OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems upon Several Occasions/13

On my Lady Hyde, having the Small-Pox.
SCARCE cou'd the general Joy for Mohun appear, But new attempts show other Dangers near: Beauty's attack'd in her imperial Fort, Where all her Loves and Graces kept their Court, In her chief Residence besieg'd at last, Laments to see her fairest Fields laid waste.
On things immortal all Attempts are vain, Tyrant Disease, 'tis loss of Time and Pain; Glut thy wild Rage, and load thee with rich Prize, Torn from her Cheeks, her fragrant Lips and Eyes, As much Vermillion, as much Lustre take, As might a Hellen or a Venus make; Like Thetis, she shall frustrate thy vain Rape, And in variety of Charms escape. The twinkling Stars drop numberless each Night, Yet shines the radiant Firmament as bright; So from the Ocean should we Rivers drain, Still wou'd enough to drown the World remain.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The King's Visit

THE KING'S VISIT.
What are ye shoutin' Lizzie? I'm comin' so quick as I can, An' what call have you to be talkin' with every passin' young man! The King! What King is there on ye—chut—capers—an' up these hills! Aw, well! Is it raelly the King, though? An' me in my dishabills!
Give us a heis up the hedge, gel—we'll be seein' handy from theer, To think of the King of Englan' comin' all the way up here! I'd like to have put a clean brat on me, but I hadn't no time at all, For I come so quick as I could the moment I heerd you call.
I min' they was used to be sayin' this falla was middlin' wile, An' lashins of gool spent at him since he was a lump of a chile. But th' oul' Queen nussed him clavver, and give him scope for to run, The knowing that he'd come to when he would have had his fun.
Aw the Lady she was! Ma word! Th' oul' Queedn that is gone, That was sittin' quite's an earwig, doin' judgment from her throne, An' the high wans goin' a scutchin' if they didn' be mindin' themselves, And an eye for the sarvents as well, that there wasn' no duss on the shelves.
An' rowlin' her bonnad ribbons to be all so nate's a pin, An' larnin' the childher their duty, bill Spashul this wan that's in. Its like she'd be radin' the laws to 'm while sittin' beside his bed, The way she'd be havin' him studdy by the time he'd come to be head.
An' sarvin' his time for King, eddicated an' all for to know, Aw, a rale grammatical falla—Prince of Wales they were callin' him to, An' was'n it our "Cap'n" Hunter that was with him aboord the ship, To see that them ignorant haythens was not givin' none of their lip.
There's them comin' though—there—roun' by Cronk Urleigh, see— Gerrourra th' road, Lizzie veen! Is it devoured you're wantin' to be Under the feet of the horses? Si an' quite, now, for these wans to tell The pretty the Manx gels is—(The King passes)—Aw! Well!
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Skyes

THE SKYES.
"Hallo Dusty! Hallo Grizel! Fetch the sheep" the master cries, "Fetch them from the Island pasture Quick, before the daylight dies!"
Hurling headlong down the meadow, Almost swimming through the grass, Dusty-foot and gray Grizelda Like a hurricane they pass.
Neck and neck the water reaching, In they plunge with shrieks of joy; Every task a new-found pastime, All the world their daily toy.
See them cleave the sunset ripples Heading each a widening way, Landing, shake their eager bodies In a mist of diamond spray.
Silent now with great endeavour, Working round their fleecy charge, All the silly sheep collecting To the gently shelving marge.
Hitherward with careful guiding Comes the convoy safe to land— Dusty-foot and gray Grizelda Flopping, panting on the strand.
"Collies? Aye, they're surely clever, Faithful too, and wondrous wise; But for all that," says the master, "Give me still my little Skyes."
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Little Everin'

THE LITTLE EVERIN'.
The sun is goin' wes' with me The little everin's nigh, An' clearer shines the light upon Those mansions in the sky; An' surely through that level light The very flowers shine more bright, An' all things soften to the sight, In the little everin'.
The years have slipped away from me Like snow before the rain; I would not ask to have them back Or live them through again; But thankful at the close of day I linger on the homeward way An' watch the childher at their play In the little everin'.
There's some that's gone away from me In lands afar to roam; An' some that's gone to wait for me In that new Heavenly Home. I see them in the sunset gleam They speak with me across the Stream An' all my life becomes a dream In the little everin'.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Mother's Carol

THE MOTHER'S CAROL.
Sing soft and low Ye winds that blow And whisper round this quiet shed, Wake not His sleep For shadows deep Are drawing round His sacred Head.
Sing sweet and high Ye birds that fly, But gently trill your tender theme; Lest all too soon Your joyous tune Should wake Him from some Heavenly dream.
Sing loud and strong Ye Angel throng To Kings and shepherds bear the sign, That peace on earth Has come to birth And lies amid the humble kine.
O let Him rest In this poor nest, Where still His Mother softly sings; For well we know What tears will flow Ere sorrows crown Him King of Kings.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Mountain Maid

THE MOUNTAIN MAID.
I heard the lark at break of day, I heard the echoes ring; A lonely maid, and blithe as they— What could I do but sing?
But neither lark nor echoes stopped To listen to my song, And sometimes into silence dropped— What could I do but long?
And then one stepping lightly past Called me his singing dove; With him to please, the days sped fast— What could I do but love?
And then! He wearied of my song And lightly passed me by. So, left alone to love and long— What could I do but die?
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Ride

THE RIDE.
It happened once upon a time I met the Fairies straying, From under Bearey's Cap they came To go once more a-Maying.
They came about me in the mist, I heard their songs and laughter, And some went dancing on before And some came singing after.
My nag was shod with fairy shoes And bred among the mountains, And many a moonlight prank she played Along the streams and fountains.
We scampered down by Greeba Mills And on to old St. Trinian's, And hastened lest the Big Buggane Should join us on his pinions.
Though steep as Ugh ta breesh ma chree The road to green Ballinghan, My nag stepped out with might and main— Her like is not in Englan'.
For up she went and on she went Above the trees o'erarching, And on the Braid we turned to see The mountains all come marching.
From Greeba Towers to Laxey Glen Their noble heads up-lifting, And far behind them in the blue Their fleecy helmets drifting.
St. Mark's and Sluggadhoo we passed And came to Ballamoddha, And here my Fairy Company Fell into some disorder.
For men, they said, and motor-cars Have spoiled the roads for Fairies, We'll meet you further on, they said, Among the lonely Gareys.
I scarce had gone a mile before My steed began to blether, Her fairy shoes, she said, were best For travelling through the heather.
So round she went, and West she went, And through the pleasant Gareys, And here I met my friends again, My company of Fairies.
And over Colby Bridge we raced And through the Croit-y-Caley, And all the folk from Cronk-Howe-Moar Came out to meet us gaily.
Then up Cregneash we went like storm For day began to hurry, And at the circle met the sun And stayed at Lag-ny-Wurry.
And on the Hill we danced till eve And round about the hollow, Till all the bones got up and joined And set themselves to follow.
"No, no," we said, "not so," we said, "Our ways are not together; We'll take the road and go," we said "Stay you and watch the weather."
My nag was fed by fairy hands, She drank from Chibbyr-Garvel And in a trice she leapt aloft And left the bones to marvel.
The mist came floating round again With songs and laughter ringing— And there we were on Bearey slopes Where morning larks were singing.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Inheritance

THE INHERITANCE.
The lands that should have come to him Were gone with stock and store. They dug a little grave for him, What was he wantin' more.
The trees that should have grown for him Had vanished long before. They carved a little chiss for him What was he wantin' more.
The gown his mother worked for him, Put ready in the drawer, Was doin' a little shroud for him, What was he wantin' more.
The Sign of his Inheritance Upon his brow he bore, And that was all there was for him What was he wantin' more.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Loaghtan Beg

THE LOAGHTAN BEG
"Oh! Is it a sheep or a witch," quoth he; "Is it only a loaghtan beg? Or am I awake or asleep," quoth he, "Or am I the hairy Phynodderee That started to catch the meg"
"I chased her over Barooil," quoth he, "And along the side of Clagh Owre; And three times round Snaefell, like fire went she, With a screech at the hairy Phynodderee That turned the night's milk sour."
"I have raced the mountain lamhs," quoth he, "And seen them run like deer; But I never seen wan like yondher," quoth he, "That could run like the hairy Phynodderee, She'll not be no right wan I fear."
"I've seen many a sheep in my day," quoth he, "From the Calf to the Point of Ayre; But never a wan like that," quoth he, "Which nearly done the Phynodderee"— "Man veg! you have brought me a hare!"
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Passing of the Fairies

THE PASSING OF THE FAYRIES
"AN' was there a dhrop between us?"
That's what they're sayin' still.
An' never a dhrop was there at all,
But a crowd of wans in the road for all,
An' sthrivin' up the hill.
The dawn was barely sthreakin'
An' a sup o' rain doin' in ;
But liftin' as the day grew on,
Like dhryin' up when the night was gone,
With a scutch o' risin' win'.
An' here was these wans comin',
An' creepenin' up the side,
With a surt of murmerin', wailin' soun'
That seemed to be risin' all aroun',
Like the soun' of the weary tide
There was oul', an' young, an' childher,
All bended under loads ;
With beds an' crocks, an' spuds, an' grips,
An' spinnin' wheels, an' taller dips,
All filin' up the roads.
From Earey Beg an' Earey Moar,
Over the broken bridge ;
Over the pairk at Earey Glass,
By Balla'himmin and up Rhenass,
An' all along the ridge.
An' toilin' up Bearey Mountain,
With that wailin', sighin' soun'
As if their hearts were goin’ a-breakin',
The for their last leave they were takin',
Wherever they were boun.'
An' Bearey was roulin' his cloak,
An' reachin' it down his side,
An' coaxin' them up an' lappin' them roun',
Till the wailin' was dyin' gradjual down,
Like the calm of the ebbing tide.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Phynodderee

THE PHYNODDEREE
Ho! Ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. I once was lord of a fairy clan, But I loved a lass in the Isle of Man; Her eyes were like the shallows of the mountain stream, Her hair was like the cornfield's golden gleam Her voice was like the ringdove's, soft and slow, Her smile was like the sunbeam's—come and go; But alas and alack-a-day! The jealous fairy maids stole my love away. And now I'm all alone in the Tramman Tree. Swinging by myself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day!
Ho! ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. I was once a prince in the fairy land, But I failed to come at the kings command; His wrath was like the thunder in the mountain gills, His eyes were like the lightning on the lone dark hills; His voice was like the raging of the boiling tide, As he hurled me down to the earth to bide, And alas and alack-a-day! The whole night long I must work away Till daylight sends me up to the Tramman Tree, Swinging by myself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day
Ho! ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Tram man Tree. I fetched the stone to Tholt-y-Will; I saved the sheep on the snow-clad hill; I saw the storm was coming while the farmer snored; I drove the sheep before me while the Howlaa roared, I folded them in safety beneath the creg, And hunted over Snaefell for the loaghtan beg; But alas and alack-a-day. A witch she was, and she would not stay Till daylight sent me up to the Tramman Tree, To swing by myself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day!
Ho! ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. I threshed the corn in the lonely night, And swept the house in the still moonlight. I watched the sleeping haggart while the dog took rest, And drove away the witches that dared molest; I milked the cows at dawning and eased their heads, And soothed the patient horses in their tired beds, But alas and alack-a-day! The farmer thought I worked because I wanted pay! And left a coat and breeches for the poor Phynodderee; So his lassie cannot see him in the Tramman Tree Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 46

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# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/When early morn walks forth

SONG.
WHEN early morn walks forth in sober gray, Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away, When evening sits beneath her dusky bower And gently sighs away the silent hour, The village bell alarms, away I go, And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.
To that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade, I turn my eyes; and pensive as I go Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe.
Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees, Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze, I walk the village round; if at her side A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride, I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe, That made my love so high, and me so low.
O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear, And throw all pity on the burning air; I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot, And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot.
# Poetical works of Mathilde Blind

THE POETICAL WORKS OF
MATHILDE BLIND
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
MATHILDE BLIND
EDITED BY
ARTHUR SYMONS
WITH A MEMOIR BY
RICHARD GARNETT, C.B., LL D.
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1900
[All rights reserved.]
CONTENTS
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/To the Evening Star

TO THE EVENING STAR.
THOU fair-hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love—thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/To the Muses

TO THE MUSES.
WHETHER on Ida's shady brow  Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now  From ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair  Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air,  Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,  Beneath the bosom of the sea Wandering in many a coral grove,  Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient love  That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move,  The sound is forced, the notes are few!
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 27

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# Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft/Volume 4/Letter 68

LETTER LXVIII.
Sunday, October 4.
I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ———; but, as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received it.
​You say, I must decide for myself.—I had decided, that it was most for the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.
From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you have formed some new attachment.—If it be so, let me earnestly request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will ​then decide, since you boggle about a mere form.
I am labouring to write with calmness—but the extreme anguish I feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the playfulness of my child distresses me.—On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my situation.—Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my ​child.—Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.
I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.
Do not keep me in suspense.—I expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is cast!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling heart.—That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my life—but life will have an end!
​Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you will find me at ———. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
Yours affectionately
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# Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft/Volume 4/Letter 71

LETTER LXXI.
Monday Morning.
I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with you, that
​But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.
My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but she shall not despise me for meanness.—You are now perfectly free.—God bless you.
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# Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft/Volume 4/Letter 70

LETTER LXX.
Sunday Morning.
I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.
You say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we have been plunged." ​You are extricated long since.—But I forbear to comment.—If I am condemned to live longer, it is a living death.
It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if indeed you have any friendship for me.—But since your new attachment is the only thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints shall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call magnanimity—It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree.
Your continually asserting, that you ​will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart—That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderness for your own reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. ​When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.
I write with difficulty—probably I shall never write to you again.—Adieu!
God bless you!
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# Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft/Volume 4/Letter 72

LETTER LXXIII
Saturday Night.
I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me.—You ask "If I am well or tranquil?"—They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.—I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.
I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let ​me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.—
Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see, written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other medium—that the affair is finished.—It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.
​Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.
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# Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft/Volume 4/Letter 73

LETTER LXXIV.
Thursday Afternoon.
Mr. ——— having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were left at the house, I have to request you to let ——— bring them ⟨onto⟩ ———.
I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from coming here to transact your business.—And, whatever I may think, and feel—- ​you need not fear that I shall publicly complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my child.—I only mean by this to say, that you having nothing to fear from my desperation.
Farewel.
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