OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/On The Sea Wall

ON THE SEA WALL
I sit upon the old sea wall,  And watch the shimmering sea, Where soft and white the moonbeams fall,  Till, in a fantasy, Some pure white maiden's funeral pall  The strange light seems to me.
The waters break upon the shore  And shiver at my feet, While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er,  And dim old scenes repeat; Tho' all have dreamed the same before,  They still seem new and sweet.
The waves still sing the same old song  That knew an elder time; The breakers' beat is not more strong,  Their music more sublime; And poets thro' the ages long  Have set these notes to rhyme.
But this shall not deter my lyre,  Nor check my simple strain; If I have not the old-time fire,  I know the ancient pain: The hurt of unfulfilled desire,—  The ember quenched by rain.
I know the softly shining sea  That rolls this gentle swell Has snarled and licked its tongues at me  And bared its fangs as well; That 'neath its smile so heavenly,  There lurks the scowl of hell!
But what of that? I strike my string  (For songs in youth are sweet); I 'll wait and hear the waters bring  Their loud resounding beat; Then, in her own bold numbers sing  The Ocean's dear deceit!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/On the River

ON THE RIVER
The sun is low, The waters flow, My boat is dancing to and fro. The eve is still, Yet from the hill The killdeer echoes loud and shrill.
The paddles plash, The wavelets dash, We see the summer lightning flash; While now and then, In marsh and fen Too muddy for the feet of men,
Where neither bird Nor beast has stirred, The spotted bullfrog's croak is heard. The wind is high, The grasses sigh, The sluggish stream goes sobbing by.
And far away The dying day Has cast its last effulgent ray; While on the land The shadows stand Proclaiming that the eve's at hand.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Parted (1)

PARTED
She wrapped her soul in a lace of lies,  With a prime deceit to pin it; And I thought I was gaining a fearsome prize,  So I staked my soul to win it.
We wed and parted on her complaint,  And both were a bit of barter, Tho' I'll confess that I'm no saint,  I'll swear that she's no martyr.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Parted (2)

PARTED
De breeze is blowin' 'cross de bay.  My lady, my lady; De ship hit teks me far away,  My lady, my lady; Ole Mas' done sol' me down de stream; Dey tell me 't ain't so bad 's hit seem,  My lady, my lady.
O' co'se I knows dat you 'll be true,  My lady, my lady; But den I do' know whut to do,  My lady, my lady; I knowed some day we 'd have to pa't, But den hit put' nigh breaks my hea't,  My lady, my lady.
De day is long, de night is black,  My lady, my lady; I know you 'll wait twell I come back,  My lady, my lady; I 'll stan' de ship, I 'll stan' de chain, But I 'll come back, my darlin' Jane,  My lady, my lady.
Jes' wait, jes' b'lieve in whut I say,  My lady, my lady; D' ain't nothin' dat kin keep me 'way,  My lady, my lady; A man 's a man, an' love is love; God knows ouah hea'ts, my little dove; He 'll he'p us f'om his th'one above,  My lady, my lady.
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
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Despondency

XII
DESPONDENCY
I have gone backward in the work, The labour has not sped, Drowsy and dark my spirit lies, Heavy and dull as lead.
How can I rouse my sinking soul From such a lethargy? How can I break these iron chains, And set my spirit free?
There have been times when I have mourned, In anguish o'er the past; And raised my suppliant hands on high, While tears fell thick and fast.
And prayed to have my sins forgiven, With such a fervent zeal, An earnest grief—a strong desire That now I cannot feel!
And vowed to trample on my sins, And called on Heaven to aid My spirit in her firm resolves And hear the vows I made. ​And I have felt so full of love, So strong in spirit then, As if my heart would never cool, Or wander back again.
And yet, alas! how many times My feet have gone astray; How oft have I forgot my God, How greatly fallen away!
My sins increase, my love grows cold, And Hope within me dies, And Faith itself is wavering now; O how shall I arise!
I cannot weep, but I can pray, Then let me not despair; Lord Jesus, save me lest I die, And hear a wretch's prayer.
December 20, 1841.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Douglas Ride

XXIV
DOUGLAS RIDE
Well narrower draw the circle round, And hush that music's solemn sound, And quench the lamp and stir the fire, To rouse its flickering radiance higher; Toss up the window's velvet veil, That we may hear the night-wind wail, For wild those gusts, and well their chimes Blend with a song of troubled times.
July 11, 1838.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Death

XVI
DEATH
Death! that struck when I was most confiding In my certain faith of joy to be— Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing From the fresh root of Eternity!
Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly, Full of sap, and full of silver dew; Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly; Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom; Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride; But, within its parent's kindly bosom, Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.
Little mourned I for the parted gladness, For the vacant nest and silent song— Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness; Whispering, 'Winter will not linger long!'
And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing, Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray; Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing, Lavished glory on that second May! ​High it rose—no winged grief could sweep it; Sin was scared to distance with its shine; Love, and its own life, had power to keep it From all wrong—from every blight but thine!
Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish; Evening's gentle air may still restore— No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish— Time, for me, must never blossom more!
Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish Where that perished sapling used to be; Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish That from which it sprung—Eternity.
The date of this poem as given by Miss Robinson is 1843.—Ed.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Confidence

XV
CONFIDENCE
Oppressed with sin and woe, A burdened heart I bear, Opposed by many a mighty foe; But I will not despair.
With this polluted heart, I dare to come to Thee, Holy and mighty as Thou art; For Thou wilt pardon me.
I feel that I am weak, And prone to every sin; But Thou who giv'st to those who seek, Wilt give me strength within.
Far as this earth may be From yonder starry skies, Remoter still am I from Thee; Yet Thou wilt not despise.
I need not fear my foes, I need not yield to care, I need not sink beneath my woes; For Thou wilt answer prayer.
​In my Redeemer's name I give myself to Thee; And all unworthy as I am, My God will cherish me.
O make me wholly Thine! Thy love to me impart, And let Thy holy Spirit shine For ever on my heart!
June 1, 1845.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Encouragement

XVI
ENCOURAGEMENT
I do not weep; I would not weep; Our mother needs no tears: Dry thine eyes, too; 'tis vain to keep This causeless grief for years.
What though her brow be changed and cold, Her sweet eyes closed for ever? What though the stone--the darksome mould Our mortal bodies sever?
What though her hand smooth ne'er again Those silken locks of thine? Nor, through long hours of future pain, Her kind face o'er thee shine?
Remember still, she is not dead; She sees us, sister, now; Laid, where her angel spirit fled, 'Mid heath and frozen snow.
And from that world of heavenly light Will she not always bend To guide us in our lifetime's night, And guard us to the end?
Thou know'st she will; and thou mayst mourn That we are left below: But not that she can ne'er return To share our earthly woe.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Companions all day long we've stood

IV
Companions all day long we've stood The wild winds restless blowing, All day we've watched the darkened flood Around our vessel flowing.
Sunshine has never smiled since morn, And clouds have gathered drear, And heavier hearts would feel forlorn And weaker minds would fear.
But look in each young shipmate's eyes Lit by the evening flame, And see how little stormy skies Our joyous blood can tame.
No face one same expression wears, No lip the same soft smile; Yet kindness warms and courage cheers, Nerves every breast the while.
It is the hour of dreaming now, With blue and ghostly gleams, And sweetest in a reddened glow The hour of dreaming seems.
I may not trace the thoughts of all, But some I read so well, As I can hear the ocean's fall And sudden surging swell. ​The swifter soul is gone before, It treads a forest wide, Where bowers are bending to the shore And gazing on the tide.
And one is there—I know the voice, The thrilling, stirring tone, That makes his bounding pulse rejoice, Yet makes not his alone.
Mine own hand longs to clasp her hand, Mine eye to meet her eye; The white sails win Zorayda's strand, And flout against her sky.
September 17, 1840, E.J. Brontë.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Come hither, child; who gifted thee

XXXVI
Come hither, child; who gifted thee With power to touch that string so well? How darest thou wake thoughts in me, Thoughts that I would—but cannot quell!
Nay, chide not, lady; long ago I heard those notes in Elbe Hall, And had I known they'd waken woe, I'd weep their music to recall.
But thus it was one festal night, When I was hardly six years old, I stole away from crowds and light And sought a chamber dark and cold.
I had no one to love me there, I knew no comrade and no friend, And so I went to sorrow where Heaven only heaven could me fend.
Loud blew the wind. 'Twas sad to stay From all that splendour round away. I imaged in the lonely room A thousand forms, a fearful gloom;
And with my wet eyes raised on high, I prayed to God that I might die. Suddenly in the silence drear A sound of music reached my ear: ​And then a voice—I hear it yet— So full of soul, so deeply sweet; I thought that Gabriel's self had come To take me to my father's home.
Three times it rose, that solemn strain, Then died away, nor came again; And still the words and still the tone Dwell in their might when all alone.
July 19, 1839.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Come walk with me

LXI
Come, walk with me, There's only thee, To bless my spirit now. We used to love on winter nights To wander through the snow. Can we not woo back old delights? The clouds rush dark and wild; They fleck with shade our mountains bright The same as long ago, And on the horizon rest at last In looming masses piled; While moonbeams flash and fly so fast We scarce can say they smiled.
Come walk with me, come walk with me, We were not once so few; But Death has stolen our company, As sunshine steals the dew. He took them one by one and we Are left, the only two; So closer would my feelings twine Because they have no stay but thine.
'Nay call me not; it may not be; Is human love so true? Can friendship's flower droop for years And then revive anew? ​No; though the soil be wet with tears, How fair soe'er it grew; The vital sap once perished Will never flow again. And surer than that dwelling dread, The narrow dungeon of the dead, Time parts the heart of men.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Darkness was overtraced on every face

XXX
Darkness was overtraced on every face, Around clouded with storm and ominous gloom; In hut or hall smiled out no resting-place; There was no resting-place but one—the tomb!
All our hearths were the mansions of distress, And no one laughed, and none seemed free from care; Our children felt their fathers' wretchedness; Our homes, one, all were shadowed with despair: It was not fear that made the land so sad.
May 1838.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Cold, clear, and blue the morning heaven

III
Cold, clear, and blue the morning heaven Expands its arch on high; Cold, clear, and blue Lake Werna's water Reflects that winter sky: The moon has set, but Venus shines, A silent, silvery star.
Will the day be bright or cloudy? Sweetly has its dawn begun; But the heaven may shake with thunder Ere the settling sun.
Lady, watch Apollo's journey; Thus thy first hour's course shall be; If his beams through summer vapours Warm the earth all placidly, Her days shall pass like a pleasant dream in sweet tranquility.
If it darken, if a shadow Quench his rays and summon rain, Flowers may open, buds may blossom, Bud and flower alike are vain; Her days shall pass like a mournful story in care and tears and pain. ​If the wind be fresh and free, The wide skies clear and cloudless blue, The woods and fields and golden flowers Sparkling in sunshine and in dew, Her days shall pass in Glory's light the world's drear desert through.
July 12, 1836.
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 10

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_10.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 11

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_11.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 2

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_2.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 7

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_7.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 4

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_4.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 5

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_5.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 6

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_6.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 9

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_9.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 8

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_8.djvu
# The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart/Volume 3

Collected_Works_of_Dugald_Stewart_Volume_3.djvu
# The Book of Scottish Song/What can a young lassie

What can a young lassie.
[There is an old song, the burthen of which is the same as the opening of the present,—"What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?" From this Burns took the hint, and furnished the following expressive ditty for Johnson's Museum in 1790. The tune is very old.]
What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck to the pennie that tempted my minnie, To sell her poor Jenny for siller and lan'!
He's always compleenin frae mornin' to e'enin', He hosts and he hirples the wearie day lang; He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O, drearie's the night wi' a crazy auld man! ​He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him, do a' that I can; He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows, O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!
My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan, I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.
# The Book of Scottish Song/When I rov'd

When I rov'd.
[Words by Lord Byron. Music by J. P. Knight.]
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy dark summit, O Morven, of snow! To gaze on the torrent that slumber'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear— Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas center'd in you.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, And heard at a distance the Highlander's song— At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view; And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow; But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before, Will Mary be there to receive me? ah no! Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred— Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu! No home in the forest shall shelter my head,— Ah Mary! what home could be mine without you?
# The Book of Scottish Song/What ails you, Pate

What ails you, Pate.
[Tune, "For a' that an' a' that."—Written by Alex. Douglas, a weaver in Pathhead, Fifeshire, who published a volume of poems in 1806.]
What ails you now, my daintie Pate, Ye winna wed an' a' that? Say, are ye fley'd, or are ye blate, To tell your love an' a' that? To kiss an' clap, an' a' that? O fy for shame, an" a' that, To spend your life without a wife; 'Tis no the gate ava that.
Ere lang you will grow auld and frail, Your haffets white an' a' that; An' whare's the Meg, the Kate, or Nell, Will ha'e you syne wi. a' that? Runkled brow an' a' that; Wizzen'd fece an' a' that; Wi' beard sae grey, there's nane will ha'e A kiss frae you, an' a' that.
O stand na up wi' where an' how, Wi' ifs an' buts an' a' that, Wi' feckless scruples not a few: Pu' up your heart an' a' that. Crousely crack an' a' that; Come try your luck an' a' that: The hiney-moon will ne'er gang done, If guidit weel an' a' that.
There's monie lass baith douce an' fair, Fu' sonsy, fier, an' a' that, Wad suit you to a veiry hair, Sae clever they're an' a' that; Handsome, young, an' a' that, Sae complaisant an' a' that; Sae sweet an' braw, and gude an' a'; What ails the chield at a' that
Come, look about, an' wale a wife, Like honest fouk an' a' that; An' lead a cheerfu' virtuous life; Ha'e plenty, peace, an' a' that; A thrifty wife an' a' that, An' bonnie bairns an' a' that, Syne in your ha' shall pleasures a' Smile ilka day an' a' that.
# The Book of Scottish Song/When Autumn

When Autumn.
[From a very elegant volume of poems, entitled, "Lays and Lyrics, by Captain Charles Gray, of the Royal Marines, F. R. A. S. E.:" Edinburgh, 1841.—Captain Gray has been long known as a successful song-writer. So far back as 1811, he published a small collection of "Poems and Songs," some of the latter of which have become established favourites with the public. The Captain is a native of Anstruther, in Fifeshire: and, after a service in the royal marine forces of nearly forty years, is now resident in Edinburgh, on the full-pay retired list. The present fine song has been set to music by Mr. Peter Macleod.]
When autumn has laid her sickle by, And the stacks are theekit to hand them dry; And the sapless leaves come down firae the trees, And dance about in the fitfu' breeze; And the robin again sits burd-alane, And sings his sang on the auld peat stane; When come is the hour o' gloamin grey, Oh! sweet is to me the minstrel's lay.
When winter is driving his cloud on the gale, And spairgin about his snaw and his hail, And the door is steekit against the blast, And the winnocks wi' wedges are firm and fast, And the ribs are rypet, the cannel a-light, And the fire on the hearth is bleezin' bright, And the bicker is reamin' wi' pithy brown ale; Oh! dear is to me a sang or a tale.
Then I tove awa' by the ingle-side, And tell o' the blasts I was wont to bide, When the nichts were lang and the sea ran high, And the moon hid her face in the depths of the sky, And the mast was strained, and the canvass rent, By some demon on message of mischief sent; Oh! I bless my stars that at hame I can bide, For dear, dear to me is my ain ingle-side.
# The Book of Scottish Song/What care I

What care I.
[William Paul. Music by James P. Clarke.]
My father has baith gowd and gear, Forby a bonnie mailen free: My mither spins wi' eident care, An' dochters they ha'e nane but me. But what care I for gowd and gear, Or what care I for mailens free; I wadna gi'e a bonnie lad, For a' the gowd in Chrisendie.
My mither cries, Tak' Sandy Bell, The canny laird o' Hazleglen; My father bids me please mysel', Bat tak' the laird o' auld Kilpenn. But what care I for gowd and gear, Nae charm has gowd and gear for me. I wadna gi'e a bonnie lad, For a' the gowd in Chrisendie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/When I am far away

When I am far away.
[Evan M'Coll.— Tune, "Oh, no; we never mention her."]
And thou wilt sing the song, sweet child! When I am far away, And thou wilt wake the echoes wild To list unto the lay; ​This thought will cheer the minstrel's heart,— Forget though others may, That thou wilt sing the song, sweet child, When I am far away.
Unknown to wealth and friendship too Though oft the minstrel sings, Give him his "fame," though small the due, He'll laugh at crowns and kings, Ev'n I—the thought is heaven to me— Ev'n I my meed shall ha'e, Since thou wilt sing the song, sweet child! When I am far away.
# The Book of Scottish Song/When John and me

When John and me.
[Tannahill.—Air, "Clean pease strae."]
When John and me were married, Our hadding was but sma', For my minnie, canker'd carline, Wad gi'e us nocht ava. I wair't my fee wi' cannie care, As far as it wad gae; But, weel I wat, our bridal bed Was clean pease strae.
Wi' working late and early, We're come to what you see; For fortune thrave aneath our hands, Sae eydent aye were we. The lowe o' love made labour light; I'm sure you'll find it sae, When kind ye cuddle down at e'en 'Mang clean pease strae.
The rose blooms gay on cairny brae As weel's in birken shaw, And love will live in cottage low, As weel's in lofty ha'. Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like, Whate'er your minnie say, Though ye should mak' your bridal bed O' clean pease strae.
# The Book of Scottish Song/When Maggie gangs away

When Maggie gangs away.
[It may be curious to contrast the "Barrochan Jean" of Tannahill with a similar extravaganza by the Ettrick Shepherd.]
O, what will a' the lads do When Maggie gangs away? O, what will a' the lads do, When Maggie gangs away? ​There's no a heart in a' the glen That disna dread the day. O, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away?
Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't— A waefu' wight is he; Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't, An' laid him doun to dee; An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk, An' learning fast to pray. And, O, what will the lads do When Maggy gangs away?
The young laird o' the Lang-shaw Has drunk her health in wine; The priest has said—in confidence— The lassie was divine: And that is mair in maiden's praise Than ony priest should say: But, O, what will the lads do When Maggy gangs away?
The wailing in our green glen That day will quaver high; 'Twill draw the red-breast frae the wood, The laverock from the sky; The fairies frae their beds o' dew Will rise and join the lay: An' hey! what a day 'twill be When Maggy gangs away!