OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Caliban in the Coal Mines

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Caliban in the Coal Mines
By LOUIS UNTERMEYER.
God, we don't like to complain— We know that the mine is no lark— But—there's the pools from the rain; But—there's the cold and the dark.
God, You don't know what it is— You, in Your well-lighted sky, Watching the meteors whizz; Warm, with the sun always by.
God, if You had but the moon, Stuck in Your cap for a lamp, Even You'd tire of it soon, Down in the dark and the damp.
Nothing but blackness above, And nothing that moves but the cars— God, if You wish for our love, Fling us a handful of stars!
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Cry of the People

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Cry of the People
By JOHN G. NEIHARDT
Tremble before your chattels, Lords of the scheme of things! Fighters of all earth's battles, Ours is the might of kings! Guided by seers and sages, The world's heart-beat for a drum, Snapping the chains of ages, Out of the night we come!
Lend us no ear that pities! Offer no almoner's hand! Alms for the builders of cities! When will you understand? Down with your pride of birth And your golden gods of trade! A man is worth to his mother, Earth, All that a man has made!
We are the workers and makers! We are no longer dumb! Tremble, O Shirkers and Takers! Sweeping the earth—we come! Ranked in the world-wide dawn, Marching into the day! The night is gone and the sword is drawn And the scabbard is thrown away!
# Poems (Geisse)

POEMS
B Y
FELIX CONNOP
CAMPION & COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
Copyright 1904 By MARY A. GEISSE
DEDICATION
To My Mother,
Whose loving comradeship has ever been a source of strength and inspiration.
CONTENTS.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Passion

Oh, you who read some song that I have sung, What know you of the soul from whence it sprung? Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud His secret thought unto the listening crowd? Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore: You have its shape, its color and no more. It tells not one of those vast mysteries That lie beneath the surface of the seas. Our songs are shells, cast out by-waves of thought; Here, take them at your pleasure; but think not You've seen beneath the surface of the waves, Where lie our shipwrecks and our coral caves

### Content

* Preface
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Passion/"The Beautiful Blue Danube"

They drift down the hall together;  He smiles in her lifted eyes; Like waves of that mighty river,  The strains of the "Danube" rise.
They float on its rhythmic measure  Like leaves on a summer-stream; And here, in this scene of pleasure,  I bury my sweet, dead dream.
Through the cloud of her dusky tresses,  Like a star, shines out her face, And the form his strong arm presses  Is sylph like in its grace.
As a leaf on the bounding river  Is lost in the seething sea, I know that forever and ever  My dream is lost to me.
And still the viols are playing  That grand old wordless rhyme; And still those two ate swaying  In perfect tune and time.
If the great bassoons that mutter,  If the clarinets that blow, Were given a voice to utter  The secret things they know,
Would the lists of the slam who slumber  On the Danube's battle-plains The unknown hosts outnumber  Who die 'neath the "Danube's" strains?
Those fall where cannons rattle,  'Mid the rain of shot and shell; But these, in a fiercer battle,  Find death in the music's swell.
With the river's roar of passion  Is blended the dying groan; But here, in the halls of fashion,  Hearts break, and make no moan.
And the music, swelling and sweeping,  Like the river, knows it all; But none are counting or keeping  The lists of these who fall.
# Poems (Stephens)/Murdock Gillis

MURDOCK GILLIS.
Murdock Gillis rescued the crew of the schooner Avenger by swimming a long distance with the life-line through a boisterous sea in a blinding snow storm.
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/Stanzas (2)

STANZAS.
'Art thou beautiful?—Live then in accordance with the curious make and frame of thy creation, and let the beauty of thy person teach thee to beautify thy mind with holiness, the ornament of the beloved of God.'—Wm. Penn.
Bind up thy tresses, thou beautiful one, Of brown in the shadow and gold in the sun! Free should their delicate lustre be thrown O'er a forehead more pure than the Parian stone— Shaming the light of those Orient pearls Which bind o'er its whiteness thy soft wreathing curls.
Smile—for thy glance on the mirror is thrown, And the face of an angel is meeting thine own! Beautiful creature—I marvel not That thy cheek a lovelier tint hath caught; And the kindling light of thine eye hath told Of a dearer wealth than the miser's gold.
Away, away—there is danger here— A terrible phantom is bending near; Ghastly and sunken, his rayless eye Scowls on thy loveliness scornfully— With no human look—with no human breath, He stands beside thee,—the haunter, Death!
Fly! but, alas! he will follow thee still, Like a moonlight shadow, beyond thy will; In thy noon-day walk—in thy midnight sleep, Close at thy hovel that phantom will keep— Still on thine ear shall his whispers be— Wo, that such phantom should follow thee!
In the lighted hall where the dancers go, Like beautiful spirits, to and fro; When thy fair arms glance in their stainless white, Like ivory bathed in still moonlight; And not one star in the holy sky Hath a clearer light than thine own blue eye!
Oh, then—even then—he will follow thee, As the ripple follows the bark at sea; In the softened light—in the turning dance— He will fix on thine his dead, cold glance— The chill of his breath on thy cheek shall linger, And thy warm blood shrink from his icy finger!
And yet there is hope. Embrace it now, While thy soul is open as thy brow; While thy heart is fresh—while its feelings still Gush clear as the unsoiled mountain rill—
And thy smiles are free as the airs of spring, Greeting and blessing each breathing thing.
When after cares of thy life shall come, When the bud shall wither before its bloom; When thy soul is sick of the emptiness And changeful fashion of human bliss; And the weary torpor of blighted feeling, Over thy heart as ice is stealing—
Then, when thy spirit is turned above, By the mild rebuke of the Christian's love; When the hope of that joy in thy heart is stirr'd, Which eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,— Then will that phantom of darkness be Gladness and Promise and Bliss to thee.
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# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/The Vaudois Teacher

THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.
'The manner in which the Waldenses and heretics disseminated their principles among the Catholic gentry, was by carrying with them a box of trinkets, or articles of dress. Having entered the houses of the gentry, and disposed of some of their goods, they cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable than these—inestimable jewels, which they would show, if they could be protected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a bible or testament; and thereby many were deluded into heresy.'—See Reinerius Saccho's Book, A. D. 1258.
'Oh, lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare— The richest web of the Indian loom, which Beauty's self might wear;
And those pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie;
I have brought them with me a weary way,—will my gentle lady buy?'
And the lady smiled on the worn old man through the dark and clustering curls,
Which veiled her brow as she bent to view his silks and glittering pearls;
And she placed their price in the old man's hand, and lightly turned away,— But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call,—'My gentle lady, stay!'
'Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre flings Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on the lofty brow of kings— A wonderful pearl of exceeding price whose virtue shall not decay, Whose light shall be as a spell to thee, and a blessing on thy way!'
The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her form of grace was seen, Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved their clasping pearls between; Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray and old— And name the price of thy precious gem, and my pages shall count thy gold.
The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or diamond gem, from his folding robe he took: Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price—may it prove as such to thee! Nay—keep thy gold—I ask it not, for the word of God is free!
The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left behind,
Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden's mind,
And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth,
And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of youth!
And she hath left the gray, old halls where an evil faith had power,
The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her bower;
And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales, by lordly feet untrod,
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God!
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# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/Songs of the Free

SONG OF THE FREE.
'Living, I shall assert the right of Free Discussion; dying, I shall assert it; and should I leave no other inheritance to my children, by the blessing of God I will leave them the inheritance of free principles, and the example of a manly and independent defence of them.'—Daniel Webster
Pride of New England! Soul of our fathers! Shrink we all craven-like, When the storm gathers? What though the tempest be Over us lowering, Where's the New Englander Shamefully cowering? Graves green and holy Around us are lying,— Free were the sleepers all, Living and dying!
Back with the Southerner's Padlocks and scourges! Go—let him fetter down Ocean's free surges! ​Go—let him silence Winds, clouds, and waters— Never New England's own Free sons and daughters! Free as our rivers are Ocean-ward going— Free as the breezes are Over us blowing.
Up to our altars, then, Haste we, and summon Courage and loveliness. Manhood and woman! Deep let our pledges be— Freedom forever— Truce with Oppression, Never, oh! never! By our own birthright-gift, Granted of Heaven— Freedom for heart and lip, Be the pledge given!
If we have whispered truth, Whisper no longer; Speak as the tempest does, Sterner and stronger: Still be the tones of truth Louder and firmer, Startling the haughty South With the deep murmur: ​'God and our Charter's right, Freedom forever— Truce with Oppression, Never, oh! never!'
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/The Hunters of Men

THE HUNTERS OF MEN.
Have ye heard of our hunting, our mountain and glen Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting of men? The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn: Hark—the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the whip, And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match— Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch: So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting of men!
Gay luck to our hunters!—how nobly they ride In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride!— The Priest with his cassock flung back on the wind, Just screening the politic Statesman behind— The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer— The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. And woman—kind woman—wife, widow and maid— ​For the good of the hunted—is lending her aid: Her foot's in the stirrup—her hand on the rein— How blithely she rides to the hunting of men!
Oh! goodly and grand is our hunting to see, In this 'land of the brave and this home of the free.' Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine, All mounting the saddle—all grasping the rein— Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin! Wo, now to the hunted who turns him at bay! Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey? Will their hearts fail within them?—their nerves tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of men?
Ho—alms for our hunters! all weary and faint Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer for the saing. The horn is wound faintly—the echoes are still Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. Haste—alms for our hunters! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore: What right have they here in the home of the white, Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right? Ho—alms for the hunters! or never again Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men!
Alms—alms for our hunters! why will ye delay, When their pride and their glory are melting away? ​The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own, Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, along? The politic statesman looks back with a sigh— There is doubt in his heart—there is fear in his eye. Oh! haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, And the head of his steed take the place of his tail. Oh! haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then, For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men!
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/The Morning Dream

THE MORNING DREAM. BY COWPER.
'Twas in the glad season of spring, Asleep, at the dawn of the day, I dream'd what I cannot but sing, So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.
I dream'd that on ocean afloat, Far hence to the westward I sail'd, While the billows high lifted the boat, And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd.
In the steerage a woman I saw— Such at least was the form that she wore— Whose beauty impressed me with awe, Ne'er taught me by woman before.
She sat, and a shield at her side Shed light like a sun on the waves, And smiling divinely, she cried, 'I go to make freemen of slaves.'—
Then raising her voice to a strain, The sweetest that ear ever heard, She sung of the slave's broken chain, Wherever her glory appeared.
Some clouds which had over us hung, Fled, chased by her melody clear; And methought, while she liberty sung, 'Twas liberty only to hear.
Thus swiftly dividing the flood, To a slave-cultured island we came, Where a demon, her enemy, stood, Oppression his terrible name.
In his hand, as a sign of his sway, A scourge hung with lashes he bore, And stood looking out for his prey, From Africa's sorrowful shore.
But soon as approaching the land, That angel-like woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand, With the blood of his subjects imbru'd.
I saw him both sicken and die, And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts that ascended the sky, From thousands with rapture inspired.
Awaking, how could I but muse At what such a dream should betide? But soon my ear caught the glad news, Which served my weak thought for a guide;
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves, For the hatred she ever has shown To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, Resolves to have none of her own.
1788.
* ↑ In explanation of the Plate.
* ↑ See Frontispiece
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# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/The Prisoner for Debt

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.
Cast down, great God, the fanes,
That, to unhallowed gains, Round us have risen— Temples, whose priesthood pore
Moses and Jesus o'er— Then bolt the poor man's prison.—Pierpont.
Look on him—through his dungeon grate, Feebly and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dim and late, As if it loathed the sight. Reclining on his strawy bed, His hand upholds his drooping head— His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, Unshorn his gray, neglected beard; And o'er his bony fingers flow His long dishevelled locks of snow.
No grateful fire before him glows,— And yet the winter's breath is chill: And o'er his half-clad person goes The frequent ague-thrill!
Silent—save ever and anon, A sound, half murmur and half groan, Forces apart the painful grip Of the old sufferer's bearded lip: O sad and crushing is the fate, Of old age chained and desolate!
Just God! why lies that old man there? A murderer shares his prison bed, Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, Gleam on him fierce and red; And the rude oath and heartless jeer, Fall ever on his loathing ear, And, or in wakefulness or sleep, Nerve, flesh and fibre thrill and creep, Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb, Crimson with murder, touches him!
What has the gray-haired prisoner done? Has murder stained his hands with gore? Not so: his crime's a fouler one: God made the old man poor! For this he shares a felon's cell — The fittest earthly type of hell! For this—the boon for which he poured His young blood on th' invader's sword, And counted light the fearful cost— His blood-gained liberty is lost!
And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, poured thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, And Saratoga's plain't Look forth, thou man of many scars, Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars! It must be joy, in sooth, to see Yon Monument upreared to thee— Piled granite and a prison cell— The land repays thy service well!
Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, And fling the starry banner out; Shout 'Freedom!' till your lisping ones Give back their cradle shout: Let boasted eloquence declaim Of honor, liberty, and fame; Still let the poet's strain be heard, With 'glory' for each second word, And every thing with breath agree To praise 'our glorious liberty!'
And when the patriot cannon jars That prison's cold and gloomy wall, And through its grates the stripes and stars Rise on the wind, and fall— Think ye that prisoner's aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer?
Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry? Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb, What is your carnival to him?
Down with the law that binds him thus! Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuse from the withering curse Of God and human kind! Open the prisoner's living tomb, And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of your savage code, To the free sun and air of God! No longer dare as crime to brand The chastening of th' Almighty's hand!
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# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/The Yankee Girl

THE YANKEE GIRL.
She sings by her wheel, at that low cottage-door— Which the long evening shadow is stretching before, With a music as sweet as the music which seems Breathed softly and faint the the ear of our dreams!
How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky! And lightly and freely her dark tresses play O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!
Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door? The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 'Tis the great southern planter—the master who waves His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves.
'Nay Ellen—for shame! Let those yankee fools spin, Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin— Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel! ​But thou art too lovely and precious a gem, To be bound to their burdens and sullied by them— For shame, Ellen, shame!—cast thy bondage aside, And away to the south, as my blessing and pride.
Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, But where flowers are blossoming all the year long, Where the palmetto's shadow is over my home, And the lemon and orange wave white in their bloom!
Oh come to my home, where my servants shall all Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call— They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe, And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law.'
Oh, could ye have seen her—that pride of our girls, Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel!
'Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold; Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear!
And the sky of thy south may be brighter than ours, And greener thy landscapes and fairer thy flowers; But, dearer the blast round our mountains which raves, Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves! ​Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel, With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel; Yet know that the yankee girl sooner would be In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee!'
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Ellen Brine ov Allenburn

ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.
Noo soul did hear her lips complaïn, An’ she’s a-gone vrom all her païn, An’ others’ loss to her is gaïn For she do live in heaven’s love; Vull many a longsome day an’ week She bore her aïlèn, still, an’ meek; A-workèn while her strangth held on, An’ guidèn housework, when ’twer gone. Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, Oh! there be souls to murn.
The last time I’d a-cast my zight Upon her feäce, a-feäded white, Wer in a zummer’s mornèn light In hall avore the smwold’rèn vier, The while the childern beät the vloor, ​In plaÿ, wi’ tiny shoes they wore, An’ call’d their mother’s eyes to view The feät’s their little limbs could do. Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, They childern now mus’ murn.
Then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce, Went up, an’ on her knee did pleäce His hand, a-lookèn in her feäce, An’ wi’ a smilèn mouth so small, He zaid, “You promised us to goo To Shroton feäir, an’ teäke us two!” She heärd it wi’ her two white ears, An’ in her eyes there sprung two tears, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
Did veel that they mus’ murn.
September come, wi’ Shroton feäir, But Ellen Brine wer never there! A heavy heart wer on the meäre Their father rod his hwomeward road. ’Tis true he brought zome feärèns back, Vor them two childern all in black; But they had now, wi’ plaÿthings new, Noo mother vor to shew em to, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Would never mwore return.