OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1826)/Songs of Innocence/The Little Boy Found

The Little Boy found
The little boy lost in the lonely fen, Led by the wand'ring light, Began to cry; but God ever nigh, Appeard like his father in white.
He kissed the child & by the hand led And to his mother brought, Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale Her little boy weeping sought.
# Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1826)/Songs of Innocence/The Little Boy Lost

The Little Boy lost
Father, father where are you going O do not walk so fast. Speak father speak to your little boy Or else I shall be lost.
The night was dark no father was there The child was wet with dew. The mire was deep & the child did weep And away the vapour flew.
# Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1826)/Songs of Innocence/The Shepherd

The Shepherd.
How sweet is the Shepherds sweet lot From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs innocent call, And he hears the ewes tender reply. He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
# Songs from the Southern Seas and Other Poems/The Wail of Two Cities

THE WAIL OF TWO CITIES.
CHICAGO, OCTOBER 9, 1871.
GAUNT in the midst of the prairie,
She who was once so fair;
Charred and rent are her garments,
Heavy and dark like cerements;
Silent, but round her the air
Plaintively wails, "Miserere!"
Proud like a beautiful maiden,
Art-like from forehead to feet.
Was she till pressed like a leman
Close to the breast of the demon,
Lusting for one so sweet.
So were her shoulders laden.
Friends she had, rich in her treasures:
Shall the old taunt be true,—
Fallen, they turn their cold faces,
Seeking new wealth-gilded places,
Saying we never knew
Aught of her smiles or her pleasures?
Silent she stands on the prairie.
Wrapped in her fire-scathed sheet:
Around her, thank God! is the Nation,
Weeping for her desolation,
Pouring its gold at her feet,
Answering her "Miserere!"
BOSTON, NOVEMBER 9, 1872.
O broad-breasted Queen among Nations!
O Mother, so strong in thy youth!
Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire,
And willed thou be chastened by fire,
Without any ruth?
Has the Merciful tired of His mercy,
And turned from thy sinning in wrath,
That the world with raised hands sees and pities
Thy desolate daughters, thy cities.
Despoiled on their path?
One year since thy youngest was stricken:
Thy eldest lies stricken to-day.
Ah! God, was thy wrath without pity.
To tear the strong heart from our city.
And cast it away?
O Father! forgive us our doubting;
The stain from our weak souls efface;
Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten;
Thy hand has but fallen to hasten
Return to thy grace.
Let us rise purified from our ashes
As sinners have risen who grieved;
Let us show that twice-sent desolation
On every true heart in the nation
Has conquest achieved.
# Songs from the Southern Seas and Other Poems/The Wreck of the Atlantic

THE WRECK OF THE ATLANTIC.
FOR months and years, with penury and want
And heart-sore envy did they dare to cope;
And mite by mite was saved from earnings scant,
To buy, some future day, the God-sent hope.
They trod the crowded streets of hoary towns,
Or tilled from year to year the wearied fields,
And in the shadow of the golden crowns
They gasped for sunshine and the health it yields.
They turned from homes all cheerless, child and man.
With kindly feelings only for the soil,
And for the kindred faces, pinched and wan,
That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at their toil.
They lifted up their faces to the Lord,
And read His answer in the westering sun
That called them ever as a shining word,
And beckoned seaward as the rivers run.
They looked their last, wet-eyed, on Swedish hills,
On German villages and English dales;
Like brooks that grow from many mountain rills
The peasant-stream flowed out from Irish vales.
Their grief at parting was not all a grief,
But blended sweetly with the joy to come,
When from full store they spared the rich relief
To gladden all the dear ones left at home.
"We thank thee, God!" they cried;" the cruel gate
That barred our lives has swung beneath Thy hand;
Behind our ship now frowns the cruel fate,
Before her smiles the teeming Promised Land!"
***** Alas! when shown in mercy or in wrath,
How weak we are to read God's awful lore!
His breath protected on the stormy path,
And dashed them lifeless on the promised shore!
His hand sustained them in the parting woe,
And gave bright vision to the heart of each;
His waters bore them where they wished to go,
Then swept them seaward from the very beach!
Their home is reached, their fetters now are riven,
Their humble toil is o'er,—their rest has come;
A land was promised and a land is given,—
But, oh! God help the waiting ones at home!
# Songs from the Southern Seas and Other Poems/Unspoken Words

UNSPOKEN WORDS.
THE kindly words that rise within the heart,
And thrill it with their sympathetic tone,
But die ere spoken, fail to play their part.
And claim a merit that is not their own.
The kindly word unspoken is a sin,—
A sin that wraps itself in purest guise.
And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within.
That not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies.
But 'tis not so: another heart may thirst
For that kind word, as Hagar in the wild—
Poor banished Hagar!—prayed a well might burst
From out the sand to save her parching chUd.
And loving eyes that cannot see the mind
Will watch the expected movement of the lip:
Ah! can ye let its cutting silence wind
Around that heart, and scathe it like a whip?
Unspoken words, like treasures in the mine,
Are valueless until we give them birth:
Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine,
Which God has made to bless and gild the earth.
How sad 'twould be to see a master's hand
Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute!
But oh! what pain when, at God's own command,
A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute!
Then hide it not, the music of the soul.
Dear sympathy, expressed with kindly voice,
But let it like a shining river roll
To deserts dry,—to hearts that would rejoice.
Oh! let the symphony of kindly words
Sound for the poor, the friendless, and the weak;
And He will bless you,—He who struck these chords
Will strike another when in turn you seek.
# Songs from the Southern Seas and Other Poems/Western Australia

WESTERN AUSTRALIA.
O BEAUTEOUS Southland! land of yellow air,
That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and doth hold
The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold.
O thou, discovered ere the fitting time,
Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth!
Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime,
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North.
O land, God made thee wondrous to the eye!
But His sweet singers thou hast never heard;
He left thee, meaning to come by-and-bye,
And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird.
He painted with fresh hues thy myriad flowers,
But left them scentless: ah! their woful dole,
Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers,—
To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul.
He gave thee trees of odorous precious wood;
But, midst them all, bloomed not one tree of fruit.
He looked, but said not that His work was good.
When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute.
He blessed thy flowers with honey: every bell
Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning wist;
But no bee-lover ever notes the swell
Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kist.
O strange land, thou art virgin! thou art more
Than fig-tree barren! Would that I could paint
For others' eyes the glory of the shore
Where last I saw thee; but the senses faint
In soft delicious dreaming when they drain
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art,
All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain
The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping heart.
# Songs from the Southern Seas and Other Poems/The Old School Clock

THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK.
OLD memories rush o'er my mind just now
Of faces and friends of the past;
Of that happy time when life's dream was all bright.
Ere the clear sky of youth was o'ercast.
Very dear are those mem'ries,—they've clung round my heart,
And bravely withstood Time's rude shock;
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now
Than the face of the old school clock.
'Twas a quaint old clock with a quaint old face,
And great iron weights and chain;
It stopped when it liked, and before it struck
It creaked as if 'twere in pain.
It had seen many years, and it seemed to say,
"I'm one of the real old stock,"
To the youthful fry, who with reverence looked
On the face of the old school clock.
How many a time have I labored to sketch
That yellow and time-honored face,
With its basket of flowers, its figures and hands,
And the weights and the chains in their place!
How oft have I gazed with admiring eye,
As I sat on the wooden block.
And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things
That were inside that old school clock!
What a terrible frown did the old clock wear
To the truant, who timidly cast
An anxious eye on those merciless hands,
That for him had been moving too fast I
But its frown soon changed; for it loved to smile
On the thoughtless, noisy flock, And it creaked and whirred and struck with glee,—
Did that genial, good-humored old clock.
Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled
With the world, its cares and ways,
When again I stood in that little school
Where I passed my boyhood's days.
My old friend was gone! and there hung a thing
That my sorrow seemed to mock.
As I gazed with a tear and a softened heart
At a new-fashioned Yankee clock.
'Twas a gaudy thing with bright painted sides,
And it looked with insolent stare
On the desks and the seats and on every thing old;
And I thought of the friendly air
Of the face that I missed, with its weights and chains,—
All gone to the auctioneer's block:
'Tis a thing of the past,—never more shall I see
But in memory that old school clock.
'Tis the way of the world: old friends pass away,
And fresh faces arise in their stead;
But still 'mid the din and the bustle of life
We cherish fond thoughts of the dead.
Yes, dear are those mem'ries: they've clung round my heart,
And bravely withstood Time's rude shock;
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now
Than the face of that old school clock.
# Songs from the Southern Seas and Other Poems/The Poison Flower

THE POISON-FLOWER.
IN the evergreen shade of an Austral wood,
Where the long branches laced above,
Through which all day it seemed
The sweet sunbeams down-gleamed
Like the rays of a young mother's love,
When she hides her glad face with her hands and peeps
At the youngling that crows on her knee:
'Neath such ray-shivered shade,
In a banksia glade,
Was this flower first shown to me.
A rich pansy it was, with a small white lip
And a wonderful purple hood;
And your eye caught the sheen
Of its leaves, parrot-green,
Down the dim gothic aisles of the wood.
And its foliage rich on the moistureless sand
Made you long for its odorous breath;
But ah! 'twas to take
To your bosom a snake,
For its pestilent fragrance was death.
And I saw it again, in a far northern land,—
Not a pansy, not purple and white;
Yet in beauteous guise
Did this poison-plant rise.
Fair and fatal again to my sight.
And men longed for her kiss and her odorous breath
When no friend was beside them to tell
That to kiss was to die.
That her truth was a lie,
And her beauty a soul-killing spell.
# Songs from the Southern Seas and Other Poems/Withered Snowdrops

WITHERED SNOWDROPS.
THEY came in the early spring-days,
With the first refreshing showers;
And I watched the growing beauty
Of the little drooping flowers.
They had no bright hues to charm me,
No gay painting to allure;
But they made me think of angels,
They were all so white and pure.
In the early morns I saw them,
Dew-drops clinging to each bell.
And the first glad sunbeam hasting
Just to kiss them ere they fell.
Daily grew their spotless beauty;
But I feared when chill winds blew
They were all too frail and tender,—
And alas! my fears were true.
One glad morn I went to see them
While the bright drops gemmed their snow,
And one angel flower was withered,
Its fair petals drooping low.
Its white sister's tears fell on it,
And the sunbeam sadly shone;
For its innocence was withered,
And its purity was gone.
Still I left it there; I could not
Tear it rudely from its place;
It might rise again, and summer
Might restore its vanished grace.
But my hopes grew weaker, weaker,
And my heart with grief was pained
When I knew it must be severed
From the innocence it stained.
I must take it from the pure ones:
Henceforth they must live apart.
But I could not cut my flow'ret—
My lost angel—from my heart.
Oft I think of that dead snowdrop,
Think with sorrow, when I meet,
Day by day, the poor lost flowers,—
Sullied snowdrops of the street.
They were pure once, loved and loving,
And there still lives good within.
Ah! speak gently to them: harsh words
Will not lead them from their sin.
The are not like withered flowers
That can never bloom again:
They can rise, bright angel snowdrops,
Purified from every stain.
# Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead & Other Songs of the Street/A Tough Triangle

A Tough Triangle
HIM
Say, kid, there ain't no other girl but you; I'm reg'lar dippy 'bout your eyes an' hair; You're all there is er ever was er were! If you would say that you would love me too, There ain't no limit to the stunts I'd do, Just fer to show you I was on the square. You've got me goin' forty ways fer fair, I'd like to be the Candy Kid with you— There's nuthin' to it, kid, you've got me good, I'm playin' straight and wouldn't turn the queer Ner pass a lemon. Even if you stood Fer it, I wouldn't hand no phoney steer. Ner spring no four-flush even if I could, An' this ain't overheated atmosphere.
HER
Go on, fergit it, make a quick skidoo— I ain't fell off no Christmas tree to-day. Say, beat a sneak, me friend, an' on your way,— The disappearin' act's the stunt fer you; Commence to toddle while your shoes are new, This ain't the station where the rummies stay. I like your nerve all right but you're too gay, Get flappin' now, fer it is time you flew. 'Tain't no use handin' out that misfit talk What you have copied from some phoney show. If you ain't busted you are badly bent, So do the dainty an' begin to walk. Before you got here, it was time to go; Me eyes is waitin' just to watch you went.
HER SISTER
You bet if he would fall in love wid me An' tell it to me in that flossy way, I'd hold me arms an' ast him in to stay, An' when he'd gaze into me eyes he'd see— You bet, that's all that there would need to be; There would be nuthin' I would have to SAY. An' he would never want to go away, An' I would never want him to, but Gee! He never even looked at me at all. If I would only not be quite so small An' have long skirts like her, an' would be fat— (She's only two years mor'n me at that)— Then he would know I loved him an' might care. You bet I'd tell him—if I'd only dare.
# Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead & Other Songs of the Street/Appreciation

Appreciation
I heard a piker grouchin' yesterday 'Cause they was shy on beauty in this town. I guess he's never watched the sun go down Strikin' some high white buildin' on its way Just like a reg'lar spotlight in a play, An' leavin' all the rest a deep, dark brown With big black shadows hangin' all aroun', Just servin' notice Night had come to stay. That rummy owns a bang-up auto car, His house is like a mansion in the skies, An' he was puffin' at a big cigar; You'd think a guy like him could use his eyes An' kind of frame things up the way they are; He shouldn't need a kid to put him wise.
# Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead & Other Songs of the Street/A Pipe Dream

A Pipe Dream
If I could be an actress in a show, You ought to see the happy-rags I'd wear; An' fer my beau, I'd cop a millionaire. The men would rubber everywheres I'd go, An' he would whisper to me soft an' low, "Gee, but I love you, Madmazell De Vare." Then I would look as if I didn't care— But when we was alone I'd let him know. If I would get a chance, I'd be the goods. You bet, I'd keep them talkin' all the way. I'd be just full of "temperamental moods," An' I'd create sensations every day. I'd send the phoneys hikin' to the woods An' be the candy on the Great White Way.
# Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead & Other Songs of the Street

Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead
& Other Songs of the Street
By James P Haverson
Pictured by Fergus Kyle
McLeod & Allen Publishers—Toronto
What's de use of writin' dope About a foreign clime, In trying to enlarge your scope And elevate your rhyme? Put out your pipe; who wants to read Of Timbucktoo or Rome? You'd do a whole lot better screed About de bunch at home.
Copyright, U.S.A., 1908, by H. M. Caldwell & Company Copyright, Canada, 1908, by The Hunter-Rose Company, Limited
Dope Sheet
Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead and Other Songs of the Street
The Author—A Frontispiece
Ourselves—Dedicatory
Pen Prodigals—A Justification
The Hunch—A Preface
Sorehead Sonnets
The Sorehead—A Full-page Drawing
Sonnets One to Sixteen
Some More Sonnets
Appreciation
A Tough Triangle—Him, Her, Her Sister
Tribute
A Throw-Down
A Pipe Dream
At the Show
Other Songs of the Street
A Yeller Pup
Triolets of Trust—Him, Her
Fourflushin'
Good Gospel
Common Tunes
City Streets
A Glimpse
A Call
Boost
Two Estimates of Bernard Shaw: From the Boxes From the Gods
Thrills
Knights of the Round Table
Money Talks
Get Wise
Shut Up
Envy
A Kick
A Tip
A Vesper Song
Life
       Acknowledgment is hereby made to "Toronto Saturday Night," "The New York Sun," and "Sage Brush Philosophy," in whose columns some of these verses have appeared. ¶ This book was planned and typed by Charles Edward Peabody for the Hunter-Rose Company, Limited, and printed and bound by them at their Printing Office on Sheppard Street in Toronto, MCMVIII
# Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead & Other Songs of the Street/At the Show

At the Show
I went to see a show the other night; 'Twas called "The Sinless Soul of Sal, the Skirt," An' everybody tried to do her dirt Except the hero who was actin' white, An' say, his talk was surely out of sight. The villain was a fussy sort of flirt— Oh Gee, if I'd the ironin' of his shirt— But then he got it in the neck all right. It had me guessin' all along the rout', About the hero an' his lady friend, How luck would linger with that phoney scout, What kept the help that someone said they'd send— But it was great the way they'd worked it out So all got what was comin' in the end.
# Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead & Other Songs of the Street/A Throw-Down

A Throw-Down
Turn on the power, you didn't hear no bell. You say you thought you did? Well, you're in wrong. I've got no sister—Gee, your nerve is strong. Excuse me, if I seem to say farewell. This ain't the market fer the dope you sell; You'd better mingle wid some other throng. Just sift into the breeze an' blow along. What's that? Ain't you got goin' YET! Say, Nell, It makes me sick the way some guys butt in, The phoney plays they'll make to flag a skirt An' how it is they think they ought to win, An' why they ain't afraid they might get hurt. I wouldn't want to do no person dirt, But Gee, I wish the cops would run them in!
# Songs of the Springtides/Dedication

DEDICATION.
TO EDWARD JOHN TRELAWNY
A sea-mew on a sea-king's wrist alighting,
As the north sea-wind caught and strained and curled
The raven-figured flag that led men fighting
From field to green field of the water-world,
Might find such brief high favour at his hand
For wings imbrued with brine, with foam impearled,
As these my songs require at yours on land, That durst not save for love's free sake require, Being lightly born between the foam and sand, But reared by hope and memory and desire Of lives that were and life that is to be, Even such as filled his heavenlier song with fire Whose very voice, that sang to set man free, Was in your ears as ever in ours his lyre, Once, ere the flame received him from the sea.
# Songs of the Springtides/Notes to Birthday Ode

NOTES.
v.33.Odes et Ballades, 1822–1824.
57.Les Orientales, 1829.
69.Les Feuilles d'Automne, 1831.
71.Les Chants du Crépuscule, 1835.
73.Les Voix Intérieures, 1837.
81.Les Rayons et les Ombres, 1840.
101.Hernani, 1830.
105.Marion de Lorme, 1831.
109.Le Roi s'amuse, 1832.
113.Lucrèce Borgia, 1833.
121.Marie Tudor, 1835.
127.Angelo, Tyran de Padoue, 1835.
129.La Esmeralda, 1836.
133.Ruy Blas, 1838.
137.Les Burgraves, 1842.
205.Le Rhin, 1845.
On the proposed desecration of Westminster Abbey by the erection of a monument to the son of Napoleon III.
'Let us go hence.' From the inmost shrine of grace
Where England hold the elect of her dead
There comes a word like one of old time said
By gods of old cast out. Here is no place
At once for these and one of poisonous race.
Let each rise up from his dishallowed bed
And pass forth silent. Each divine veiled head
Shall speak in silence with averted face.
'Scorn everlasting and eternal shame
Eat out the rotting record of his name Who had the glory of all these graves in trust
And turned it to a hissing. His offence
Makes havoc of their desecrated dust
Whose place is here no more. Let us go hence.'
Feb. 25, 1880.
v.297.Les Contemplations, 1856
409.Les Travailleurs de la Mer, 1866. 417.L'Homme qui Rit, 1869. 433.Quatre-vingt-treize, 1874. 441.William Shakespeare, 1864.
455.Mes Fils, 1875. 456.Pour un Soldat, 1875. 457.Les Chansons des Rues et des Bois, 1865. 462.L'Année Terrible, 1872. 464.L'Art d'être Grandpère, 1877. 470.Le Pape, 1878.
At the end of such a list so incomparable as to seem incredible, of one great man's good works, we may be forgiven the alteration of a word even in a verse from Æschylus which we cannot choose but apply once more to this leader in the advance of men made perfect through doom of trial and long wayfaring, whose progress he furthers by example and stimulates by song:—
ἐκτελέων· ἔτι γὰρ θεόθεν καταπνείει πειθὼ μολπᾶν ἀλκᾷ σύμφυτος αἰών. Æsch. Agam. 104-8.
Spotiswoode and Co., Printers, New-street Square, London
# Songs of the Springtides

First published in 1880, this work consists principally of four previously unpublished poems. It also includes three shorter pieces that are not included in the Table of Contents. The first is Dedication (to Edward John Trelawny). The second is an untitled sonnet beginning “Between two seas the sea-bird's wing makes halt”, which seems to be intended as a preface to the Birthday Ode to Victor Hugo. The last one is another sonnet, which appears in the notes to Birthday Ode, and is entitled On the Proposed Desecration of Westminster Abbey by the Erection of a Monument to the Son of Napoleon III. All three items have been transcluded and are included on the sub-page giving Swinburne's poetry by title, the untilted sonnet under its opening line.
This transcription is of the first edition.
SONGS OF THE SPRINGTIDES
page
SONGS OF THE SPRINGTIDES
BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
London CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1880
All rights reserved
page
LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET
page
CONTENTS
page
THALASSIUS
ON THE CLIFFS
THE GARDEN OF CYMODOCE
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
# Songs of the Springtides/Between two seas the sea-bird's wing makes halt

Between two seas the sea-bird's wing makes halt, Wind-weary; while with lifting head he waits For breath to reinspire him from the gates That open still toward sunrise on the vault High-domed of morning, and in flight's default With spreading sense of spirit anticipates What new sea now may lure beyond the straits His wings exulting that her winds exalt And fill them full as sails to seaward spread, Fulfilled with fair speed's promise. Pass, my song, Forth to the haven of thy desire and dread, The presence of our lord, long loved and long Far off above beholden, who to thee Was as light kindling all a windy sea.