OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Experience/The White Man

Wherever the white man’s feet have trod  (Oh far does the white man stray) A bold road rifles the virginal sod, And the forest wakes out of its dream of God,  To yield him the right of way. For this is the law: By the power of thought, For worse, or for better, are miracles wrought.
Wherever the white man’s pathway leads,  (Far, far has that pathway gone) The Earth is littered with broken creeds - And alway the dark man’s tent recedes,  And the white man pushes on. For this is the law: Be it good or ill, All things must yield to the stronger will.
Wherever the white man’s light is shed,  (Oh far has that light been thrown) Though Nature has suffered and beauty bled, Yet the goal of the race has been thrust ahead,  And the might of the race has grown. For this is the law: Be it cruel or kind, The Universe sways to the power of mind.
# Poems of Experience/Two Ghosts

Two dead men boarded a spectral ship  In the astral Port of Space; On that ghost-filled barque, they met in the dark,  And halted, face to face.
‘Now whither away’ - called one of the ghosts,  ‘This ship sets sail for Earth. On the astral plane you must remain,  Where the newly dead have birth.’
‘But I could not stay and I would not stay,’  The other ghost replied; ‘I must hurry back to the old Earth track  And stand at my loved one’s side.
‘She weeps for me in her lonely room,  In the land from whence I came; Oh! stow me away in this ship, I pray,  For I hear her call my name.’
‘You must not go, and you shall not go,’  The first ghost cried in wrath. ‘Your work is planned, in the astral land,  And a guide will show you the path.’
‘But the one I love’ - ‘I loved her too,’  The first ghost stood and cried; ‘And year on year I waited here,  Yea, waited till you died.
‘For I would not come between you two,  Nor shadow her joy with fear, But mine is the right, I claim this night  To visit the earthly sphere.
‘For you are dead, and I am dead,  And you had her long - so long. And to look on the grace of her worshipped face,  Ah! now it can do no wrong.
‘I am fettered to Earth by love of her,  And hers is the spell divine, That can help me rise, to the realm that lies  Just over the astral line.
‘I have kept to the laws of God and man,  I have suffered and made no moan; Now my little share of joy, I swear  I will have - and have it alone.’
A skeleton crew the anchor drew,  And the ship from the port swung free; With a muffled clang the ghost bell rang,  And the boat sailed out to sea.
And one ghost stood on the deck and laughed,  As only a glad ghost can; While a swooning soul was dragged to his goal,  To work out the astral span.
And a woman wept, and prayed ere she slept,  For a dream to ease her pain; But she dreamed instead of a man long dead,  Who had loved her all in vain.
# Poems of Experience/The Purpose

Over and over the task was set,  Over and over I slighted the work, But ever and alway I knew that yet  I must face and finish the toil I shirk.
Over and over the whip of pain  Has spurred and punished with blow on blow; As ever and alway I tried in vain  To shun the labour I hated so.
Over and over I came this way  For just one purpose: O stubborn soul! Turn with a will to your work to-day,  And learn the lesson of Self-Control.
# Poems of Experience/The Tides

Oh, vain is the stern protesting  Of winds, when the tide runs high; And vainly the deep-sea waters  Call out, as the waves speed by; For, deaf to the claim of the ocean,  To the threat of the loud winds dumb, Past reef and bar, to shores afar,  They rush when the hour is come.
Vainly the tempest thunders,  Of unsexed waves that roam, Away from the mid-sea calmness,  Where Nature made their home. For the voice of the great Moon-Mother,  Has spoken and said, ‘Be free.’ And the tide must go to the strong full flow,  In the time of the perigee.
So vain is the cry of the masters,  And vain the plea of the hearth; As the ranks of the strange New Woman  Go sweeping across the earth. They have come from hall and hovel,  They have pushed through door and gate; On the world’s highway they are crowded to-day,  For the hour is the hour of fate.
Many are hurt in the crowding,  The light of the home burns dim; And man is aghast at the changes,  Though all can be traced to him. They sat too long at the hearthstone,  And sat too oft alone: And the silence spoke, and their souls awoke,  And now they must claim their own.
Let no man hope to hinder,  Let no man bid them pause: They are moved by a hidden purpose,  They follow resistless laws. And out of the wreck and chaos  Of the order that used to be, A strong new race shall take its place  In a world we are yet to see.
Oh, ever has man been leader,  Yet failed as woman’s guide. It is better that she step forward,  And take her place at his side. For only from greater woman,  May come the greater man, Through life’s long quest they should walk abreast -  As was meant by the primal plan.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Minstrel Bard

THE MINSTREL BARD.
Where awful summits rise around, With wild and straggling flowerets crown'd; 'Tis there the poet loves to sigh, And touch the harp of melody: And wake the measure of delight, Or melt in fairy visions bright: And sometimes will his soul aspire, And feel almost etherial fire. Ah! then the fond enthusiast dreams, (Enraptur'd with celestial themes,) That happy spirits round him play, And animate the magic lay: Their floating forms his fancy sees, And hears their music in the breeze. Then, while the airy numbers die, He wakes his sweetest harmony; To imitate the heavenly strain, Which memory fondly calls again. To Fancy then he pours his song, To her his wildest notes belong. Oh! spirit of the lyre divine, I deck with flowers thy sacred shrine; Thus let me ever melt with thee, In the soft dreams of poesy.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Reign of December

THE REIGN OF DECEMBER.
In winter awful, lovely in the spring, Romantic Cambria hail! to thee I sing. No longer now I view thy verdant trees, Thy joyous harvest waving to the breeze; Thy mountain streams, thy vallies filled with corn, Thy larks which fly to greet the roseate morn; Thy summer sun cheering all nature round, Thy meads with Flora's early primrose crown'd; The stores Pomona's liberal hand bestows, And from her lap in rich profusion throws: Of these no more I sing; those cheerful days Are fled, and winter claims my pensive lays. Yet even in winter charms may oft be view'd, If by the philosophic mind pursu'd: Yea, even in chilling frost, and blustering wind, The grandeur of the Almighty Power we find. Do not the winds aloud his praise declare? Look at the snowy hills—we view him there! Whether by cold we're nipp'd, or heat oppress'd, In either is the Great Supreme confess'd. But let me now assume the festive song, And to the lyre let sportive notes belong; For all th' endearments of the social powers, Shall bless December's consecrated hours.
Now tho' joyful summer's fled, Why regret her garlands dead! For in the winter we can see The beauties of variety. And if 'twere summer all the year, Variety would ne'er appear; But in the seasons moving round, If sought for, she is always found; Then tho' summer's reign is fled, Mourn not if the flowers be dead; Tasteless would she ever be, Wanting sweet variety. Hail! then, December's pleasing reign, In the wild enraptur'd strain; And let the winter sacred be To mirth and hospitality.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Morning Walk

THE MORNING WALK.
Come, let us wander thro' the woodland bowers,  Or seek the primrose in the lonely dale; For now the tears of April gem the flowers,  That shed their balmy incense on the gale.
Beside the margin of the winding stream  The shepherd leads his sportive flock along; The woodlark soars to hail the morning beam,  And tunes the music of his matin song.
In dewy meads with flowers and verdure drest,  The blooming children of the cottage play; With soft compassion spare the downy nest,  And gaily carol as they rove away.
Now fairy spring adorns the lovely scene,  In mossy dells the fragrant violets blow; And veil'd in opening leaves of tender green,  Uncultur'd roses in profusion glow.
Come, let us hail the vernal smile of morn,  Delightful hour, inspiring to the muse; The redbreast warbles on the budding thorn,  And every blossom shines in pearly dews.
With mantling woodbine every hedge is crown'd;  In airy grace the sweet liburnums bend; And o'er the lawns and grassy meads around,  The April showers in genial balm descend.
Etherial spring! I love thy gentle air;  I love thy garlands breathing soft perfume, Entwin'd with azure bells and lilies fair,  And early roses in luxuriant bloom.
Again I rove the woodland and the glade,  Again the linnet's mellow note I hear; With artless pleasure wandering in the shade,  To cull the treasures of the infant year.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Petition of the Redbreast

THE PETITION OF THE REDBREAST.
Ah! why did thy rude hand molest The sacred quiet of my nest? No more I rise on rapture's wing, The ditties of my love to sing. Restore me to the peaceful vale, To wander with the southern gale; Restore me to the woodland scene, Romantic glen, or forest green; To hail the Heaven's ethereal blue, To drink the freshness of the dew; Now, while my artless carols flow, Let pity in thy bosom glow. For this, at morn's inspiring hour, I'll sing in thy luxuriant bow'r: To thee the breeze of airy sigh Shall waft my thrilling melody; Thy soul the cadence wild shall meet, The song of gratitude is sweet.
And at the pensive close of day, When landscape-colours fade away, Ah! then the robin's mellow note, To thee in dying tone shall float;—
"Now, while my plaintive carols flow, "Let pity in thy bosom glow;" And I will consecrate to thee, The wildest note of liberty.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Path of Life

THE PATH OF LIFE.
INSCRIBED TO MISS C———
When first to youth's enchanted eyes  The flattering world discloses; Oh! then unclouded are the skies, The lovely scenes of hope arise,  The path is deck'd with roses.
Like summer clouds or April showers,  Our sorrows pass away; In smiling Fancy's fairy bowers, We sport the gay delightful hours,  Of life's propitious May.
But ah! how short our festal morn,  How soon our spring is fled;
Those golden days no more return; The fairest flowers conceal a thorn;  The path of life we tread.
Some wander thro' a rugged way,  Forsaken and opprest; While others cheer'd by Fortune's ray, Thro' Pleasure's laughing region stray,  In rainbow colours drest.
The early votaries of the muse,  Too fondly hope to rove, Thro' blissful meads, where flowers diffuse Their balmy sweets and glowing hues,  Around the bower of love.
How fair to youth's enchanted eyes,  The flattering world discloses; But soon the dear illusion flies, And weeds and pointed thorns arise,  To blend with fragrant roses.
Oh! may the path of life for thee,  Still wear a vernal smile; May Hope thy sweet companion be, And Friendship, Love, and Sympathy,  Thy happy hours beguile.
Be thine with airy steps to trace,  Some bright and sunny way; Oh! still may Health with sportive grace, And mantling bloom adorn thy face,  And bid thy heart be gay.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Return of the Mariners

THE
RETURN OF THE MARINERS.
When the blythe mariners with glowing hearts,  Guide the proud vessel to their native shore, Then Hope the animating lay imparts,  And whispers of the rapture yet in store. Their spreading sails the lingering breezes gain, The airy streamers waving o'er the main; That main, which causes many a heart to mourn, Now softly rolls to favour their return.
Now, with the balmy summer gale they glide; Ah! soon the seaman hopes to meet his bride. Now, to the coast enraptur'd they advance, While o'er the wave the setting sun-beams dance. Now shouts of joy, impetuous joy, arise, The cliffs of Albion meet their sparkling eyes; With ardent cheers they hail the native shore, "Our toil, our care, our dangers, are no more." No more from love the mariners will roam, But dwell with peace and festive mirth at home. And now they spring exulting from the wave, To meet the sacred honours of the brave; Their friends, their loves, they welcome on the strand, And acclamations greet them as they land. Ah! then the tears of manly transport flow, The tears that bid the generous bosom glow. He who could stand by battle compass'd round, Stand unconcern'd, nor heed the deathful wound; He, who could boldly face the cannon's roar, Now melts in tears, to see his native shore. Then let my country's lasting honours crown The brave defenders of her bright renown; With rapture hail the heroes of the wave, Or strew her weeping laurels on their grave.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Ruined Castle

THE RUINED CASTLE.
Oh! let me sigh to think this ruin'd pile Was favour'd once with fortune's radiant smile; These moss-grown battlements, these ivy'd towers, Have seen prosperity's uncertain hours; Their heroes triumph'd in the scenes of war, While victory follow'd in her trophied car. Here, where I muse in meditation's arms, Perhaps the battle raged with loud alarms; Here glory's crimson banner waving spread, While laurel crowns entwin'd the victor's head; And here, perhaps, with many a plaintive tear, The mourner has bedew'd the soldier's bier. The scene of conquest pensive fancy draws, Where thousands fell, enthusiasts in their cause.
Yon turret, moulder'd by the hand of time, Shaded by silver ash and spreading lime, Was once, perhaps, the hall of mirth and joy, Where warriors sought no longer to destroy; And where, perhaps, the hoary-headed sage, Would lead them o'er the animating page; Where history points to glorious ages fled, And tells the noble actions of the dead. Still fancy with a magic power recalls The time when trophies grac'd the lofty walls: When with enchanting spells the minstrel's art, Could soften and inspire the melting heart; Could raise the glowing elevated flame, And bid the youthful soldier pant for fame: While deeds of glory were the themes he sung, The pleasant harp in wild accordance rung. Ah! where is now the warrior's ardent fire? Where now the tuneful spirit of the lyre? The warrior sleeps; the minstrel's lay is still; No songs of triumph echo from the hill. Ah! yet the weeping muse shall love to sigh, And trace again thy fallen majesty; And still shall Fancy linger on the theme, While forms of heroes animate her dream.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Farewell

THE FAREWELL.
When sad the parting word we hear,  That seems of past delights to tell; Who then, without a sacred tear, Can say farewell?
And are we ever doom'd to mourn,  That e'en our joys may lead to pain? Alas! the rose without a thorn We seek in vain.
When friends endear'd by absence meet,  Their hours are crown'd with every treasure; Too soon the happy moments fleet On wings of pleasure.
But when the parting hour is nigh,  What feeling breast their woes can tell? With many a prayer and tender sigh They bid farewell.
Yet Hope may charm their grief away,  And pour her sweet enchanting strain, That friends belov'd—some future day, Shall meet again.
Her aid the fair deceiver lends,  To dry the tears which sadly fell; And calm the sorrow which attends The last farewell.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Lily of the Vale

THE LILY OF THE VALE.
See bending to the gentle gale, The modest lily of the vale; Hid in its leaf of tender green, Mark its soft and simple mien. Thus sometimes Merit blooms retir'd, By genius, taste, and fancy fir'd; And thus 'tis oft the wanderer's lot, To rove to Merit's peaceful cot, As I have found the lily sweet,
That blossoms in this wild retreat.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Minstrel to his Harp

THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP.
When youthful transport led the hours, And all my way was bright with flowers, Ah! then my harp, thy dulcet note, To songs of joy would lightly float; To thee I sung in numbers wild, Of hope and love who gaily smil'd.
And now tho' young delight is o'er, And golden visions charm no more; Tho' now my harp, thy mellow tone, I wake to mournful strains alone; Ah! yet the pleasing lays impart A pensive rapture to my heart.
I sung to thee of early pleasures, In sweet and animated measures; And I have wept o'er griefs and cares, And still have lov'd thy magic airs: To me thy sound recals the hours, When all my way was bright with flowers.
# Poems of Passion/The Wheel of the Breast

Through rivers of veins on the nameless quest The tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping, Till it reaches that curious wheel o' the breast, The human heart, which is never at rest. Faster, faster, it cries, and leaping, Plunging, dashing, speeding away, The wheel and the river work night and day.
I know not wherefore, I know not whither, This strange tide rushes with such mad force: It glides on hither, it slides on thither, Over and over the selfsame course, With never an outlet and never a source; And it lashes itself to the heat of passion And whirls the heart in a mill-wheel fashion.
I can hear in the hush of the still, still night, The ceaseless sound of that mighty river; I can hear it gushing, gurgling, rushing, With a wild, delirious, strange delight, And a conscious pride in its sense of might, As it hurries and worries my heart forever.
And I wonder oft as I lie awake, And list to the river that seethes and surges Over the wheel that it chides and urges— I wonder oft if that wheel will break With the mighty pressure it bears, some day, Or slowly and wearily wear away.
For little by little the heart is wearing, Like the wheel of the mill, as the tide goes tearing And plunging hurriedly through my breast, In a network of veins on a nameless quest, From and forth, unto unknown oceans, Bringing its cargoes of fierce emotions, With never a pause or an hour for rest.
# Poems of Passion/Tired

I am tired to-night, and something,  The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,  Has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking,  That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings,  And is drawing them up in tune.
I am tired to-night, and I miss you,  And long for you, love, through tears; And it seems but to-day that I saw you go—  You, who have been gone for years. And I seem to be newly lonely—  I, who am so much alone; And the strings of my heart are well in tune,  But they have not the same old tone.
I am tired; and that old sorrow  Sweeps down the bed of my soul, As a turbulent river might sudden'y break  way from a dam's control. It beareth a wreck on its bosom,  A wreck with a snow-white sail; And the hand on my heart strings thrums away,  But they only respond with a wail.
# Poems of Passion/Upon the Sand

All love that has not friendship for its base  Is like a mansion built upon the sand.  Though brave its walls as any in the land, And its tall turrets lift their heads in grace; Though skilful and accomplished artists trace  Most beautiful designs on every hand,  And gleaming statues in dim niches stand, And fountains play in some flow'r-hidden place:
Yet, when from the frowning east a sudden gust  Of adverse fate is blown, or sad rains fall,  Day in, day out, against its yielding wall, Lo! the fair structure crumbles to the dust.  Love, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe,  Needs friendship's solid mason-work below.
# Poems of Passion/Through the Valley

As I came through the Valley of Despair,  As I came through the valley, on my sight,  More awful than the darkness of the night, Shone glimpses of a Past that had been fair,  And memories of eyes that used to smile,  And wafts of perfume from a vanished isle, As I came through the valley.
As I came through the valley I could see,  As I came through the valley, fair and far,  As drowning men look up and see a star, The fading shore of my lost Used-to-be;  And like an arrow in my heart I heard  The last sad notes of Hope's expiring bird, As I came through the valley.
As I came through the valley desolate,  As I came through the valley, like a beam  Of lurid lightning I beheld a gleam Of Love's great eyes that now were full of hate.  Dear God! Dear God! I could bear all but that;  But I fell down soul-stricken, dead, thereat, As I came through the valley.
# Poems of Passion/Time and Love

Time flies. The swift hours hurry by  And speed us on to untried ways; New seasons ripen, perish, die,  And yet love stays. The old, old love—like sweet, at first,  At last like bitter wine— I know not if it blest or curst  Thy life and mine.
Time flies. In vain our prayers, our tears!  We cannot tempt him to delays; Down to the past he bears the years,  And yet love stays. Through changing task and varying dream  We hear the same refrain, As one can hear a plaintive theme  Run through each strain.
Time flies. He steals our pulsing youth;  He robs us of our care-free days; He takes away our trust and truth:  And yet love stays. O Time! take love! When love is vain,  When all its best joys die— When only its regrets remain—  Let love, too, fly.
# Poems of Passion/The Speech of Silence

The solemn Sea of Silence lies between us;  I know thou livest, and them lovest me, And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing  Across the ocean, beating word from thee.
The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness.  No anxious doubts or fears disturb my breast; I only ask some little wave of language,  To stir this vast infinitude of rest.
I am oppressed with this great sense of loving;  So much I give, so much receive from thee; Like subtle incense, rising from a censer,  So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.
All speech is poor, and written words unmeaning;  Yet such I ask, blown hither by some wind, To give relief to this too perfect knowledge,  The Silence so impresses on my mind.
How poor the love that needeth word or message,  To banish doubt or nourish tenderness! I ask them but to temper love's convictions  The Silence all too fully doth express.
Too deep the language which the spirit utters;  Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred. Send some white ship across the Sea of Silence,  And interrupt its utterance with a word.
# Poems of Passion/The Trio

We love but once. The great gold orb of light From dawn to even-tide doth cast his ray; But the full splendor of his perfect might Is reached but once throughout the livelong day.
We love but once. The waves, with ceaseless motion, Do day and night plash on the pebbled shore; But the strong tide of the resistless ocean Sweeps in but one hour of the twenty-four.
We love but once. A score of times, perchance, We may be moved in fancy's fleeting fashion— May treasure up a word, a tone, a glance; But only once we feel the soul's great passion.
We love but once. Love walks with death and birth (The saddest, the unkindest of the three); And only once while we sojourn on earth Can that strange trio come to you or me.
# Poems of Passion/The Tiger

In the still jungle of the senses lay A tiger soundly sleeping, till one day A bold young hunter chanced to come that way.
"How calm," he said, "that splendid creature lies! I long to rouse him into swift surprise." The well aimed arrow shot from amorous eyes,
And lo! the tiger rouses up and turns, A coal of fire his glowing eyeball burns, His mighty frame with savage hunger yearns.
He crouches for a spring; his eyes dilate— Alas! bold hunter, what shall be thy fate? Thou canst not fly; it is too late, too late.
Once having tasted human flesh, ah! then, Woe, woe unto the whole rash world of men. The wakened tiger will not sleep again.