OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Optimism/Arrow and bow

It is easy to stand in the pulpit, or in the closet to kneel,  And say: ‘God do this; God do that! - Make the world better; relieve the sorrows of man; for the sake of Thy Son, Oh, forgive all sin!’ Then, having planned out God’s work, to feel  Our duty is done. It is easy to be religious this way - Easy to pray.
It is harder to stand on the highway, or walk in the crowded mart;  And say: ‘I am He. I am He. ‘Mine the world-burden; mine the sorrows of men; mine the Christ-work ‘To forgive my brother’s sin,’ and then to live the Christ-part and never to shirk.  It is hard for you and me To be religious this way, Day after day.
But God is no longer in heaven; we drove Him out with our prayers, Drove Him out with our sermons and creeds, and our endless plaints and despairs. He came down over the borders, and Christ, too, came along; They are looking the whole world over to see just what is wrong. God has grown weary of hearing His praises sung on earth; And Jesus is weary of hearing the story about His birth; And the way to win Their favour, that is surer than any other, Is to join in a song of Brotherhood and praises of one another.
No; God is no longer in heaven; He has come down on earth to see That nothing is wrong with the world He made; the wrong is in you and me. He meant the earth for a garden-spot, where mill and factory stand; Childhood, he meant for growing-time - but look at the toiling band! Woman was meant for mother and mate - now look at the slaves of lust. And the good folks shake their heads and say, ‘We must pray to God and trust.’ God has a billion books of our prayers unopened upon his shelves, For the things we are begging Him to do, He wants us to do ourselves.
Jehovah, Jesus, and each soul in space  Are one and undividable. Until We see God shining in each neighbour’s face And find Him in ourselves and hail Him there, What use is prayer?  Let us be still. How can we love the whole and not each part? How worship God, and harbour in the heart Hate of God’s members - for all men are that. Too long our souls have sat, Like poor blind beggars at the door of God.  He never made a beggar - we are kings!
Let us rise up, for it is time we trod  The mountain-tops; time that we did the things We have so long asked God to do. He waits for you To look deep in your brother’s eyes and see  The God within; To hear you say ‘Lo, thou art He; Lo, thou art He.’ This is the only way to end all sin, The difficult, one way.
A prayer without a deed is an arrow without a bow-string; A deed without a prayer is a bow-string without an arrow. The heart of a man should be like a quiver full of arrows, And the hand of a man should be like a strong bow strung for action. The heart of a man should keep his arrows ever ascending, And the hand and the mind of a man should keep at a work unending.
# Poems of Optimism/A Successful Man

There was a man who killed a loving maid In some mad mood of passion; and he paid The price, upon a scaffold. Now his name Stands only as a synonym for shame. There was another man, who took to wife A loving woman. She was full of life, Of hope, and aspirations; and her pride Clothed her like some rich mantle.
 First, the wide Glad stream of life that through her veins had sway He dammed by rocks, cast in it, day by day. Her flag of hope, flung gaily to the world, He placed half mast, and then hauled down, and furled. The aspirations, breathing in each word, By subtle ridicule, were made absurd:
The delicate fine mantle of her pride, With rude unfeeling hands, was wrenched aside: And by mean avarice, or vulgar show, Her quivering woman’s heart was made to know That she was but a chattel, bought to fill Whatever niche might please the buyer’s will.
So she was murdered, while the slow years went. And her assassin, honoured, opulent, Lived with no punishment, or social ban! ‘A good provider, a successful man.’
# Poems of Optimism/A Vagabond Mind

Since early this morning the world has seemed surging  With unworded rhythm, and rhyme without thought. It may be the Muses take this way of urging  The patience and pains by which poems are wrought. It may be some singer who passed into glory,  With songs all unfinished, is lingering near And trying to tell me the rest of the story,  Which I am too dull of perception to hear.
I hear not, I see not; but feel the sweet swinging  And swaying of metre, in sunlight and shade, The still arch of Space with such music is ringing  As never an audible orchestra made. The moments glide by me, and each one is dancing;  Aquiver with life is each leaf on the tree, And out on the ocean is movement entrancing,  As billow with billow goes racing with glee.
With never a thought that is worthy the saying,  And never a theme to be put into song, Since early this morning my mind has been straying,  A vagabond thing, with a vagabond throng, With gay, idle moments, and waves of the ocean,  With winds and with sunbeams, and tree-tops and birds, It has lilted along in the joy of mere motion,  To songs without music and verse without words.
# Poems of Optimism/A Vision

The Answer
My soul beheld a vision of the Master:  Methought He stood with grieved and questioning eyes, Where Freedom drove its chariot to disaster  And toilers heard, unheeding, toilers’ cries. Where man withheld God’s bounties from his neighbour,  And fertile fields were sterilised by greed; Where Labour’s hand was lifted against labour,  And suffering serfs to despots turned when freed.
Majestic rose tall steeple after steeple;  Imperious bells called worshippers to prayer; But as they passed, the faces of the people  Were marred by envy, anger and despair. ‘Christ the Redeemer of the world has risen,  Peace and good will,’ so rang the major strain; But forth from sweat-shops, tenement and prison  Wailed minor protests, redolent with pain.
Methought about the Master, all unseeing,  Fought desperate hosts of striking clan with clan, Their primal purpose, meant for labour’s freeing,  Sunk in vindictive hate of man for man. Pretentious Wealth, in unearned robes of beauty,  Flung Want a pittance from her bulging purse, While ill-paid Toil went on dull rounds of duty,  Hell in her heart, and on her lips a curse.
Then spoke the Christ (so wondrous was my vision)  (Deep, deep, His voice, with sorrow’s cadence fraught): ‘This world to-day would be a realm elysian  Had my disciples lived the love I taught. Un-Christlike is the Christian creed men fashion  Who kneel to worship, and who rise to slay. Profane pretenders of my holy Passion,  Ye nail Me newly to the cross each day.’
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/On reading Coleridge's Epitaph written by Himself

II.
ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring, High through seraphic mysteries unconfined, And oft, a diver through the deep of mind, Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring; And oft such strains of breezy music pouring, As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring Awhile that freshness left in Paradise; Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal? What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong, and high, And sceptred intellect! thy goal confest Was the Redeemer's Cross—thy last bequest One lesson breathing thence profound humility!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/On a Scene in the Dargle

VI.
ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.
Twas a bright moment of my life when first, O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing! That temple-chamber of thy glory burst On my glad sight!—thy pebbly couch lay glowing With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest, High bloom'd the heath-flowers, and the wild wood's crest Was touched with gold.—Flow ever thus, bestowing Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love, —True love, in secret nurs'd, with sorrow fraught— Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to Thee, Then full of kindness let thy music be, Singing repose to every troubled thought!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Memorial of a Conversation

XXI.
MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.
Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost, A brightness from our nature passed away! Wanderers we seem, that from an alien coast, Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay, And but by some lone flower, that midst decay Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, Revealing dimly, with grey moss o'ergrown, The faint-worn impress of its glory's day, Can trace their once free heritage; though dreams Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams Flash o'er their Souls.—But one, oh! One alone, For us the ruined fabric may rebuild, And bid the wilderness again be filled, With Eden—flowers—One, mighty to atone!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/No More

NO MORE.
No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone,  A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell, A dying echo of rich music gone,  Breathe through those words—those murmurs of farewell— No more!
To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound,  To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, To feel the spirit of her love around,  And in the blessing of her eye rejoice— No more!
A dirge-like sound! to greet the early friend  Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,  Or join the household laughter by the blaze— No more!
Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove,  With all our native music in the air; To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,  And turn, and read our own heart's answer there,— No more!
Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's—the woe  Their passion breathes—the desolately deep! That sound in Heaven—oh! image then the flow  Of gladness in its tones—to part, to weep— No more!
To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane,  To see the beautiful from life depart, To wear impatiently a secret chain,  To waste the untold riches of the heart— No more!
Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn  For human love*—and never quench that thirst, To pour the soul out, winning no return,  O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed— No more!
On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,  To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead, To send our troubled spirits through the unseen,  Intensely questioning for treasures fled— No more!
Words of triumphant music—bear me on  The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air; Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done,  To learn in joy;—to struggle, to despair— No more!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/On Records of Immature Genius

IV.
ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.
Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those, Who, richly dowered for life, are called to die, Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won repose In truth's divinest ether, still and high! Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh! Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain, First notes of some yet struggling harmony, By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain Of many inspirations met, and held From its true sphere:—Oh! soon it might have swelled Majestically forth!—Nor doubt, that He Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/On reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood

XIII.
ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.
O gentle story of the Indian Isle! I loved thee in my lonely childhood well On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms And strange bright birds, my fancy joyed to dwell, And watch the southern cross thro' midnight calms, And track the spicy woods.—Yet more I blessed Thy vision of sweet love; kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves—a heavenly guest, With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o'er the world’s power, To reach and blight that holiest Eden-flower.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/On the Datura Arborea

V.
ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.
Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell, Are not thy train:—those flowers of vase-like swell, Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high, And in their monumental purity Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe Which broods o'er Sculpture's works—A meet ally For those heroic forms, the simply grand, Art thou: and worthy, carv'd by plastic hand, Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine In spotless marble; honouring one, whose strain Soar'd upon wings of thought that knew no stain Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/On watching the Flight of a Sky-Lark

III.
ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKY-LARK.
Upward and upward still!—in pearly light The clouds are steeped; the vernal spirit sighs With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies Woo thee, O Birds! to thy celestial height; Bird piercing Heaven with music! thy free flight Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all For those wherein the rapture and the might Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn, For their high place: O Heirs of Genius! learn From the sky's bird your way!—No joy may fill Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won To bless your songs, ye Children of the Sun! Save by the unswerving flight—upward and upward still!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/On the Hebe of Canova

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.
From the Italian of Pindemonte.
Whither, celestial maid, so fast away? What lures thee from the banquet of the skies? How canst thou leave thy native realms of day, For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs? —O thou, Canova! soaring high above Italian art,—with Grecian magic vying! We knew thy marble glowed with life and love, But who had seen thee image footsteps flying? —Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying In many a line of undulating grace; While nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending, Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.
# Pope v. Daggett/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
United States Supreme Court
384 U.S. 33
Pope v. Daggett
Upon consideration of the representations of the Solicitor General that the relief petitioner seeks is presently available due to changes in the applicable prison regulations and upon an examination of all of the papers submitted, the motion for leave to proceed in forma pauperis and the petition for a writ of certiorari are granted. The judgment is vacated and the case is remanded to the United States District Court for the District of Kansas with instructions to dismiss as moot.

## 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
# Pope v. United States

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Pope v. United States."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Pope v. United States (323 U.S. 1)
* Pope v. United States (392 U.S. 651)
# Pope v. Daggett

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
384 U.S. 33
Pope v. Daggett
See 384 U.S. 1027, 86 S.Ct. 1951.
Lawrence C. Pope, pro se.
Solicitor General Marshall, Assistant Attorney General Doar and David L. Norman, for respondents.
On Petition for Writ of Certiorari to the United States Court of Appeals for the Tenth Circuit.
PER CURIAM.

## 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
# Pope v. United States (323 U.S. 1)

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
323 U.S. 1
Pope v. United States
Argued: Oct. 16, 1944. --- Decided: Nov 6, 1944
Mr. George R. Shields, of Washington, D.C., for petitioner.
[Argument of Counsel from page 2 intentionally omitted]
Mr. Francis M. Shea, Asst. Atty. Gen., for respondent.
Mr. Chief Justice STONE delivered the opinion of the Court.

## 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
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 36

Scans
Layout 4
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XCVI

September 27, 1832.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XCI

November 24, 183
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XCVII

September 28, 1832.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XLII

September 26, 1832.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm LXXVII

October 12, 1832.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Liberty

LIBERTY.
AN ODE.
Where the bold rock majestic towers on high, Projecting to the sky; Where the impetuous torrent's rapid course Dashes with headlong force; Where scenes less wild less awful meet the eye,  And cultur'd vales and cottages appear; Where softer tints the mellow landscape dye,  More simply beautiful, more fondly dear;  There sportive Liberty delights to rove, To rove unseen,  In the dell, or in the grove, 'Midst woodlands green.
And when placid eve advancing,  Faintly shadows all the ground; Liberty with Hebe dancing,  Wanders through the meads around.
Fair wreaths of brightest flowers she loves to twine,  Moss-rose, and blue-bell wild; The pink, the hyacinth with these combine,  And azure violet, nature's sweetest child!
When the moon beam silvery streaming,  Pierces through the myrtle shade; Then her eye with pleasure beaming,  She trips along the sylvan glade.
She loves to sing in accents soft, When the wood-lark soars aloft; She loves to wake the sprightly horn,
In the dell, or in the grove, Liberty delights to rove; By the ruin'd moss-grown tower, By the wood-land, or the bower; On the summit thence to view, The landscape clad in varied hue. By the hedge-row on the lawn, Sporting with the playful fawn; Where the winding river flows, And the pensile osier grows, In the cool impervious grove, Liberty delights to rove.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Morning

MORNING.
Now rosy morning clad in light, Dispels the darkling clouds of night, The sun in gold and purple drest, Illumines all adown the east; The sky-lark flies on soaring wings, And as he mounts to heav'n, thus sings; "Arise, ye slothful mortals, rise! See me ascending to the skies: Ye never taste the joys of dawn, Ye never roam the dewy lawn, Ye see not Phœbus rising now, Tinging with gold the mountain's brow; Ye ne'er remark the smiling land, Nor see the early flowers expand. Then rise ye slothful mortals, rise, See, I am mounting to the skies."
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Melancholy

MELANCHOLY.
When autumn shadows tint the waving trees, When fading foliage flies upon the breeze; When evening mellows all the glowing scene,  And the mild dew descends in drops of balm; When the sweet landscape placid and serene,  Inspires the bosom with a pensive calm; Ah! then I love to linger in the vale, And hear the bird of eve's romantic tale; I love the rocky sea-beach to explore, Where the clear wave flows murmuring to the shore; To hear the shepherd's plaintive music sound, While Echo answers from the woods around; To watch the twilight spread a gentle veil Of melting shadows o'er the grassy dale, To view the smile of evening on the sea; Ah! these are pleasures ever dear to me. To wander with the melancholy muse, Where waving trees their pensive shade diffuse. Then by some secret charm the soften'd mind Soars high in contemplation unconfin'd, To melancholy and the muse resign'd.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/On Health

ON HEALTH.
Oh! tell me, Cambrians, tell me true, Does fair Hygeïa 'bide with you? "Yes, she with us for ever dwells, In groves, in shady woods, or dells. Oh! stranger, turn and stay—for here She deigns to give her influence dear. In yonder vale her temple stands; Her brows entwin'd with roseate bands: In Cambria's land she ever dwells, In groves, in shady woods, or dells.”
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Ode to the Evening Star

ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.
Lovely Hesperus arise,  Why so tardy, glittering star? See already in the skies,  Cynthia guides her beaming car. The night is placid, sweet, and clear, Hesperus, appear, appear.
Deign this festive eve to bless,  Thou, than glowing gems more bright! Beaming in thy fairest dress,  Shed thy lustre on the night. Auspicious Hesperus, appear, In thy radiance, soft and clear.
From the busy world retiring,  Now the pensive eve we hail; Let thy ray so calm inspiring,  Cheer us in this happy vale: Hesperus, arise, arise, Shine amid the azure skies.
Light as gossamer that's borne  Floating on the breath of morn; Light as fays that haunt the shade,  We lead the dance along the glade: Hesper with thy light serene, Gild the merry merry scene.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Lines, For my Mother's Birth-Day

LINES, FOR MY MOTHER'S BIRTH-DAY.
This day let pleasure smile on every face, And beam in every eye with sprightly grace; Let artless joy the flowing lay inspire, And sweet affection consecrate the lyre.
And see! all nature smiles around; And hark! the "wood notes wild" resound; In sunny robe the May appears,
The presage fair of golden years.
Let Hope with soft propitious ray,  Our bosoms fondly cheer; Ne'er may the sunshine of this day  Be clouded with a tear.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Lines, Inscribed to Mrs. Wynne

LINES, INSCRIBED TO MRS. WYNNE,
ON THE BIRTH OF HER SON AND HEIR.
Oh! let me wake the carol gay,  And strike the lyre of pleasure; For mirth inspires the genuine lay.  And animates the measure.
Blest was the hour, sweet infant boy,  That gave thee to maternal arms; Propitious hope and smiling joy,  With rapture view'd thy blooming charms.
For thee, sweet babe, the artless muse,  A simple wreath composes; And see, a genial tear bedews  Her garland form'd of roses.
And oh! in all thy future days,  May virtue o'er thy breast preside; Illume thy mind with sacred rays,  And ever be thy heavenly guide.
For thee I breathe an artless prayer,  To Heaven that prayer addressing. May all thy life be free from care,  Enrich'd with every blessing.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Lines to Major Cox on Receiving from Him an Elegant Box of Colours

LINES TO MAJOR COX,
ON RECEIVING FROM HIM AN ELEGANT BOX OF COLOURS.
Tho' youthful ardour fires my glowing heart, To copy Nature with enchanting Art; Ah! still I fondly strive with effort vain, The pencil's flowing graces to attain. But when Instruction guides my roving feet, To reach the Muse of Painting's lofty seat; Where Genius learns in magic colours warm, To join Expression's fire, and Beauty's form; If then 'tis mine with energy to trace The varied charms of Nature's blooming face; To dress the mimic flowers in rainbow dyes, Bright as the blushes of the orient skies;
In glowing hues to bid the landscape live, Or to the figure animation give; Oh! then, my pencil's tribute justly due, Sweet Gratitude shall consecrate to you.