OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Pocahontas, and Other Poems/Niagara

NIAGARA.
Flow on, for ever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty.—Yea, flow on,—
Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And He doth give
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him
Eternally,—bidding the lip of man
Keep silence, and upon thine altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.
Earth fears to lift
The insect-trump that tells her trifling joys,
And fleeting triumphs, 'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves
Retire abash'd. For he hath need to sleep
Sometimes, like a spent labourer, calling home
His boisterous billows, from their vexing play,
To a long, dreary calm: but thy strong tide
Faints not, nor e'er, with failing heart, forgets
Its everlasting lesson,—night nor day.
The morning stars, that hail'd creation's birth,
Heard thy hoarse anthem, mixing with their song ​Jehovah's name: and the dissolving fires,
That wait the mandate of the day of doom
To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscrib'd
Upon thy rocky scroll.
The lofty trees,
That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore
Of the too fitful winds; while their young leaves
Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds,
How bold they venture near, dipping their wing
In all thy mist and foam. Perchance 'tis meet
For them to touch thy garment's hem, or stir
Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud,
Unblam'd, or warble at the gate of heaven
Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our erring lips, to talk
Familiarly of thee.—Methinks, to trace
Thine awful features, with our pencil's point,
Were but to press on Sinai.
Thou dost speak
Alone of God, who pour'd thee as a drop
From his right hand,—bidding the soul that looks
Upon thy fearful majesty be still,
Be humbly wrapp'd in its nothingness,
And lose itself in Him.
# Pocahontas, and Other Poems

Pocahontas,
and other poems.
By
Mrs. L. H. Sigourney.
LONDON:
Published by Robert Tyas,
8, Paternoster Row.
MDCCCXLI
LONDON:
CLARKE, PRINTERS, SILVER STREET, FALCON SQUARE.
PREFACE.
Some of the poems in this volume have never before been published. Others have appeared in America, but are supposed to be equally new here.
Should it be inquired why they are presented to the public in an age not eminently poetical, or why they are offered at all in a country whose literary resources are so rich and abundant, the Author has little to say. Possibly, the kindness and hospitality which have every where greeted her may have emboldened her too far,—if so, she hopes to be forgiven;—and may the wild flowers, from the clefts of the rock and the far western forests, which she thus leaves trembling in a foreign clime, never forget to breathe the fragrance of a stranger’s gratitude.
L. H. S.
London, March 20th, 1841.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
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
# Pocahontas, and Other Poems/Babe Buried at Sea

BABE BURIED AT SEA.
The deep sea took the dead. It was a babe
Like sculptur'd marble, pure and beautiful,
That lonely to its yawning gulfs went down.
— Poor cradled nursling — no fond arm was there
To wrap thee in its folds; no lullaby
Came from the green sea-monster, as he laid
His shapeless head thy polished brow beside,
One moment wondering at the beauteous spoil
On which he fed. Old Ocean heeded not
This added unit to his myriad dead:
But in the bosom of the tossing ship
Rose up a burst of anguish, wild and loud,
From the vex'd fountain of a mother's love.
— The lost! The lost! Oft shall her startled dream
Catch the drear echo of the sullen plunge
That whelm'd the uncoffin'd body — oft her eye
Strain wide through midnight's long unslumbering watch,
Remembering how his soft sweet breathing seem'd
Like measur'd music in a lily's cup, ​And how his tiny shout of rapture swelled,
When closer to her bosom's core she drew
His eager lip.
Who thus, with folded arms,
And head declin'd, doth seem to count the waves,
And yet to heed them not? The sorrowing sire
Doth mark the last, faint ripple, where his child
Sank down into the waters. Busy thought
Turns to his far home, and those little ones
Whom sporting 'mid their favourite lawn he left,
And troubled fancy shows the weeping there,
When he shall seat them once more on his knee,
And tell them how the baby that they lov'd
Hid its pale cheek within its mother's breast,
And pin'd away and died — yet found no grave
Beneath the church-yard turf, where they might plant
The lowly mound with flowers.
But tell them, too,
O father! as a balsam for their grief,
That He who guards the water-lily's seed,
Through the long winter, and remembereth well
To bring its lip of snow and broad green leaf
Up from the darkness of its slimy cell
To meet the summer sun — will not forget
Their little brother, in his ocean bed,
But raise him from the deep, and call him forth
With brighter beauty, and a glorious form,
Never to fade or die.—
# Pocahontas, and Other Poems/Poesy

POESY.
Who saith that poesy waxeth old,
That all her legends were long since told?
 It is not so! it is not so!
For while there's a stream in its crystal hall,
A sprig of ivy to climb the wall,
A sun to rise, or a star to fall,
 She'll find something new to describe, I know.
Who saith that her songs were long since sung,
And learn'd by rote when the world was young?
 It is not so! it is not so!
For while there's a blossom by summer drest,
A sigh for the sad, or a smile for the blest,
Or a changeful thought in the human breast,
 There'll be a new string for her lyre, I trow.
What she was when the timbrel of Miriam rang,
When the sightless Homer to Helle sang,
 Such, such is she now,—all fair and young.
Not a silver hair on her temples you trace;
Not a spot or wrinkle deform her face;
No dotage of time hath impair'd her grace,
 Or check'd the flow of her tuneful tongue.
Do ye say she is poor, in this land of the free,
And that all her votaries are poor as she?
 It may he so! it may be so!
Yet hath she a dowry most rich and proud,
A castle that floats on the crimson cloud,
Clear sunshine within, when the storm is loud,
 And a shield of diamond to foil the foe.
Do ye say she is light in the world's esteem,—
Like a puff of air, or a fairy-dream?—
 It may be so! it may be so!
Yet hath she an honour more high and dear,
From the burning lips of the heaven-taught seer,
From the harp of Zion that charm'd the ear;
 From the choir where the seraph-minstrels glow.
# Philadelphia Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company v. Philadelphia and Havre De Grace Steam Towboat Company

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
64 U.S. 209
Philadelphia Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company v. Philadelphia and Havre De Grace Steam Towboat Company

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Philadelphia and Reading Railroad Company v. Derby

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
55 U.S. 468
Philadelphia and Reading Railroad Company v. Derby

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Philadelphia Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company v. Howard

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
54 U.S. 307
Philadelphia Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company v. Howard

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Philadelphia Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company v. Quigley

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
62 U.S. 202
Philadelphia Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company v. Quigley

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pieces People Ask For/Nebulous Philosophy

NEBULOUS PHILOSOPHY.
She came from Concord's classic shades, on Reason's throne she sat, And wove intricate arguments to prove, in language pat, The Whichness of the Wherefore, and the Thusness of the That.
She scorned ignoble subjects, each grovelling household care, But tuned her lofty soul to prove the Airness of the Air, And twisted skeins of logic round the Whatness of the Where.
To lower natures leaving the dollars, and the sense, She soared above the level of commonplace pretence, And moulded treatises which prove the Thatness of the Thence.
Her glorious purpose to reveal the Thinkfulness of the Thought, To trace each line by Somewhat on the Somehow's surface wrought, To picture forms of Whynot's from the Whatnot's meaning caught;
To cultivate our spirits with the Whyfore's classic flow, To benefit the Thereness with the Highness of the How, To flood the dark with radiance from the Thisness of the Now.
"What good has she accomplished?" Oh, never doubt her thus! It must be useful to reveal the Plusness of the Plus, To illustrate with corkscrew words the Whichness of the Us.
Mock not, poor common mortal, when thoughts like these appear, Illumining our labor with the Howness of the Here, And blazing like a comet through the Nowness of the Near.
Some day in Realms Eternal such grand mist-haunted souls, Inscribe their words of Whichness on Whereforeantic scrolls, In that great world of Muchness which through the Maybe rolls.
Then shall we each acknowledge the Whyness of the Whence; Each understand completely with Sensefulness of Sense, The Thusness of the Therefore, the Thatness of the Thence.
J. Edgar Jones.
# Pieces People Ask For/On the Shores of Tennessee

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.
"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey—
Massa won't be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.
"Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I've loved so long and well,
I shall listen to their music,
Dreaming that again I see
Stars and strips on sloop and shallop
Sailing up the Tennessee;
"And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting
For Death's last despatch to come,
If that exiled starry banner
Should come proudly sailing home,
You shall greet it, slave no longer—
Voice and hand shall both be free
That shout and point to Union colors
On the waves of Tennessee."
"Massa's berry kind to Pompey;
But old darkey's happy here,
Where he's tended corn and cotton
For dese many a long gone year.
Over yonder Missis' sleeping—
No one tends her grave like me:
Mebbe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee."
"'Pears like, she was watching Massa— If Pompey should beside him stay,
Mebbe she'd remember better
How for him she used to pray;
Telling him that way up yonder
White as snow his soul would be,
If he served the Lord of heaven
While he lived in Tennessee."
Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee,—
Master, dreaming of the battle
Where he fought by Marion's side,
When he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride,—
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee,
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.
Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silver hair;
Still the bondman close beside him
Stands behind the old arm-chair,
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.
Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain crest,
Softly creeping, aye and ever
To the river's yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free!
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!
The flag's come back to Tennessee!"
"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder;
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.
Here's the paper signed that frees you;
Give a freeman's shout with me—
'God and Union' be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee!"
Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the limbs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier
Glided to the better land.
When the flag went down the river,
Man and master both were free;
While the ring-dove's note was mingled
With the rippling Tennessee.
E. L. Beers.
# Pieces People Ask For/Over the Crossin'

OVER THE CROSSIN'.
"Shine? shine, sor? Ye see, I'm just a-dien'
Ter turn yer two boots inter glass
Where ye'll see all the sights in the winders
'Ithout lookin' up as yer pass.
Seen me before? I've no doubt, sor;
I'm punctooal haar, yer know,
Waitin' along the crossin'
Fur a little un', name o' Joe;
My brother, sor, an' a cute un',
Ba'ly turned seven, an' small,
But gettin' his livin' grad'ely
Tendin' a bit uv a stall
Fur Millerkins down the av'nue;
Yer kin bet that young un's smart,—
Worked right in like a vet'run
Since th' old un' gin 'im a start.
Folks say he's a picter o' father,
Once mate o' the 'Lucy Lee'—
Lost when Joe wor a baby,
Way off in some furrin sea.
Then mother kep' us together,
Though nobody thought she would,
An' worked an' slaved an' froze an' starved
Uz long uz ever she could.
An' since she died an' left us,
A couple o' year ago,
We've kep' right on in Cragg Alley,
A-housekeepin'—I an' Joe.
I'd just got my kit when she went, sor,
An' people helped us a bit,
So we managed to get on somehow;
Joe wus alius a brave little chit;
An' since he's got inter bisness,
Though we don't ape princes an' sich,
Tain't of 'n we git right hungry,
An' we feel pretty tol'able rich.
I used to wait at the corner,
Jest over th' other side;
But the notion o' bein' tended
Sort o' ruffled the youngster's pride,
So now I only watches
To see that he's safe across;
Sometimes it's a bit o' waitin',
But, bless yer, 'tain't no loss!
Look! there he is now, the rascal!
Dodgin' across the street
Ter s'prise me—an'—look! I'm goin’—
He's down by the horses' feet!"
Suddenly all had happened,—
The look, the cry, the spring,
The shielding Joe as a bird shields
Its young with sheltering wing;
Then up the full street of the city
A pause of the coming rush,
And through all the din and the tumult
A painful minute of hush;
A tumble of scattered brushes,
As they lifted him up to the walk,
A gathering of curious faces,
And snatches of whispered talk;
Little Joe all trembling beside him
On the flagging, with gentle grace
Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair
Away from the still white face.
At his touch the shut lids lifted,
And swift over lip and eye
Came a glow as when the morning
Flushes the eastern sky;
And a hand reached out to his brother,
As the words came low but clear,—
"Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother:
A minute back she wor here,
Smilin' an' callin' me to her!
I tell ye, I'm powerful glad
Yer such a brave, smart youngster:
The leavin' yer ain't so bad.
Hold hard to the right things she learnt us,
An' alius keep honest an' true;
Good-by, Joe—but mind, I'll be watchin'
Just—over—the crossin'—fur you!"
Springfield Republican.
# Pieces People Ask For/Never Too Late

NEVER TOO LATE.
There is a good and a bad in the wayside inns
On the highways of our lives,
And man can never be free from sins,
No matter how hard he strives;
Yet even when down destruction's grade
Our thorny pathways trend,
In spite of a thousand errors made,
"It is never too late to mend."
There are crosses heavy for men to bear,
And passions to conquer too;
There are joys and woes that each must share
Before the journey is through;
But men may be poor for honor's sake,
And truth and right defend,
And hope will never this promise break,—
"It is never too late to mend."
'Tis never too late for a noble deed;
For, blessed by the angels' tears,
It plants in the breasts of men a seed
That will grow in after years;
And words of kindness, of hope, and cheer,
Will always comfort lend:
We must live for love, and banish fear,—
"It is never too late to mend."
It is never too late to mend, my lad,
No matter what people say;
And no man's nature is wholly bad,
Even if old and gray:
And in our journey toward the grave,
Until we reach the end,
There is time to change, and time to save,—
"It is never too late to mend."
Ernest McGaffey.
# Pieces People Ask For/Mary's Lamb on a New Principle

MARY'S LAMB ON A NEW PRINCIPLE.
Mollie had a little ram as black as rubber shoe, and everywhere that Mollie went he emigrated too.
He went with her to church one day; the folks hilarious grew, to see him walk demurely into Deacon Allen's pew.
The worthy deacon quickly let his angry passions rise, and gave it an unchristian kick between the sad brown eyes.
This landed rammy in the aisle; the deacon followed fast, and raised his foot again: alas! that first kick was his last.
​For Mr. Sheep walked slowly back, about a rod 'tis said, and ere the deacon could retreat he stood him on his head.
The congregation then arose, and went for that 'ere sheep: several well-directed butts just piled them in a heap.
Then rushed they straightway for the door, with curses long and loud; while rammy struck the hindmost man, and shoved him through the crowd.
The minister had often heard that kindness would subdue the fiercest beast. "Aha!" he said, "I'll try that game on you."
And so he kindly, gently, called, "Come, rammy, rammy, ram; to see the folks abuse you so, I grieved and sorry am."
With kind and gentle words he came from that tall pulpit down, saying, "Rammy, rammy, ram—best sheepy in the town."
The ram quite dropped its humble air, and rose from off his feet; and when the parson landed, he was behind the hindmost seat.
As he shot out the door, and closed it with a slam, he named a California town—I think 'twas "Yuba Dam."
# Pieces People Ask For/Metamora to the Council

METAMORA TO THE COUNCIL.
You sent for me, and I've come: if you have nothing to say, I go back again. How is it, brothers? The doubt seems on all your faces, and your young warriors grasp their fire-weapons, as if they waited the onset of the foe. You were like a small thing upon the great waters; you had no earth to rest upon; you left the smoke of your father's wig-wam far in the distance, when the lord of the soil took you as little children to his home; our hearths were warm, and the Indian was the white man's friend. Your great Book tells you to give good gifts. The Indian needs no book: the Great Spirit has written with his finger on his heart. Wisconego here? let me see his eye! Art thou not he whom I snatched from the war-club of the Mohegan, when the lips of the foe thirsted for thy blood, and their warriors had sung thy death-song? Say unto these people that they have bought thy tongue, and that thy coward heart has uttered a lie. Slave of the whites, go! (stabs him) follow Sassawan! White man, beware! the wrath of the wronged Indian shall fall on you like a mighty cataract that dashes the uprooted oak down its mighty chasm; the dread war-cry shall start you from dreams at night, and the red hatchet gleam in the blaze of your burning dwellings. Tremble, from the east to the west, from the north to the south, till the lands you have stolen groan beneath your feet! (Throws hatchet on stage.) Thus do I smite your nation, and defy your power!
# Pieces People Ask For/Missing

MISSING.
In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook,
Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old sward,
And the winds and the birds and the limpid brook
Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound,
Who lies so still in the plushy moss,
With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow,
Couched where the light and shadows cross,
Through the flickering fringe of the willow,—
Who lies, alas!
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass?
A soldier, clad in a Zouave dress,
A bright-haired man, with his lips apart;
One hand thrown over his frank, dead face,
And the other clutching his pulseless heart,
Lies here in the shadows cool and dim,
His musket swept by a trailing bough;
With a careless grace in his quiet limbs,
And a wound on his manly brow,—
A wound, alas!
Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass.
The violets peer from their dusky beds,
With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes;
The lilies quiver their shining heads,
Their pale lips full of sad surprise;
And the lizard glides through the glistening fern,
And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary;
Strange birds fly out with a cry, to bathe
Their wings in the sunset glory,
While the shadows pass
O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass.
God pity the bride who waits at home,
With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes,
Dreaming the sweet old dream of love,
While her lover is walking in paradise!
God strengthen her heart as the days go by,
And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow,
Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind,
May breathe the tale of the hollow;
Alas! alas!
The secret's safe with the woodland grass.
# Pieces People Ask For/No!

NO!
No sun—no moon—
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no "t'other side the way"—
No end to any Row—
No indications where the crescents go—
No top to any steeple—
No recognition of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing 'em—
No knowing 'em—
No travelling at all—no locomotion—
No inkling of the way—no notion—
No go, by land or ocean!
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—
No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company—no nobility—
No warmth—no cheerfulness, no healthful ease—
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
Hood.
# Pieces People Ask For/Over the Left

OVER THE LEFT.
Their deposits were left over night in the bank,—
In a bank without whisper of fault:
The amounts to their credit were placed on the books,
And were left over night in the vault.
To their credit, I say it, the bank was locked tight,
Guarding thus against fire and theft;
A patrol on the walk, and a new 'lectric light,
Throwing beams to the right and the left.
Just here the cashier he left over night, Taking all but the house and the soil;
And the long and the short of the story is this,—
He was too long of stocks—short of oil.
A receiver was called, and he looked o'er the wreck,
And received those who called—thus bereft.
"Have you nothing left over?" they timidly ask:
He answers, "Yes, over the left."
W. C. Dornin.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 26

ODE XXVI.—IN PRAISE OF WINE.
When the nectar'd bowl I drain Gloomy cares forego their reign; Richer than the Lydian king, Hymns of love and joy I sing; Ivy wreaths my temples twine, And, while careless I recline, While bright scenes my vision greet, Tread the world beneath my feet.
Fill the cup, my trusty page, Anacreon, the blithe and sage, As his maxim, ever said, Those slain by wine are noble dead.