now when most away I can tear my soul from its mould of clay, On a windy night when the moon is bright, And my eye can wander through worlds of light.
When I am not, and none beside, Nor earth, nor sea, nor cloudless sky, But only spirit wandering wide Through infinite immensity.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I'm standing in the forest now

LXII
I'm standing in the forest now, The place, the hour the same; And here the green leaves shed a glow, And there, down in that lake below, The tiny ripples flame.
The breeze sings like a summer breeze Should sing in summer skies, And heavenlike wide and tentlike trees In mingled glory rise.
The murmur of their boughs and leaves Speaks pride as well as bliss, And that blue heaven expanding seems The circling hills to kiss.
But where is he to-day, to-day? No whisper, not to me; I will not question, only say Where may thy lover be?
Is he upon some distant shore, Or is he on the sea? Or is the heart thou dost adore A faithless heart to thee?
The heart I love and you deride Is changeless as the grave, And neither foreign lands divide, Nor yet the ocean's wave. ​Then why should trouble cloud that brow And tears those eyes bedim? Reply this once—is it that thou Hast faithless been to him?
I dreamt one dark and stormy night When winter winds were wild . . . ·····
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I do not see myself again

LXI
I do not see myself again A wanderer o'er the Atlantic main; I do not backward turn my eye T'wards sleepless sea and stormy sky. Oh no; these brighter visions vast To woodlands of the west have past; And there shall Hesperus arise To watch my treasure where it lies. The present lands, the present clime, Forbid the dreams of olden time; The present thoughts, the present hour, Are rife with deeds of sterner power: And who shall be my leading star Amid the howling storm of war?
Hark! listen to the distant gun From the battlefield of Edwordston; It breaks upon the awful roar Which stuns my ears around, And makes the shout of victory Strike with a hollow sound. My struggles all are crowned with power, And Fortune gives a glorious hour. Men who hate me kneel before me, Men who kneel are forced t'adore me; My name is on a million tongues, The million babble on my wrongs; ​And twenty years of tyrant pride Which strove this modern God to hide, At last have vanished in the rays Of his unquenched, unclouded blaze, Oh! is not Jesus come again Over his thousand saints to reign? To free the world from tyrant's chain, While sin and hatred vainly spit Their venomed fury, as they sit. Their reign is past, their power is gone, For fallen is mighty Babylon.
Through the hoarse howling of the storm I saw, but did I truly see One glimpse of that unearthly form Whose very form is Victory? 'Twas but a glance, and all seems past, For cares like clouds again return, And I'll forget him till the blast For ever from my soul has flown— That vision of a mighty host Crushed helpless into earth and Dust!
Forget him! In the cannon's smoke How dense it thickens, till on high, By the wild storm blasts roughly broke, It parts in volumes through the sky That hurriedly are drifting by, 'Till the dread burst breaks forth once more With whitening clouds which seem to fly Affrightened from that ceaseless roar. ​And there it lightens! Dashed with gore The thick of battle rends in twain, While their rough ranks of bristling steel Flashing afar, while armed men In mighty masses loud and vast, Like the wild waters of the main Lashed into foam.—When, there again Behold him!
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I know not how it falls on me

LIII
I know not how it falls on me, This summer evening hushed and lone; Yet the faint wind comes soothingly With something of an olden tone.
Forgive me if I've shunned so long Your gentle greeting, earth and air! But sorrow withers e'en the strong, And who can fight against despair?
The busy day has glided by, And hearts greet kindred hearts once more; And swift the evening hour should fly, But what turns every gleaming eye So often to the unopened door?
June 3, 1831.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I saw thee, child, one summer day

VII
I saw thee, child, one summer day Suddenly leave thy cheerful play, And in the green grass lowly lying I listened to thy mournful sighing.
I knew the wish that waked that wail, I knew the source whence sprung those tears; You longed for fate to raise the veil That darkened over coming years.
The anxious prayer was heard, and power Was given me in that silent hour To open to an infant's eye The portals of futurity.
But, child of dust, the fragrant flowers, The bright blue flowers and velvet sod, Were strange conductors to the bowers Thy daring footsteps must have trod.
I watched my time, and summer passed, And autumn waning fleeted by, And doleful winter nights at last In cloudy morning clothed the sky. ​And now it's come. This evening fell Not stormily, but stilly drear; A sound sweeps o'er thee like a knell To banish joy and welcome care.
A fluttering blast that shakes the leaves And whistles round the gloomy wall, And lingering long, and thinking grieves, For 'tis the spectre's call.
He hears me: what a sudden start Sent the blood icy to the heart; He wakens, and how gastly white That face looks in the dim lamp-light.
Those tiny hands in vain essay To brush the shadowy fiend away; There is a horror on his brow, An anguish in his bosom now;
A fearful anguish in his eyes, Fixed strainedly on the vacant air; Hoarsely bursts in long-drawn sighs, His panting breath enchained by fear.
Poor child! if spirits such as I Could weep o'er human misery, A tear might flow, ay, many a tear, To see the head that lies before, To see the sunshine disappear; ​And hear the stormy waters roar, Breaking upon a desolate shore, Cut off from hope in early day, From earth and glory cut away. But it is doomed, and Morning's light Must image forth the scowl of night, And childhood's flower must waste its bloom Beneath the shadow of the tomb.
July 1837.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I've been wandering in the greenwoods

XLVIII
I've been wandering in the greenwoods, And 'mid flowery, smiling plains; I've been listening to the dark floods, To the thrush's thrilling strains.
I have gathered the pale primrose, And the purple violet sweet; I've been where the asphodel grows, And where lives the red deer fleet.
I've been to the distant mountain, To the silver singing rill, By the crystal murm'ring fountain, And the shady, verdant hill.
I've been where the poplars springing From the fair enamelled ground, While the nightingale is singing With a solemn, plaintive sound.
December 14, 1839.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I see around me piteous tombstones grey

XLVI
I see around me piteous tombstones grey Stretching their shadows far away. Beneath the turf my footsteps tread Lie low and lone the silent dead; Beneath the turf, beneath the mould, Forever dark, forever cold. And my eyes cannot hold the tears That memory hoards from vanished years. For time and Death and mortal pain Give wounds that will not heal again. Let me remember half the woes I've seen and heard and felt below, And heaven itself, so pure and blest, Could never give my spirit rest. Sweet land of light! Thy children fair Know nought akin to our despair; Nor have they felt, nor can they tell What tenants haunt each mortal cell, What gloomy guests we hold within, Torments and madness, tear and sin! Well, may they live in ectasy Their long eternity of joy; At least we would not bring them down With us to weep, with us to groan. No, Earth would wish no other sphere To taste her cup of suffering drear; She turns from heaven with a tearless eye And only mourns that we must die! ​Ah mother, what shall comfort thee In all this boundless misery? To cheer our eager eyes awhile We see thee smile, how fondly smile! But who reads not through the tender glow Thy deep, unutterable woe? Indeed no darling land above Can cheat thee of thy children's love. We all in life's departing shine, Our last dear longings blend with thine, And struggle still and strive to trace With clouded gaze thy darling face. We would not leave our nature home For any world beyond the tomb. No, mother, on thy kindly breast Let us be laid in lasting rest, Or waken but to share with thee A mutual immortality.
July 1841.