OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Pieces People Ask For/Malaria

MALARIA.
Our baby lay in its mother's arms, All sweet with its tiny dimpled charms; But little mouth and tongue wercsore, And of its food 'twould take no more. The doctor hemmed, and shook his head. And looking wise, he gravely said,
"Malaria—'tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine."
Said grandmamma, "Dear me! that's new;
When I was young we called it 'sprue.' "
Our urchin Tom, ne'er off his feet,
One day his dinner could not eat;
His head ached so, he was so ill,
Poor mother's heart with fear did fill.
The doctor felt his hands and head,
And looking wise, he gravely said,
"Malaria—'tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine."
Said grandmamma, "That can't be so!
He has been smoking, sir, I know."
Our lady Maud, at seventeen—
As bright a girl as e'er was seen—
One day turned languid, white, and frail,
And roses red did strangely pale.
The doctor felt her pulse, and said,
While wisely he did shake his head,
"Malaria—it's plainly seen—
Three times a day give her quinine."
Said grandmamma, "That can't be right!
Why, my good sir, she danced all night."
Our pride, our eldest, Harry dear,
One night did act so strange and queer,
That mother, frightened, panting, said,
"Run for the doctor! he'll be dead!"
The doctor came, and shook his head,
And, looking at him, grandly said,
"Malaria—'tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine."
"What stuff!" said grandmamma, "I'm thinking
That good-for-nothing boy's been drinking!"
The head of the house, forever well,
One day fell ill, and, sad to tell,
Could not arise, but loud did cry,
"If this keeps on, I'd rather die!"
The doctor came, stood by the bed,
And, looking solemn, gravely said,
"Malaria—'tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine."
Growled grandmamma, "Oh! fiddle-dee-dee!
He's only bilious—seems to me."
One day our grandpa—eighty-four—
Complained that he could see no more;
That, at his age, it worried him
That his good eyesight should grow dim.
"I've often seen it act that way,"
The doctor solemnly did say:
"Malaria—'tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine."
But grandma said, "I never see!
Old man, you're growing old, like me!"
# Poems (Truesdell)/Hallowed Ground

[My mother and step-mother sleep side by side in the village church-yard of my native home.]
# Poems (Truesdell)/Bird of the Summer

[As I sat alone by my chamber window, a few evenings after the death of a beloved friend, a beautiful bird, of a peculiar kind, came and stood on my work-basket. There was something so plaintive in its low, melancholy note, it touched a chord of sympathy, and immediately turning over the leaves of my Scrap-Book, I inserted the following lines.]
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/The Winds

THE WINDS.
O weary fa' the east wind, And weary fa' the west: And gin I were under the wan waves wide I wot weel wad I rest.
O weary fa' the north wind, And weary fa' the south: The sea went ower my good lord's head Or ever he kissed my mouth.
Weary fa' the windward rocks, And weary fa' the lee: They might hae sunken sevenscore ships, And let my love's gang free.
And weary fa' ye, mariners a', And weary fa' the sea: It might hae taken an hundred men, And let my ae love be.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/The Witch-Mother

THE WITCH-MOTHER.
'O where will ye gang to and where will ye sleep, Against the night begins?' 'My bed is made wi' cauld sorrows, My sheets are lined wi' sins.
'And a sair grief sitting at my foot, And a sair grief at my head; And dule to lay me my laigh pillows, And teen till I be dead.
'And the rain is sair upon my face, And sair upon my hair; And the wind upon my weary mouth, That never may man kiss mair.
'And the snow upon my heavy lips, That never shall drink nor eat; And shame to cledding, and woe to wedding, And pain to drink and meat.
'But woe be to my bairns' father, And ever ill fare he: He has tane a braw bride hame to him, Cast out my bairns and me.'
'And what shall they have to their marriage meat This day they twain are wed?' 'Meat of strong crying, salt of sad sighing, And God restore the dead.'
'And what shall they have to their wedding wine This day they twain are wed?' 'Wine of weeping, and draughts of sleeping, And God raise up the dead.'
She's tane her to the wild woodside, Between the flood and fell: She's sought a rede against her need Of the fiend that bides in hell.
She's tane her to the wan burnside, She's wrought wi' sang and spell: She's plighted her soul for doom and dole To the fiend that bides in hell.
She's set her young son to her breast, Her auld son to her knee: Says, 'Weel for you the night, bairnies, And weel the morn for me.'
She looked fu' lang in their een, sighing, And sair and sair grat she: She has slain her young son at her breast, Her auld son at her knee.
She's sodden their flesh wi' saft water, She's mixed their blood with wine: She's tane her to the braw bride-house, Where a' were boun' to dine.
She poured the red wine in his cup, And his een grew fain to greet: She set the baked meats at his hand, And bade him drink and eat.
Says, 'Eat your fill of your flesh, my lord, And drink your fill of your wine; For a' thing's yours and only yours That has been yours and mine.'
Says, 'Drink your fill of your wine, my lord, And eat your fill of your bread: I would they were quick in my body again, Or I that bare them dead.'
He struck her head frae her fair body, And dead for grief he fell: And there were twae mair sangs in heaven, And twae mair sauls in hell.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/The Interpreters

THE INTERPRETERS.
i.
Sometimes, When heaven and earth seem sweeter even than any Man's rhymes.
Light had not all been quenched in France, or quelled In Greece, Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held His peace.
Had Sappho's self not left her word thus long For token, The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of song Had spoken.
ii.
Delight, When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner The light--
The gift they give of all these golden hours, Whose urn Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing showers In turn--
Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live day's track Seem living-- What were they did no spirit give them back Thanksgiving?
iii.
Time nought; Man gives them sense and soul by song, and dwelling In thought.
In human thought their being endures, their power Abides: Else were their life a thing that each light hour Derides.
The years live, work, sigh, smile, and die, with all They cherish; The soul endures, though dreams that fed it fall And perish.
iv.
Our days Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find no station That stays.
But thought and faith are mightier things than time Can wrong, Made splendid once with speech, or made sublime By song.
Remembrance, though the tide of change that rolls Wax hoary, Gives earth and heaven, for song's sake and the soul's, Their glory.
July 16, 1885.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/To Sir Richard F. Burton

TO SIR RICHARD F. BURTON.
(ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.)
Westward the sun sinks, grave and glad; but far Eastward, with laughter and tempestuous tears, Cloud, rain, and splendour as of orient spears, Keen as the sea's thrill toward a kindling star, The sundawn breaks the barren twilight's bar And fires the mist and slays it. Years on years Vanish, but he that hearkens eastward hears Bright music from the world where shadows are.
Where shadows are not shadows. Hand in hand A man's word bids them rise and smile and stand And triumph. All that glorious orient glows Defiant of the dusk. Our twilight land Trembles; but all the heaven is all one rose, Whence laughing love dissolves her frosts and snows.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/The Recall

THE RECALL.
Return, they cry, ere yet your day Set, and the sky grow stern: Return, strayed souls, while yet ye may Return.
But heavens beyond us yearn; Yea, heights of heaven above the sway Of stars that eyes discern.
The soul whose wings from shoreward stray Makes toward her viewless bourne Though trustless faith and unfaith say, Return.
# Poems and Ballads (third series)/The Tyneside Widow

THE TYNESIDE WIDOW
There's mony a man loves land and life, Loves life and land and fee; And mony a man loves fair women, But never a man loves me, my love, But never a man loves me.
O weel and weel for a' lovers, I wot weel may they be; And weel and weel for a' fair maidens, But aye mair woe for me, my love, But aye mair woe for me.
O weel be wi' you, ye sma' flowers, Ye flowers and every tree; And weel be wi' you, a' birdies,
But teen and tears wi' me, my love, But teen and tears wi' me.
O weel be yours, my three brethren, And ever weel be ye; Wi' deeds for doing and loves for wooing, But never a love for me, my love, But never a love for me.
And weel be yours, my seven sisters, And good love-days to see, And long life-days and true lovers, But never a day for me, my love, But never a day for me.
Good times wi' you, ye bauld riders, By the hieland and the lee; And by the leeland and by the hieland It's weary times wi' me, my love, It's weary times wi' me.
Good days wi' you, ye good sailors, Sail in and out the sea; And by the beaches and by the reaches It's heavy days wi' me, my love, It's heavy days wi' me.
I had his kiss upon my mouth, His bairn upon my knee; I would my soul and body were twain, And the bairn and the kiss wi' me, my love, And the bairn and the kiss wi' me.
The bairn down in the mools, my dear, O saft and saft lies she; I would the mools were ower my head, And the young bairn fast wi' me, my love, And the young bairn fast wi' me.
The father under the faem, my dear, O sound and sound sleeps he; I would the faem were ower my face,
And the father lay by me, my love, And the father lay by me.
I would the faem were ower my face, Or the mools on my ee-bree; And waking-time with a' lovers, But sleeping-time wi' me, my love, But sleeping-time wi' me.
I would the mools were meat in my mouth, The saut faem in my ee; And the land-worm and the water-worm To feed fu' sweet on me, my love, To feed fu' sweet on me.
My life is sealed with a seal of love, And locked with love for a key; And I lie wrang and I wake lang, But ye tak' nae thought for me, my love, But ye tak' nae thought for me.
We were weel fain of love, my dear, O fain and fain were we; It was weel with a' the weary world, But O, sae weel wi' me, my love, But O, sae weel wi' me.
We were nane ower mony to sleep, my dear, I wot we were but three; And never a bed in the weary world For my bairn and my dear and me, my love, For my bairn and my dear and me.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/On my Mother's Birth-Day

POEMS.
ON MY MOTHER's BIRTH-DAY.
Clad in all their brightest green, This day the verdant fields are seen; The tuneful birds begin their lay, To celebrate thy natal day. The breeze is still, the sea is calm, And the whole scene combines to charm; The flowers revive, this charming May, Because it is thy natal day. The sky is blue, the day serene, And only pleasure now is seen; The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, Combine to bless thy natal day. F. D. B. aged 8.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/On my Mother's Birthday

ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTH-DAY.
IN AFFLICTION.
Ah! withering sorrow wilt thou come,  And steal the roses of to-day, Nor leave one lonely sweet to bloom,  And cheer us in this mournful May.
Oh! yes, one blossom yet shall smile,  And filial childhood shall expand, Maternal anguish to beguile,  And crown the wish affection plann'd.
Then ah! tho' withering sorrow come,  And steal the early birth-day rose; Let hope reserve one sweet to bloom,  "Tho' thorns its dewy leaves enclose."
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/On the Death of my Dear Sister Eliza

ON
THE DEATH OF MY DEAR SISTER ELIZA.
INSCRIBED TO MY MOTHER.
If spotless innocence, and truth refin'd, With every virtue of the feeling mind; If these can raise to heaven's eternal sphere, Be comforted—Eliza's surely there. Oh, hark! I hear the immortal spirit sing: "I rise above on light ethereal wing; "Then weep no more; ah! cease those flowing tears, "No more Eliza death or sickness fears; "Earth and its fading pleasures far behind, “In heaven a happy, happy seat I find.
"Mourn not for me—'tis you I mourn for now; "I soar on high, while you remain below.
"In heaven we all at length shall meet again, "Where all is happiness, all free from pain. "Then weep no more; ah! cease those flowing tears; "No more my spirit death or sickness fears."
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/On a Rose

ON A ROSE.
How short, sweet flower, have all thy beauties been, An hour they bloom'd, and now no more are seen: So human grandeur fades, so dies away; Beauty and wealth remain but for a day. But virtue lives for ever in the mind, In her alone true happiness we find: The perfume stays, altho' the rose be dead; So virtue lives, when every grace is fled.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Pity

PITY;
AN ALLEGORY, VERSIFIED.
In that blest age when never care annoy'd, Nor mortals' peace by discord was destroy'd, A happy pair descended from above, And gods and mortals nam'd them Joy and Love. Together had they seen each opening day, Together shar'd each sportive infant play; In riper years with glowing warmth they lov'd; Jove saw their passion and his nod approv'd. Long happy did they live, when cruel fate From bliss to misery chang'd their envied state. Mankind grew wicked and the gods severe, And Jove's dread anger shook the trembling sphere. To Joy he sent his high behest to fly On silken pinions to her native sky.
Reluctant she obeys, but Love remains, By Hope his nurse, led to Arcadia's plains: When from his starry throne, the mighty Jove In thunder spoke: "Let Sorrow wed to Love!" The awful stern command Love trembling hears; Sorrow was haggard, pale, and worn with tears, Her hollow eyes and pallid cheeks confest, That hapless misery "knows not where to rest." Forc'd to submit, Love's efforts were in vain; The thunderer's word must ever firm remain. No nymphs and swains to grace the nuptial day Approach, no smiling Cupids round them play; No festal dance was there, no husband's pride, For Love in sadness met his joyless bride. One child, one tender girl, to Love she bore, Who all her father's pensive beauty wore; So soft her aspect, the Arcadian swains Had nam'd her Pity—and her name remains. In early youth for others' woe she felt; Adversity had taught her how to melt. Love's myrtle, Sorrow's cypress she combin'd, And form'd a wreath which round her forehead twin'd. She oft sat musing in Arcadia's shades, And play'd her lute to charm the native maids. A ring-dove flew for safety to her breast; A robin in her cottage built its nest.
Her mother's steps she follows close; to bind Those wounds her mother made: divinely kind, Into each troubled heart she pours her balm, And brings the mind a transitory calm. But both are mortal; and when fades the earth, The nymph shall die, with her who gave her birth; Then, to elysium Love shall wing his flight, And he and Joy for ever re-unite. F. D. B. aged 11.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Sacred to the Memory of Lord Nelson

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF LORD NELSON.
While British hearts with noble ardour glow,  Warm with the genuine spirit of the brave; Ah! still a grateful tear of joy must flow,  The sacred tribute o'er a hero's grave.
Oh! yes, a sweet enthusiastic tear  Shall tremble in the generous Briton's eye; And own with melting energy sincere,  A Nelson's worth, a country's liberty,
The mournful muse shall consecrate his name  With all the inspiration of the lyre; And loyal bosoms kindling at his fame,  Shall glory in the patriotic fire.
And o'er the tomb that holds his sacred dust  Shall glory weave the brightest laurel crown; While in the noble records of the just,  His name shall live in virtue's fair renown.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/On the 16th December

ON THE 16th DECEMBER, BEING AS FINE AS MAY-DAY.
Unlike December's frown this gladsome day Inspires my bosom, and invites my lay. The sun meridian darting from on high, Lights the gay scene, and brightens all the sky; Soft rolls the glassy main; the lightsome breeze Brings to my heart serenity and ease. Here calmness reigns; nought but the lowing herds, The waters falling, and the twittering birds, Invade the ear; here, in this tranquil scene, Far from the notice and the noise of men, Here, could I peaceful live, nor breathe a sigh For gayer views, and happy could I die.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Part of the 104th Psalm, Paraphrased

PART OF
THE 104th PSALM, PARAPHRASED.
My fervent soul shall bless the Lord, And sing Jehovah's name ador'd. Oh God! how great are all thy ways, Demanding gratitude and praise; Honour and majesty are thine, And beams of light around thee shine; Thy hand extends the arch on high, The azure curtain of the sky; The clouds thy regal chariot form; Thou ridest on the rushing storm; Amidst the regions of the air, The winds thy car triumphal bear: To thee enraptur'd spirits bend, And angels round thy throne attend; While lightnings in thy presence beam, The ministers of power supreme. At thy behest the earth appear'd, On firm eternal basis rear'd: The floods arose at thy command, And spread their mantle o'er the land:
Thy word rebuk'd the swelling deep; The waters rush'd from every steep; The thunders echoed, and they fled, And sought their peaceful destin'd bed; Jehovah's power restrain'd their force, And limited their whelming course: He bade the lucid fountains flow, Meandering thro' the vales below; They fertilize the plains and fields, And nature all her treasure yields.
Beside their banks with verdure drest, The woodland songsters form their nest; Amidst the shade of waving trees, They pour the sweetest melodies; The wild spontaneous hymn they raise, And sing their great Creator's praise.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Rural Walks

RURAL WALKS.
Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours In Cambrian vallies and romantic bow'rs; For every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape charms my youthful breast. And much I love to hail the vernal morn, When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn: And sometimes thro' the lonely wood I stray, To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell, The weeping cowslip, and the azure bell; With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, To form the gay festoon of varied hue. And oft I seek the cultivated green, The fertile meadow, and the village scene; Where rosy children sport around the cot, Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. And there I wander by the cheerful rill, That murmurs near the osiers and the mill; To view the smiling peasants turn the hay, And listen to their pleasing festive lay. I love to loiter in the spreading grove, Or in the mountain scenery to rove; Where summits rise in awful grace around, With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown'd; Where cliffs in solemn majesty are pil'd, "And frown upon the vale" with grandeur wild: And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, Array'd in all the blending shades of time.
The airy upland and the woodland green, The valley, and romantic mountain scene; The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, The dell retir'd, or willow-shaded lane; "And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape charms my youthful breast."
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Sea Piece, by Moonlight

SEA PIECE, BY MOONLIGHT.
How sweet to mark the soften'd ray, O'er the ocean lightly play; Now no more the billows rave, Clear and tranquil is the wave; While I view the vessel glide, O'er the calm cerulean tide.
Now might fays, and fairy bands, Assemble on these "yellow sands;" For this the hour, as poets tell, That oft they leave the flowery cell, And lead the sportive dance along, While spirits pour the choral song.
The moonbeam sheds a lustre pale, And trembles on the distant sail; And now the silvery clouds arise, To veil the radiance of the skies; But soon I view the light serene, Gild again the lovely scene.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fraser’s Magazine, 1830/The Youngest

Fraser’s Magazine, June, 1830, page 606
THE YOUNGEST.
The voice of the mourner is heard on the air,
And the old hall is darkened as midnight were there,
And the foot-falls are soft, as they feared to awake
The sleep they would yet give the wide world to break.
Their youngest, their dearest, is gone to his rest,
With health on his brow, and with joy in his breast;
The morning he bounded all life o'er the hill,
At night the light step and the glad pulse were still.
His mother put back the bright curls from his brow,
And kissed in her pride the white forehead below:
But the damps on that forehead were gathering fast,
She kissed them away, but that kiss was her last.
There are others, his elders, the bold and the fair,
But they wear not the likeness that he wont to wear,
With his hair of light gold, his eyes of deep blue;
They bring not the father, who perished, to view.
With his hawk on his hand, his hound at his feet,
With flowers strewed o'er him the wild and the sweet,
He lies that short space before beauty is gone,
When life and when death are commingled in one.
By turns his bold brothers have over him hung,
And wept as they gazed on their favourite, their young;
But his mother sat by like a statue, no tears
Relieving the grief that with them disappears.
Again that dark hall will be opened to day,
And the hymn, and the pall, and the flowers put away;
And, alone in their chapel, the boy will be laid,
And left, as the dead are, to silence and shade.
But long will he be to their memory dear—
Long his glad voice will sound like a dream in their ear:
They will miss their boy-hunter from banquet and chase,
And his place, though filled up, be a still vacant place.
L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1828/Sword

​The Literary Gazette, 20th October 1827, pages 675-676
Forget-Me-Not; a Christmas and New-Year's  Present for 1828. Edited by Frederic Sho-  berl. R. Ackermann.
"The Sword. By L. E. L.
’Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
 Look'd down on the dead and dying, And the wind pass'd o'er, with a dirge and a wail,
 Where the young and the brave were lying.
With his father's sword in his red right hand,
 And the hostile dead around him,
Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,
 And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.
A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
 Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking:
Careless he stept where friend and foe
 Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.
Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
 The soldier paused beside it;
He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength,
 But the grasp of the dead defied it.
He loosed his hold, and his English heart
 Took part with the dead before him,
And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand,
 As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.
‘A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,
 A soldiers grave won by it;
Before I would take that sword from thine hand,
 My own life's-blood should dye it.
Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
 Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
 Who in life had trembled before thee.'
Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth
 Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
 With his sword in his own brave keeping."