OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Woman of the Century/Marguerite Moore

​MOORE, Mrs. Marguerite, orator and patriot, born m Waterford, Ireland, 7th July, 1849. She is an American by adoption and Irish by descent, birth and education. MARGUERITE MOORE. In 1881 she sprang into a foremost place in the politics of her native land. Parnell and the rest of the national and local leaders were in prison, and the existence of the great organization they had built up was imperiled. The sister of Charles Stewart Parnell called the women of Ireland to help in the struggle. Mrs. Moore's patriotism, sympathy for the suffering and eloquence made of her an invaluable auxiliary. She threw herself into the struggle, which had for its aim the fixing of the Irish tenant farmer in his holding and the succoring of the tenants already evicted. She traveled through Ireland, teaching the doctrine of the Land League and bringing help to the victims of landlord tyranny. In all the large cities of England and Scotland she addressed crowded meetings. After twelve months of hard toil she was arrested and sentenced to six months' imprisonment in Tullamore jail, Kings county, Ireland. In the summer of 1882, when Mr Parnell and his followers were released from prison, the women returned into their hands the trust they had so faithfully guarded. Two years afterwards Mrs. Moore, accompanied by her family of four girls and two boys, came to the United States. Here she has gained a reputation as a speaker on social matters, woman suffrage, labor question and land reform. Any good cause finds in her an able platform advocate. Tier pen is ready in defense of the oppressed. She takes deep interest in American politics, as a believer in the single-tax doctrines. She took a prominent part in the New York election campaigns of 1886-87, addressing two or three meetings each evening. She is a vice-president of the Universal Peace Union, a member of the New York Woman's Press Club, treasurer and secretary of the Parnell Branch of the Irish National League, and prominent in the literary society of New York City.
# Woman of the Century/Maria Elizabeth Zakrzewska

​ZAKRZEWSKA, Miss Maria Elizabeth, physician and medical college professor, born in Berlin, Germany, 6th September, 1829. She is descended from a Polish family of wealth, intelligence and distinction. She was liberally educated and is master of several modern languages. She became interested in the study and practice of medicine, and took a medical course in the Charité Hospital in Berlin, and after finishing the prescribed course, taught in the college and served as assistant in the hospital. Desiring to find a wider field of action than Prussia then offered to ambitious women, she came to the United States in 1853. She studied in the Cleveland Medical College, and was graduated in that school. In 1859 she was called to the chair of obstetrics in the New England Female Medical College. At her suggestion the trustees of the college added a hospital, or clinical department, to the school, to give the students practical instruction. She had, after graduation, taken an active part in establishing and managing the New York Infirmary for Indigent Women. In that work she cooperated with Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell, the eminent pioneer women physicians. In 1863 she went to Boston, Mass., and there she founded the New England Hospital for women and children. She served three years and resigned. She was one of the incorporators of that institution. Dr. Zakrzewska has passed the greater part of her life in Boston. She is a woman of great mental force, and in her professional work she shows all the strength, skill and coolness of the best man physician. She has done a vast deal for women in opening the practice of medicine and surgery to those who are competent.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Indian's Welcome to the Pilgrim Fathers

THE INDIAN'S WELCOME TO THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
"On Friday, March 16th, 1622, while the colonists were busied in their usual labors, they were much surprised to see a savage walk boldly towards them, and salute them with, 'much welcome, English, much welcome, Englishmen.'"
Above them spread a stranger sky
Around, the sterile plain,
The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh,
Beyond,—the wrathful main:
Chill remnants of the wintry snow
Still chok'd the encumber'd soil,
Yet forth these Pilgrim Fathers go,
To mark their future toil.
'Mid yonder vale their corn must rise
In Summer's ripening pride,
And there the church-spire woo the skies
Its sister-school beside.
Perchance 'mid England's velvet green
Some tender thought repos'd,— Though nought upon their stoic mien
Such soft regret disclos'd.
When sudden from the forest wide
A red-brow'd chieftain came,
With towering form, and haughty stride,
And eye like kindling flame:
No wrath he breath'd, no conflict sought,
To no dark ambush drew,
But simply to the Old World brought,
The welcome of the New.
That welcome was a blast and ban
Upon thy race unborn.
Was there no seer, thou fated Man!
Thy lavish zeal to warn?
Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail
A weak, invading band,
But who shall heed thy children's wail,
Swept from their native land?
Thou gav'st the riches of thy streams,
The lordship o'er thy waves,
The region of thine infant dreams,
And of thy fathers graves,
But who to yon proud mansions pil'd
With wealth of earth and sea,
Poor outcast from thy forest wild,
Say, who shall welcome thee?
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Muffled Knocker

THE MUFFLED KNOCKER.
Grief! Grief! 'tis thy symbol, so mute and drear,
Yet it hath a tale for the listening ear,
Of the nurse's care, and the curtain'd bed,
And the baffled healer's cautious tread,
And the midnight lamp, with its flickering light,
Half screen'd from the restless sufferer's sight,
Yes, many a sable scene of woe,
Doth that muffled knocker's tablet show.
Pain! Pain! art thou wrestling here with man;
For the broken gold of his wasted span,
Art thou straining thy rack on his tortur'd nerve,
Till his firmest hopes from their anchor swerve?
Till burning tears from his eyeballs flow,
And his manhood faints in a shriek of woe?
Methinks, thy scorpion-sting I trace,
Through the mist of that sullen knocker's face.
Death! Death! do I see thee with weapon dread? Art thou laying thy hand on yon cradle-bed!
The Mother is there, with her sleepless eye,
To dispute each step of thy victory,
She doth fold the child in her soul's embrace,
Her prayer is to die in her idol's place,
She hath bared her breast to thine arrow's sway,
But thou wilt not be brib'd from that babe away.
Earth! Earth! thou hast stamp'd on thy scroll of bliss,
The faithless seal of a traitor's kiss,
Where the bridal lamp shone clear and bright,
And the foot thro' the maze of the dance was light,
Thou biddest the black-rob'd weeper kneel,
And the heavy hearse roll its lumbering wheel;
And still to the heart that will heed its lore,
Doth Wisdom speak, from the muffled door.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The New-Zealand Missionary

THE NEW-ZEALAND MISSIONARY.
"We cannot let him go. He says he is going to return to England,—the ship is here to take him away. But no,—we will keep him, and make him our slave; not our slave to fetch wood and draw water but our talking slave. Yes,—he shall be our slave, to talk to and to teach us. Keep him we will."—Speech of Rev. Mr. Yates, at the Anniversary of the Church Missionary Society, London, May, 1835.
'Twas night, and in his tent he lay,
 Upon a heathen shore,
While wildly on his wakeful ear
 The ocean's billows roar;
'Twas midnight, and the war-club rang
 Upon his threshold stone,
And heavy feet of savage men
 Came fiercely tramping on.
Loud were their tones in fierce debate,
 The chieftain and his clan,
"He shall not go,—he shall not go,
 That missionary man;
For him the swelling sail doth spread,
 The tall ship ride the wave,
But we will chain him to our coast,
 Yes, he shall be our slave:
Not from the groves our wood to bear,
 Nor water from the vale,
Not in the battle-front to stand,
 Where proudest foe-men quail,
Nor the great war-canoe to guide,
 Where crystal streams turn red;
But he shall be our slave to break
 The soul its living bread."
Then slowly peer'd the rising moon,
 Above the forest-height,
And bathed each cocoa's leafy crown
 In tides of living light:
To every cabin's grassy thatch
 A gift of beauty gave,
And with a crest of silver cheer'd
 Pacific's sullen wave.
But o'er that gentle scene, a shout
 In sudden clangor came,
"Come forth, come forth, thou man of God,
 And answer to our claim:"
So down to those dark island-men,
 He bow'd him as he spake,
"Behold, your servant will I be
 For Christ, my Master's sake."
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Grave of the Queen of Prussia

THE GRAVE OF THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.
"In the garden of Charlottenburgh, I came suddenly among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, a spot sacred to silence, or to the soft-breathed song, but the cypress and willow declared it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble, lay a sheet, and the outline of a human form, was plainly visible beneath its folds. It was reverently turned back, and displayed the statue of the Queen of Prussia. It is said to be a perfect resemblance,—not as in death,—but when she lived, to bless and to be blessed. She seems scarcely to sleep; the mind and heart are on her sweet lips. Here the king often comes and passes long hours alone; here too, he brings her children, to offer garlands at her grave."—Notes during a Ramble in Germany.
Who slumbereth 'neath yon Doric fane,
 Within that garden's shade?
Her brow upon its pillow white
 In careless languor laid?
While fragrant summer's laden gale
 And fall of murmuring stream,
With Nature's holiest hush, conspire
 To lull the lingering dream.
But wherefore, do those clasping hands
 Repose so still and meek?
Nor breath disturb the tress that lies
 Thus lightly on her cheek?
And wherefore, on those parted lips
 Doth that rich music sleep
Which mov'd Affection's bounding pulse
 To rapture strong and deep?
Ah!—lift not thus the drapery's fold!
 I see what death has wrought,
Who proudly to his bridal-couch
 This royal victim brought;
Yet spar'd her tender form to rend
 From this embowering shade,
And where she most had joy'd to roam,
 Her last long mansion made.
And here, the Father of his realm
 With lonely step doth steal,
And take that sorrow to his heart,
 Which lowliest mourners feel,
Here too, his princely offspring bring
 Affection's woven flowers,
And keep the mother's memory fresh,  Who charm'd their cradle-hours.
Farewell, thou beautiful and blest,.
 Whose sceptred hand did bind
Each clustering virtue round thy throne
 That glads the simple hind;
For sometimes hath a queenly crown
 Been as the Upas-tree,
To the pure bosom's healthful plants,
 It was not thus with thee.
Yet pangs were thine, that speechless woe
 Which patriot virtue feels,
When o'er the country of its love,
 The oppressor's footstep steals,
Yes, he whose eagle-pinion sought
 The subject world to shame,
Did stoop to wound thy noble breast,
 And basely mar his fame.
But tearless from Helena's rock
 His tortur'd spirit fled,
Hence, vengeful thoughts! ye may not dwell
 So near the sacred dead:
Rest, Prussia's Queen! a nation's grief
 Flows forth in fountains free,
A nation's love, thy couch doth guard,
 Sleep on, 'tis well with thee.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Journey with the Dead

THE JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD.
They journey neath the summer sky,
 A lov'd and loving train,
But Nature spreads her genial charms
 To lure their souls in vain,
Husband and wife and child are there,
 Warm-hearted, true and kind,
Yet every kindred lip is seal'd,
 And every head declin'd.
Weary and sad, their course is bent
 To seek an ancient dome,
Where hospitality hath made
 A long-remember'd home;
And one with mournful care they bring
 Whose footstep erst was gay
Amid these halls; why comes she now
 In sorrow's dark array?
Here fell a sainted grandsire's prayer
 Upon her infant rest,
And with the love of ripen'd years
 The cherish'd haunt was blest;
Here was the talisman that bade
 Her heart's blood sparkle high,
Why steals no flush across her cheek?  No lightning to her eye?
They bear her to the house of God,
 But though that hallow'd spot
Is fill'd with prayer from lips she lov'd
 Her voice respondeth not,
She heedeth not, she heedeth not,
 She, who from early days
Had joy'd within that holy Church
 To swell Jehovah's praise.
Then onward toward a narrow cell
 They tread the grass-grown track
From whence the unreturning guest
 Doth send no tidings back;
There sleeps the grandsire high and brave
 In freedom's battles tried,* With him whose banner was the cross
 Of Jesus crucified.
Down by those hoary chiefs she laid
 Her young, unfrosted head,
To rise no more, until the voice
 Of Jesus wakes the dead,
From her own dear, domestic bower,
 From deep, confiding love,
From earth's unshaded smile, she turn'd
 To purer bliss above.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Half-Century Sermon

THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON.
Look back, look back, ye gray-hair'd worshippers,
Who to this hill-top, fifty years ago
Came up with solemn joy; withdraw the folds
Which curtaining Time hath gather'd o'er the scene,
And show its coloring. The dark cloud of war
Faded to fitful sun-light, on the ear,
The rumor of red battle died away,
And there was peace in Zion. So a throng
O'er a faint carpet of the Spring's first green
Were seen in glad procession hasting on,
To set a watchman on these sacred walls.
Each eye upon his consecrated brow
Was fondly fix'd, for in its pallid hue,
In its deep, thought-worn, spiritual lines,
They trac'd the mission of the Crucified,
The hope of Israel. High the anthem swell'd,
Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts,
Who in his bounteous goodness thus vouchsaf'd
To beautify his temple.
The same strain
Riseth once more; but where are they who pour'd
Its tones melodious, on that festal day? Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip,
The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength,
With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope,
Where are they? Can ye tell, ye hoary Ones,
Who few, and feebly leaning on your staves
Bow down, where erst with manhood's lofty port
Ye tower'd as columns? They have sunk away,
Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp
Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left,
With life's long lessons furrow'd on your brow.
Change worketh all around you. The lithe twig
That in your boyhood ye did idly bend
Maketh broad shadow, and the forest-king
Arching majestic o'er your school-day sports,
Mouldereth, to sprout no more. The little babe,
Ye as a plaything dandled, of whose frame
Perchance ye spake, as most exceeding frail
And prone to perish like the flower of grass,
Doth nurse his children's children on his knee.
—But still your ancient Shepherd's voice ye hear,
Tho' age hath quell'd its power, and well those tones
Of serious, saintly tenderness do stir
The springs of love and reverence. As your guide
He in the heavenward path hath firmly walk'd
Bearing your joys and sorrows in his breast,
And on his prayers. He at your household hearths
Hath spoke his Master's message, while your babes
Listening imbib'd, as blossoms drink the dew;
And when your dead were buried from your sight,
Was he not there?
 His scatter'd locks are white
With the hoar-frost of time, but in his soul
There is no Winter. He, the uncounted gold
Of many a year's experience richly spreads
To a new generation, and methinks
With high prophetic brow doth stand sublime
Like Moses 'tween the living and the dead
To make atonement. God's unclouded smile
Sustain thee Patriarch! like a flood of light
Still brightening, till with those whom thou hast taught
And warn'd in wisdom and with weeping love
Led to the brink of Calvary's cleansing stream,
Thou strike the victor-harp o'er sin and death.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Jews

THE JEWS.
Zion, thy symbols fade,
 Cast thy dim types away,
Come forth from ancient Error's shade,
 And hail Messiah's day.
Why haunt with shuddering dread
 Red Sinai's penal flame?
When Calvary lifts a peaceful head,
 And breathes an angel's claim.
The Prophets are thy care,
 The Law is at thy breast,
The Gospel take with grateful prayer,
 And Christ shall give thee rest.
No more his love withstand,
 No more his spirit grieve,
Thrust in his wounded side thy hand,
 And tremble and believe.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Huguenot Pastor

THE HUGUENOT PASTOR.
During the persecution of the Huguenots in France, soon after the revocation of the edict of Nantz, one of their ministers, possessed of great learning and piety, having witnessed the demolition of his own Church at Montpelier, was induced by the solicitations of his people, to preach to them in the night, upon its ruins. For this offence, he was condemned to be broken on the wheel.
Behold him on the ruins,—not of fanes
With ivy mantled, which the touch of time
Hath slowly crumbled,—but amid the wreck
Of his own temple, by infuriate hands
In shapeless masses, and rude fragments strown
Wide o'er the trampled turf. Serene he stood,
A pale, sad beauty on his youthful brow,
With eyes uprais'd, as if his stricken soul
Fled from material things. Where was the spire
That solemn through those chestnut trees look'd forth?
The tower, the arch, the altar whence he bless'd
A kneeling throng? the font where infancy
Rais'd in his arms to God was consecrate,
An incense-breathing bud? Not on such themes
Dar'd his fond thoughts to dwell, but firm in faith
He lifted up his voice, and spake of Heaven
Where desolations come not.
 Midnight hung
Dreary and dense around, and the lone lamp
That o'er his Bible stream'd, hung tremulous
Beneath the fitful gale.
 There, resting deep
Upon the planted staff, were aged men,
The grave's white tokens in their scatter'd hair,
And youthful forms, with gaze intensely fix'd
On their beloved Pastor, as he taught
Of Christ their righteousness, while here and there
A group of mourning mothers from whose arms
Their babes by persecution's rage were torn
Blent with their listening, the low sob of grief.
Close by their fathers' knees, young children cower'd,
And in each echoing footstep fear'd a foe.
—It was a time of trouble, and the flock
Came hungering for that heavenly bread which gives
Strength to the heavy-laden. 'Twas a scene
That France might well have wept with tears of blood
But in the madness of a dire disease
She slew her faithful sons, and urg'd the sword
'Gainst her own vitals.
 Lo! the dawn is out,
With her grey banner, and the parting flock
Seek their own homes, praising the Hand that spares
Their faithful Shepherd. Silent evening wakes
Far different orgies. Yonder mangled form
Sinking 'neath murderous fury, can ye trace
Its lineaments of beauty, 'mid the wreck
Of anguish and distortion? Son of God!
Is this thy messenger, whose voice so late
Thrill'd with an angel's sweetness, as it pour'd
Thy blessing on the people?
 Yet, be still,
And breathe no bitter thought above his dust,
Who served the Prince of Peace. The spirit of love
Did make that lifeless breast its temple-shrine,
Offend it not. But raise with tender hand
Those blood-stain'd curls, and shed the pitying tear.
—That marble lip no more can bless its foes,
But from the rack of martyrdom, the soul
Hath risen in radiance, o'er the strife of man.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Lost Sister

THE LOST SISTER.
They wak'd me from my sleep, I knew not why,
And bade me haste where a pale midnight lamp
Gleam'd from an inner chamber. There she lay,
With livid brow who yestermorn breath'd forth
Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss
Into the hearts of others. By her side
Her hoary sire, with speechless horror gaz'd
Upon the stricken idol, all dismay'd
Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nurs'd
That fair young creature at her gentle breast,
And oft those sunny locks had deck'd with buds
Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wip'd the dews
Which death distils.
 The sufferer just had given
Her long farewell, and for the last, last time
Press'd with cold lips his cheek who led so late
Her footsteps to the altar, and receiv'd
In the deep transport of an ardent heart
Her vow of love. And she had softly press'd
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand
Upon his finger, which he kneeling gave
On the bright, bridal morn. So, there she lay
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast
The dreaded bitterness of death had past.
—But a faint wail disturb'd the silent scene,
And in its nurse's arms, a new-born babe
Was borne in utter helplessness along,
Before that dying eye.
Its gather'd film
Kindled one moment, with a sudden glow
Of tearless agony,—and fearful pangs
Racking the rigid features, told how strong
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer
Went up to Heaven,—and as its cadence sank,
Her spirit enter'd there.
 Morn after morn
Rose and retir'd,—yet still as in a dream
I seem'd to move. The certainty of loss
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept
As weep the sisterless. For thou wert fled
My only, my belov'd,—my sainted one,
Twin of my spirit! and my number'd days
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour
Which rent thee from me.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Ordination

THE ORDINATION.
Up to thy master's work! for thou art sworn
To do His bidding, till the hand of Death
Strike off thine armour.—Not among the gaudes,
And pomps and pleasures of this fleeting world
Is thy vocation.—Thy deep vow denies
To hoard its gold,—or truckle for its smile,
Or bind its blood-stained laurel on thy brow,—
—A nobler field is thine.—The soul!—The soul!—
That is thy province,—that mysterious thing,
Which hath no limit from the walls of sense.—
No chill from hoary Time,—with pale decay
No fellowship,—but shall stand forth unchang'd
Unscorch'd amid the resurrection fires,
To bear its boundless lot of good or ill,
And thou dost take authority to aid
This pilgrim-essence to a throne in Heaven
Among the glorious harpers, and the ranks
Of radiant seraphim and cherubim,
Thy business is with that which cannot die,—
Whose subtle thought the untravel'd universe
Spans on swift wing, from slumbering ages sweeps
Their buried treasures, scans the vault of Heaven,
Weighing its orbs of light, and pointing out
Their trackless pathway through the blue expanse,
Foils the red comet in its flaming speed,
And aims to read the secrets of its God,
——Yet thou a son of clay, art privileg'd
To make thy Saviour's image brighter still,
In this majestic soul.
 Give God the praise
That thou art counted worthy,—and lay down
Thy lip in dust.—Bethink thee of its loss,— For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs
On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth
Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on
Till the last hour of grace and penitence
Is meted out, ah! what would it avail
Though the whole world with all its pomp and power
And plumage, were its own? what were its gain
When the brief hour-glass of this life shall fail
And leave remorse, no grave,—despair, no hope?
——Up, blow thy trumpet sound the loud alarm
To those who sleep in Zion.—Boldly warn
To 'scape their condemnation, o'er whose head
Age after age of misery hath roll'd
Who from their prison-house look up and see
Heaven's golden gate,—and to its watchmen cry
"What of the night?" while the dread answer falls
With fearful echo down the unfathom'd depths:
"Eternity!"
 Should one of these lost souls
Amid its tossings utter forth thy name,
As one who might have pluck'd it from the pit,
Thou Man of God! would there not be a burst
Of tears in Heaven?
Oh! live the life of prayer
The life of faith in the meek Son of God
The life of tireless labor for His sake:
So may the angel of the Covenant bring
Thee to thy home in bliss, with many a gem
To glow forever in thy Master's crown.