OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poet Lore/Volume 24

* No. 1
* No. 2
* No. 3
* No. 4
* No. 5 (transcription project)
* No. 6
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 32

Scans
Layout 4
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 41/July 1892/Obituary Note

Layout 4
Hermann Franz Moritz Kopp, a famous German chemist, died at Heidelberg, February 20th, in the seventy-fifth year of his age. He joined Liebig in 1813 at Giessen, where he labored for nearly twenty-five years; became a privat-docent in the university in 1841, an extraordinary professor in 1843, and an ordinary professor in 1853; and was called to Heidelberg in 1864, where he remained till his death. His specialty was physical chemistry.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Pippa

Pippa.
"Spring's at the Morn," from "Pippa Passes," by Robert Browning (1812-89), has become a very popular stanza with little folks. "All's right with the world" is a cheerful motto for the nursery and school-room.
The year's at the spring, The day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew pearled; ​The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven— All's right with the world!
Robert Browning.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Playing Robinson Crusoe

Playing Robinson Crusoe.
Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, Pussy can climb a tree, Or play with a silly old cork and string To 'muse herself, not me. But I like Binkie, my dog, because He knows how to behave; So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was And I am the Man in the Cave.
Pussy will play Man-Friday till It's time to wet her paw And make her walk on the window-sill (For the footprint Crusoe saw); Then she fluffles her tail and mews, And scratches and won't attend. But Binkie will play whatever I choose, And he is my true First Friend.
Pussy will rub my knees with her head, Pretending she loves me hard; But the very minute I go to my bed Pussy runs out in the yard, ​And there she stays till the morning-light; So I know it is only pretend; But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night, And he is my Firstest Friend!
Rudyard Kipling.
(In "The Just So Stories.")
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Robert of Lincoln

Robert of Lincoln.
"Robert of Lincoln," by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), is one of the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal School (Colonel Parker's school), year after year, and because my own pupils invariably like to commit it to memory. With the child of six to the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight.
Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, ​Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice, new coat is mine; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature, you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat, Bob-o'-link, bob-'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man, Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.
​Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care, Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows, ​Robert of Lincoln's a hum-drum drone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee.
William Cullen Bryant.
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 That Every Child Should Know/She Was a Phantom of Delight

She Was a Phantom of Delight.
"She Was a Phantom of Delight" (by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850) is included here because it is a picture of woman as she should be, not made dainty by finery, but by fine ideals—
"And not too good For human nature's daily food.
She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair: But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn. A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! ​Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death: The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright, With something of angelic light.
William Wordsworth.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Polonius' Advice

Excerpt from Hamlet
Polonius' Advice.
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear 't that th' opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Shakespeare ("Hamlet").
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Sheridan's Ride

Sheridan's Ride.
There never was a boy who did not like "Sheridan's Ride," by T. Buchanan Read (1822-72). The swing and gallop in it take every boy off from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorised.
Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.
​And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind, ​And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. What was done—what to do? A glance told him both, Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play, He seemed to the whole great army to say: "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!"
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, There with the glorious General's name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away!"
Thomas Buchanan Read.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Prospice

Prospice.
"Prospice," by Robert Browning (1812-89), is the greatest death song ever written. It is a battle-song and a pæan of victory.
"The journey is done, the summit attained, And the strong man must go." "I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes and forbore, And bade me creep past." "No! let me taste the whole of it." "The reward of all."
This poem is included in this book because these lines are enough to reconcile any one to any fate.
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere a guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more. The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold. Far sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end. ​And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!
Robert Browning.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Taliesin's Prophecy

TALIESIN'S PROPHECY.
A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the Ancient Britons, is still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following effect:
"Their God they shall worship, Their language they shall retain, Their land they shall lose, Except wild Wales."
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among, O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung! The path of unborn ages is trac'd upon my soul, The clouds, which mantle things unseen, away before me roll,
Alight, the depths revealing, hath o'er my spirit pass'd, A rushing sound from days to be, swells fitful in the blast, And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue, To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom’s hand was strung.
Green island of the mighty!* I see thine ancient race Driven from their fathers' realm, to make the rocks their dwelling-place! I see from Uthyr's† kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay. But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is given dominion o'er the storms,
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue, To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom’s hand was strung!
* ↑ *Ynya y Cedeirn, or Isle of the Mighty, an ancient name given to Britain.
* ↑ †Uthyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been the father of Arthur.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Angler

THE ANGLER.
I in these flowery meads would be: These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice; ***** And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. Isaac Walton.
Thou that hast loved so long and well  The vale's deep quiet streams, Where the pure water-lilies dwell,  Shedding forth tender gleams; And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing Glances in golden eves of spring.
Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,  Soft, soft the river flows, Wearing the shadow of thy line,  The gloom of alder-boughs; And in the midst, a richer hue, One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue.
And there but low sweet sounds are heard—  The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird,  The scythe upon the mead; Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, There steals a step which mortals fear.
'Tis not the stag that comes to lave,  At noon, his panting breast; 'Tis not the bittern, by the wave  Seeking her sedgy nest; The air is filled with summer's breath, The young flowers laugh—yet look! 'tis Death!
But if, where silvery currents rove,  Thy heart, grown still and sage, Hath learned to read the words of love  That shine o'er nature's page; If holy thoughts thy guests have been, Under the shade of willows green;
Then, lover of the silent hour  By deep lone waters past, Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,  To cheer thee through the last; And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, Mayst calmly bid thy streams farewell.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Cambrian in America

THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.
When the last flush of eve is dying  On boundless lakes, afar that shine; When winds amidst the palms are sighing,  And fragrance breathes from every pine:* When stars through cypress boughs are gleaming,  And fire-flies wander bright and free, Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,  My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee!
Alone o'er green savannahs roving,  When some broad stream in silence flows, Or through th' eternal forests moving,  One only home my spirit knows!
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted!  To thee on sleep's light wing I fly; But happier, could the weary-hearted,  Look on his own blue hills, and die!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Chieftain's Son

THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.*
Yes, it is ours!—the field is won,  A dark and evil field!  Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield!
 Let me not hear your trumpets ring,  Swell not the battle-horn!  Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!
Speak not of victory!—in the name  There is too much of woe!  Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame— Call me back his whose graceful head is low.
 Speak not of victory!—from my halls  The sunny hour is gone!  The ancient banner on my walls, Must sink ere long—I had but him—but one!
 Within the dwelling of my sires  The hearths will soon be cold,  With me must die the beacon-fires That stream'd at midnight from the mountain-hold.
 And let them fade, since this must be,  My lovely and my brave!  Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me, And is there but for stately youth a grave?
Speak to me once again, my boy!  Wilt thou not hear my call?  Thou wert so full of life and joy, I had not dreamt of this—that thou couldst fall!
 Thy mother watches from the steep  For thy returning plume;  How shall I tell her that thy sleep Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb?
 Thou didst not seem as one to die,  With all thy young renown!  —Ye saw his falchion's flash on high, In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!
 Slow be your march! the field is won!  A dark and evil field!  Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Song of the Spanish Wanderer

SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.
Pilgrim, O say hath thy cheek been fanned, By the sweet winds of my sunny land; Know'st thou the sound of its mountain pines? And hast thou rested beneath its vines?
Hast thou heard the music still wandering by, A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky, Floating away o'er hill and heath, With the myrtle's whisper, the citron's breath?
Then say, are there fairer vales than those, Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows? Are there brighter flowers than mine own which wave O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?
O sunshine and song! they are lying far By the streams that look to the western star; My heart is fainting to hear once more The water-voices of that sweet shore.
Many were they that have died for thee, And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free, Yet I call them blest—they have rent their chain, They sleep in thy valleys—my sunny Spain!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Broken Chain

THE BROKEN CHAIN.
I am free!—I have burst through my galling chain, The life of young eagles is mine again; I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, I may rove where the wind roves—my path is free!
The streams dash in joy down the summer hill, The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze, And is not my spirit as one of these?
Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, And the voices that ring through its forest bowers, And the laughing glance of the founts that shine, Lighting the valleys—all, all are mine!
I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, The wings of the morning shall lend him speed; I may meet the storm in its rushing glee— Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free!
Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain? Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main? Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar, But must thou not mingle with throngs the more?
The bird when he pineth, may hush his song, Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong But thou, canst thou turn in thy woe aside, And weep 'midst thy brethren—no, not for pride.
May the fiery word from thy lip find way, When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to day? May the care that sits in thy weary breast Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest?
No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne, Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn; Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see, And mask thee with laughter, and say, thou art free!
No! thou art chained till thy race is run, By the power of all in the soul of one; On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be— Dreamer, fond dreamer! oh! who is free?
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The English Boy

THE ENGLISH BOY.
"Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born." Akenside.
Look from the ancient mountains down,  My noble English Boy! Thy country's fields around thee gleam  In sunlight and in joy.
Ages have roll'd since foeman's march  Pass'd o'er that old firm sod; For well the land hath fealty held  To Freedom and to God!
Gaze proudly on, my English Boy!  And let thy kindling mind Drink in the spirit of high thought  From every chainless wind!
There, in the shadow of old Time,  The halls beneath thee lie, Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore,  Our England's chivalry.
How bravely and how solemnly  They stand, 'midst oak and yew! Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed  The bow, in battle true.
And round their walls the good swords hang  Whose faith knew no alloy, And shields of knighthood, pure from stain—  Gaze on, my English Boy!
Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church  Gleams by the antique elm, Or where the minster lifts the cross  High through the air's blue realm.
Martyrs have shower'd their free hearts' blood,  That England's prayer might rise, From those grey fanes of thoughtful years,  Unfetter'd, to the skies.
Along their aisles, beneath their trees,  This earth's most glorious dust, Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,  Is laid in holy trust.
Gaze on—gaze farther, farther yet—  My gallant English Boy! Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag,  The billows' pride and joy!
Those waves in many a fight have closed  Above her faithful dead; That red-cross flag victoriously  Hath floated o'er their bed.
They perish'd—this green turf to keep  By hostile tread unstained; These knightly halls inviolate,  Those churches unprofaned.
And high and clear, their memory's light  Along our shore is set, And many an answering beacon-fire  Shall there be kindled yet!
Lift up thy heart, my English Boy!  And pray, like them to stand, Should God so summon thee, to guard  The altars of the land.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Burial in the Desert

THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.
How weeps yon gallant Band O'er him their valour could not save! For the bayonet is red with gore, And he, the beautiful and brave, Now sleeps in Egypt's sand. Wilson.
In the shadow of the Pyramid  Our brother's grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the Desert's parting sun  A field of death survey'd.
The blood-red sky above us  Was darkening into night, And the Arab watching silently  Our sad and hurried rite.
The voice of Egypt's river  Came hollow and profound, And one lone palm-tree, where we stood,  Rock'd with a shivery sound:
While the shadow of the Pyramid  Hung o'er the grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the Desert's parting sun  A field of death survey'd.
The fathers of our brother  Were borne to knightly tombs, With torch-light and with anthem-note,  And many waving plumes:
But he, the last and noblest  Of that high Norman race, With a few brief words of soldier-love  Was gathered to his place;
In the shadow of the Pyramid,  Where his youthful form we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the Desert's parting sun  A field of death survey'd.
But let him, let him slumber  By the old Egyptian wave! It is well with those who bear their fame  Unsullied to the grave!
When brightest names are breathed on,  When loftiest fall so fast, We would not call our brother back  On dark days to be cast,
From the shadow of the Pyramid,  Where his noble heart we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the Desert's parting sun  A field of death survey'd.