OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Peace on Earth

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* "Peace on Earth", a poem by Rosa Neil Crandall
* "Peace on Earth", a poem by Martha Lavinia Hoffman
# Peace and War

A pleasant river, clear and blue,
Went singing to the sea.
The sunbeam joined them hand in hand
To dance the melody.
The courtly rushes bowed their heads
As nobles to the Queen,
And saw, reflected in the wave,
Their coats of Lincoln green.
God made such horrors? Count that word a lie.
God made the pleasant river, clear and blue,
Peace is His handiwork, and love, and joy,
While man makes sewers and artillery,
Grim bayonets, and howitzers and shell,
The battle-squadron surging through the tides,
Ten thousand hecatombs of reeking red
And all the vile magnificence of War.
# Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell/end matter

PROSE FICTIONS
BY
CURRER, ELLIS, AND ACTON BELL.
CURRER BELL'S NOVEL.
JANE EYRE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
By CURRER BELL.
Third Edition, with Preface by the Author, 3 Vols. Post 8vo, price 1l. 11s. 6d. cloth.
ELLIS BELL'S NOVEL.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
By ELLIS BELL.
Forming, with "Agnes Grey" by Acton Bell, 3 Vols. Post 8vo, price 1l. 11s. 6d.
ACTON BELL'S NOVEL.
THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL.
By ACTON BELL.
Second Edition, with Preface by the Author, 3 Vols. Post 8vo, price 1l. 11s. 6d. cloth.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne

POEMS.
POEMS,
BY
FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE.
LIVERPOOL.
PRINTED BY G.F.HARRIS,
FOR T.CADELL AND W.DAVIES, STRAND,
LONDON.
1808.
TO
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE PRINCE OF WALES,
THE
FOLLOWING PRODUCTIONS OF EARLY YOUTH
ARE
(BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S GRACIOUS PERMISSION)
MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED
BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S HIGHLY OBLIGED
AND MOST GRATEFUL SERVANT.
F.D.BROWNE.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The following pieces are the genuine productions of a young lady, written between the age of eight and thirteen years. By this information it is not intended to arrogate to them that favour to which they may perhaps have no intrinsic claim; but if it should appear that they possess a degree of merit sufficient to obtain the approbation of the reader, the circumstances under which they have been produced may give them that additional interest to which they are most truly intitled. They owe their publication to the kind and condescending favour of the Right Honourable Viscountess Kirkwall, to the regard and partialities of friendship, and to the hope that they may in some degree be rendered subservient to the earnest wish of the young authoress for intellectual improvement.
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
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Secrets

CHAPTER XIV.
THE CONFESSION.
Life has secrets; and the hearts are few
That treasure not some sorrow from the world—
A sorrow silent, gloomy, and unknown,
Yet colouring the future from the past.
We see the eye subdued, the practised smile,
The word well weighed before it pass the lip,
And know not of the misery within:
Yet there it works incessantly, and fears
The time to come; for time is terrible,
Avenging, and betraying.
Blanchard’s title is:
SECRETS
In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838), as Secrets
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Vanity

FIRST LETTER OF LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
Vanity! guiding power, 'tis thine to rule Statesman and vestryman—the knave or fool. The Macedonian crossed Hydaspes' wave, Fierce as the storm, and gloomy as the grave. Urged by the thought, what would Athenians say, When next they gathered on a market-day? And the same spirit that induced his toil, Leads on the cook, to stew, and roast, and boil: Whether the spice be mixed—the flag unfurled— Each deems their task the glory of the world.
Blanchard’s title is:
VANITY
In The New York Mirror (3rd March 1838), as Vanity
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/The Poet’s Lot

CHAPTER XVI.
A LONDON LIFE.
The poet's lovely faith creates
 The beauty he believes;
The light which on his footsteps waits,
 He from himself receives.
His lot may be a weary lot;
 His thrall a heavy thrall;
And cares and griefs the crowd know not,
 His heart may know them all:
But still he hath a mighty dower,
 The loveliness that throws
Over the common thought and hour
 The beauty of the rose.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE POET’S LOT
In The New York Mirror (3rd March 1838) and in The New Yorker (24th March 1838), both as The Poet’s Consolation
This is an extract from the Introduction in Fisher’s Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/The Visionary and the True

CHAPTER X.
Ah! waking dreams, that mock the day,
 Have other ends than those
That come beneath the moonlight ray,
 And charm the eyes they close.
The vision, colouring the night,
 'Mid bloom and brightness wakes,
Banished by morning's cheerful light,
 Which brightens what it breaks.
But dreams, which fill the waking eye
 With deeper spells than sleep,
When hours unnumbered pass us by;
 From such we wake and weep.
We wake, but not to sleep again,
 The heart has lost its youth;
The morning light that wakes us then,
 Cold, calm, and stern, is truth.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE VISIONARY AND THE TRUE
In The New York Mirror (24th February 1838), as Waking Dreams
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Resolves

CHAPTER XIII.
A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.
What mockeries are our most firm resolves!
To will is ours, but not to execute.
We map our future like some unknown coast,
And say, "Here is an harbour, here a rock—
The one we will attain, the other shun:"
And we do neither. Some chance gale springs up
And bears us far o'er some unfathomed sea.
Our efforts are all vain; at length we yield
To winds and waves, that laugh at man's control.
Blanchard’s title is:
RESOLVES
In The New York Mirror (3rd March 1838), as Man’s Weakness
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Success Alone Seen

CHAPTER VII.
Few know of life's beginnings—men behold
The goal achieved. The warrior, when his sword
Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun;
The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm;
The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice,
And mould opinion on his gifted tongue:
They count not life's first steps, and never think
Upon the many miserable hours
When hope deferred was sickness to the heart.
They reckon not the battle and the march,
The long privations of a wasted youth;
They never see the banner till unfurled.
What are to them the solitary nights,
Past pale and anxious by the sickly lamp,
Till the young poet wins the world at last,
To listen to the music long his own?
The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind
That makes their destiny; but they do not trace
Its struggle, or its long expectancy.
Hard are life's early steps; and, but that youth
Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope,
Men would behold its threshold, and despair.
Blanchard’s title is:
SUCCESS ALONE SEEN
In the New York Mirror (24th February 1838), as Life’s Beginnings
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/The Disturbing Spirit

CHAPTER XXXII.
DIFFERENT OPINIONS.
Doubt, despairing, crime, and craft, Are upon that honied shaft. It has made the crowned king Crouch beneath his suffering; Made the beauty's cheek more pale Than the foldings of her veil: Like a child the soldiers kneel, Who had mocked at flame or steel; Bade the fires of genius turn On their own breasts; and there burn, A wound, a blight, a curse, a doom, Bowing young hearts to the tomb. Well may storm be on the sky, And the waters roll on high, When that passion passes by: Earth below, and heaven above, Well may bend to thee, O Love!
Blanchard’s title is:
THE DISTURBING SPIRIT
From Manmadin, The Indian Cupid in The Improvisatrice, originally in The Literary Gazette, 14th December 1822
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/The Mind’s Unrest

CHAPTER XXVII.
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
Mind, dangerous and glorious gift! Too much thy native heaven has left Its nature in thee, for thy light  To be content with earthly home. It hath another, and its sight  Will too much to that other roam; And heavenly light, and earthly clay, But ill bear with alternate sway: Till jarring elements create  The evil which they sought to shun, And deeper feel their mortal state  In struggling for a higher one. There is no rest for the proud mind, Conscious of its high powers confined;  Vain dreams and feverish hopes arise,  It is itself its sacrifice.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE MIND’S UNREST
Taken from the Golden Violet, Amenaïde
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/The World Within

CHAPTER IX.
DIFFERENT VIEWS OF YOUTH AND AGE.
There was a shadow on his face, that spake
Of passion long since hardened into thought.
He had a smile, a cold and scornful smile;
Not gaiety, not sweetness, but the sign
Of feelings moulded at their master's will.
A weary world was hidden at that heart;
Sorrow and strife were there, and it had learnt
The weary lessons time and sorrow teach;
And deeply felt itself the vanity
Of love and hope, and now could only feel
Distrust in them, and mockery for those
Who could believe in what he knew was vain.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE WORLD WITHIN
In The New York Mirror (3rd March 1838), as Distrust
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/The Wrongs of Love

CHAPTER XIX.
Alas, how bitter are the wrongs of love
Life has no other sorrow so acute:
For love is made of every fine emotion,
Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts;
It looketh to the stars, and dreams of Heaven;
It nestles 'mid the flowers, and sweetens earth.
Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too:
It doth exalt another o'er itself,
With sweet heart-homage, which delights to raise
That which it worships; yet is fain to win
The idol to its lone and lowly home
Of deep affection. 'Tis an utter wreck
When such hopes perish. From that moment, life
Has in its depths a well of bitterness,
For which there is no healing.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE WRONGS OF LOVE
In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838), as The Wrongs of Love
# Points of friction/end matter

THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
# Poems of Cheer/Worth while

It is easy enough to be pleasant  When life flows by like a song, But the man worth while is the one who will smile  When everything goes dead wrong. For the test of the heart is trouble,  And it always comes with the years, And the smile that is worth the praises of earth  Is the smile that shines through tears.
It is easy enough to be prudent  When nothing tempts you to stray, When without or within no voice of sin  Is luring your soul away; But it's only a negative virtue  Until it is tried by fire, And the life that is worth the honour on earth  Is the one that resists desire.
By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,  Who had no strength for the strife, The world's highway is cumbered to-day -  They make up the sum of life; But the virtue that conquers passion,  And the sorrow that hides in a smile - It is these that are worth the homage on earth,  For we find them but once in a while.
# Poems of Cheer/Winter Rain

Falling upon the frozen world last I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain - Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain; The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might, Far better had the fixedness of white And uncomplaining snows--which make no sign, But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine - Concealed its sorrow from all human sight. Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, I learned the uselessness of uttered woe. Though sinewy Fate deals her most skilful blow,  I do not waste the gall now of my tears,  But feed my pride upon its bitter, while I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.
# Poems of Cheer/Wishes for a little girl

What would I ask the kindly fates to give  To crown her life, if I could have my way? My strongest wishes would be negative,  If they would but obey.
Give her not greatness. For great souls must stand  Alone and lonely in this little world: Cleft rocks that show the great Creator's hand,  Thither by earthquakes hurled.
Give her not genius. Spare her the cruel pain  Of finding her whole life a prey for daws; Of hearing with quickened sense and burning brain  The world's sneer-tinged applause.
Give her not perfect beauty's gifts. For then  Her truthful mirror would infuse her mind With love for self, and for the praise of men,  That lowers woman-kind.
But make her fair and comely to the sight,  Give her more heart than brain, more love than pride. Let her be tender-thoughted, cheerful, bright,  Some strong man's star and guide.
Not vainly questioning why she was sent  Into this restless world of toil and strife, Let her go bravely on her way, content  To make the best of life.
# Poems of Cheer/Will

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, Can circumvent or hinder or control The firm resolve of a determined soul. Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great; All things give way before it, soon or late.  What obstacle can stay the mighty force  Of the sea-seeking river in its course, Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate  Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,  Whose slightest action or inaction serve. The one great aim.  Why, even Death stands still, And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.
# Poems of Childhood

With illustrations by Maxfield Parrish.
WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM
Copyright, 1892
By Mary French Field
LOVE SONGS OF CHILDHOOD
Copyright, 1894
By Eugene Field
Copyright, 1904
By Charles Scribner's Sons Published, September, 1904
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM DRAWINGS IN COLORS
BY MAXFIELD PARRISH
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD
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 Cheer/What Gain?

Now, while thy rounded cheek is fresh and fair,  While beauty lingers, laughing, in thine eyes, Ere thy young heart shall meet the stranger, "Care,"  Or thy blithe soul become the home of sighs, Were it not kindness should I give thee rest By plunging this sharp dagger in thy breast? Dying so young, with all thy wealth of youth, What part of life wouldst thou not claim, in sooth?  Only the woe,  Sweetheart, that sad souls know.
Now, in this sacred hour of supreme trust,  Of pure delight and palpitating joy, Ere change can come, as come it surely must,  With jarring doubts and discords, to destroy Our far too perfect peace, I pray thee, Sweet, Were it not best for both of us, and meet, If I should bring swift death to seal our bliss? Dying so full of joy, what could we miss?  Nothing but tears,  Sweetheart, and weary years.
How slight the action! Just one well-aimed blow  Here, where I feel thy warm heart's pulsing beat, And then another through my own, and so  Our perfect union would be made complete: So, past all parting, I should claim thee mine. Dead with our youth, and faith, and love divine, Should we not keep the best of life that way? What shall we gain by living day on day?  What shall we gain,  Sweetheart, but bitter pain?
# Poems of Cheer/What happens?

When thy hand touches mine, through all the mesh  Of intricate and interlaced veins  Shoot swift delights that border on keen pains: Flesh thrills to thrilling flesh.
When in thine eager eyes I look to find  A comrade to my thought, thy ready brain  Delves down and makes its inmost meaning plain: Mind answers unto mind.
When hands and eyes are hid by seas that roll  Wide wastes between us, still so near thou art  I count the very pulses of thy heart: Soul speaketh unto soul.
So every law, or human or divine, In heart and brain and spirit makes thee mine.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/A Thought of the Rose

A Thought of the Rose.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Rosa, Rosa! perche sulla tua belta
Sempre e scritta questa parola—morte?
How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower?
The Bridal day—the Festival—the Tomb—
Thou hast thy part in each—thou stateliest flower!
Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by
A thousand images of Love and Grief,
Dreams, fill'd with tokens of mortality,
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.
Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first
In the clear light of Eden's golden day;
There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst,
Link'd with no dim remembrance of decay.
Rose! for the banquet gathered, and the bier;
Rose! coloured now by human hope or pain;
Surely where death is not—nor change, nor fear,
Yet may we meet thee, Joy's own Flower, again!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/Fair Helen of Kirconnel

"Fair Helen of Kirconnel."
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"Fair Helen of Kirconnel," as she is called in the Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the former.
Hold me upon thy faithful heart,
Keep back my flitting breath;
'Tis early, early to depart,
Sweet friend!—yet this is Death!
Look on me still:—let that kind eye
Be the last light I see!
Oh! sad it is in spring to die,
But yet I die for thee!
For thee, my own!—thy stately head
Was never thus to bow;—
Give tears when with me Love hath fled,
True Love—thou know'st it now!
Oh! the free streams look’d bright, where'er
We in our gladness rov'd;
And the blue skies were very fair—
Dear friend! because we lov'd.
Farewell!—I bless thee!—live thou on,
When this young heart is low!
Surely my blood thy life hath won—
Clasp me once more—I go!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/Song

Song.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Oh! ye voices gone,
Sounds of other years!
Hush that haunting tone,
Melt me not to tears.
All around forget,
All who loved you well,
Yet sweet voices, yet,
O'er my soul ye swell.
With the winds of Spring,
With the breath of flowers,
Floating back, ye bring
Thoughts of banished hours.
Hence your music take,
Oh! ye voices gone!
This lone heart ye make
But more deeply lone.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/Swiss Home-Sickness

Swiss Home-Sickness,
TRANSLATED FROM THE LAST OF THE MELODIES SUNG BY THE TYROLESE FAMILY.
BY MRS, HEMANS.
"Herz, mein Herz, warum so traurig," &c.
Wherefore so sad and faint, my heart!—
The stranger's land is fair;
Yet weary, weary still thou art—
What find'st thou wanting there?
What wanting?—all, oh! all I love! Am I not lonely here?
Through a fair land in sooth I rove,
Yet what like home is dear?
My home! oh! thither would I fly,
Where the free air is sweet,
My father's voice, my mother's eye,
My own wild hills to greet.
My hills, with all their soaring steeps,
With all their glaciers bright,
Where in his joy the chamois leaps,
Mocking the hunter's might.
Oh! but to hear the herd-bell sound.
When shepherds lead the way
Up the high Alps, and children bound,
And not a lamb will stay!
Oh! but to climb the uplands free,
And, where the pure streams foam,
By the blue shining lake, to see,
Once more, my hamlet-home!
Here, no familiar look I trace;
I touch no friendly hand;
No child laughs kindly in my face—
As in my own bright land!—
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829

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
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter’s Wreath, 1829
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Meeting of the Ships
* "Fair Helen of Kirconnel"
* A Thought of the Rose
* Swiss Home-Sickness
* The Voice of Music
* Song—Oh! ye voices gone, Sounds of other years
* O'Connor's Child
* Monumental Inscription
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/Monumental Inscription

Monumental Inscription.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Elle etait du Monde, ou les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin; Et Rose, elle a dure, ce que durent les roses, L'espace d'un matin.
Earth! guard what here we lay in holy trust;
That which hath left our home a darkened place,
Wanting the form, the smile, now veiled with dust,
The light departed with our loveliest face.
Yet from thy bonds undying hope springs free—
We have but lent our beautiful to thee.
But thou, oh Heaven! keep, keep what Thou hast taken,
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high!
The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy,
Guide us where these are with our sister flown—
They were of Thee, and thou hast claim'd thine own!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1828/The Penitent's Offering

From The Ladies' Garland, 29th September, 1827
THE PENITENT’S OFFERING.*
(BY MRS, HEMANS.)
Thou, that with pallid cheek,
 And eyes in sadness meek,
And faded locks that humbly swept the ground,
 From thy long wanderings won,
 Before the all-healing Son,
Didst bow thee to the earth, oh lost and found!
 When thou would'st bathe his feet,
 With odours richly sweet,
And many a shower of woman's burning tears,
 And dry them with that hair,
 Brought low the dust to wear,
From the crowned beauty of its festal years.
 Did He reject thee then,
 While the sharp scorn of men
On thy once bright and stately head was cast?
 No, from the Saviour’s mein,
 A solemn light serene,
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last!
 For thee, their smiles no more
 Familiar faces wore;
Voices, once kind, had learned the stranger's tone.
 Who raised thee up, and bound
 Thy silent spirit’s wound? He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!
 But which, oh erring child!
 From home so long beguiled,
Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven,  That o'er the bruised reed
 Condemned of earth to bleed,
In music passed, "Thy sins are all forgiven!"
 Was it that perfume fraught
 With balm and incense brought
From the sweet words of Araby the blest?
 Or that fast flowing rain
 Of tears, which not in vain
To Him who scorned not tears, thy woes confessed?
 No, not by these restored
 Unto thy Father's board,
Thy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven, was made;
 But costlier in his eyes,
 By that best sacrifice,
Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid.