OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/Parlagli d'un periglio

METASTASIO.
Parlagli d'un periglio.
WOULDST thou to Love of danger speak?— Veiled are his eyes, to perils blind! Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?— He is a child, of wayward mind!
But with a doubt, a jealous fear, Inspire him once—the task is o'er; His mind is keen, his sight is clear, No more an infant, blind no more.
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/Part of Eclogue 15

CAMOENS.
PART OF ECLOGUE 15.
Se lá no assento da maior alteza.
IF in thy glorious home above Thou still recallest earthly love, If yet retained a thought may be Of him, whose heart hath bled for thee;
Remember still how deeply shrined, Thine image in his joyless mind, Each well-known scene, each former care, Forgotten—thou alone art there!
Remember that thine eye-beams light Hath fled for ever from his sight, And, with that vanished sunshine lost, Is every hope he cherished most.
Think that his life, from thee apart, Is all but weariness of heart, Each stream, whose music once was dear, Now murmurs discord to his ear.
Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays Woke him to joy in other days, Now, in the light of beauty drest, Brings but new sorrows to his breast.
Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, The sun's meridian blaze is dim; And harsh were e'en the bird of eve, But that her song still loves to grieve.
All it hath been, his heart forgets, So altered by its long regrets; Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, And joy's light spirit wakes no more.
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/Que estranho caso de amor!

CAMOENS.
Que estranho caso de amor!
HOW strange a fate in love is mine! How dearly prized the pains I feel! Pangs, that to rend my soul combine,  With avarice I conceal: For did the world the tale divine, My lot would then be deeper woe, And mine is grief, that none must know.
To mortal ears I may not dare Unfold the cause, the pain I prove; 'Twould plunge in ruin and despair  Or me, or her I love. My soul delights alone to bear Her silent, unsuspected woe, And none shall pity, none shall know.
Thus buried in my bosom’s urn, Thus in my inmost heart concealed,
Let me alone the secret mourn, In pangs unsoothed and unrevealed. For whether happiness or woe, Or life or death its power bestow, It is what none on earth must know.
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/O Zefiretto, che movendo vai

FRANCESCO LORENZINI.
O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.
SYLPH of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light Wave gently round the tree I planted here, Sacred to her, whose soul hath winged its flight To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale! To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour; Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail To rend its honours from the sylvan bowers.
Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, Graced with her name, a consecrated tree! So may thy Lord, the monarch of the wind, Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/Polo meu apartamento

CAMOENS.
Polo meu apartamento.
AMIDST the bitter tears that fell In anguish at my last farewell, Oh! who would dream that joy could dwell,  To make that moment bright? Yet be my judge, each heart! and say, Which then could most my bosom sway,  Affliction, or delight?
It was, when Hope, opprest with woes, Seemed her dim eyes in death to close, That Rapture's brightest beam arose  In sorrow's darkest night. Thus, if my soul survive that hour, 'Tis that my fate o'ercame the power  Of anguish with delight.
For oh! her love, so long unknown, She then confest, was all my own, And in that parting hour alone  Revealed it to my sight.
And now what pangs will rend my soul, Should fortune still, with stern control,  Forbid me this delight.
I know not if my bliss were vain, For all the force of parting pain Forbade suspicious doubts to reign,  When exiled from her sight: Yet now what double wo for me, Just at the close of eve, to see  The dayspring of delight.
# Tragedies of Euripides (Way)/Preface 2

This is the Preface to Volume II of The Tragedies of Euripides, in English verse. There was also a Preface to Volume I and Preface to Volume III.
Layout 2
PREFACE.
The plays contained in the present volume have been, on the whole, the least read of Euripides' writings. This is the more to be regretted, inasmuch as they comprise some of the most characteristic work of this poet, and as a knowledge of them is indispensable to a right appreciation of his genius and his influence. The Electra shows his peculiar methods in sharp contrast with those of Aeschylus and Sophocles: the Children of Herakles contains one of the noblest female characters in all literature: in the Daughters of Troy are some of the most brilliant choral odes in all the Greek Drama: the Madness of Herakles has been (unhappily for succeeding translators) already given to English readers by Browning in Aristophanes' Apology, as a representative play of Euripides.
I have not, in my Introduction, aimed at giving anything approaching a complete survey of Euripides' literary method and of the ethical tendency of his works. This would have been impossible within so limited a space, and superfluous, in many respects, for thoughtful readers. I have restricted myself to certain aspects of his work which, as it seems to me, have been sometimes misunderstood or misrepresented. These happen also to be the very features in which his originality is most marked, and in which he diverges most widely from his great rivals. An exhaustive treatment of our author would require a large volume, such as has been already given to French students by Professsr Paul Decharme. ​Euripide et l'Esprit de son Théatre is an admirable book, interesting and thorough, appreciative yet judicial, marked by ripe scholarship, fine literary taste, and original thought. No such work has been produced by any English scholar on any Greek poet; and, till some of our brilliant commentators shall cease for a while to "hunt old trails," and shall essay a task which has long been waiting for a competent hand, Professor Decharme's volume must remain, for English as much as for French readers, the standard book on Euripides.
Some remarks on comparatively minor points, as the dramatic relevance of Euripides' choruses, and his use of the deus ex machinâ, I have postponed to the concluding volume.
I have to express my grateful acknowledgments to Professor Tyrrell for most kind assistance in revising the Daughters of Troy, and for other invaluable suggestions.
# The narrative of a Japanese; what he has seen and the people he has met in the course of the last forty years./Chapter 7

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# The narrative of a Japanese; what he has seen and the people he has met in the course of the last forty years./Chapter 9

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# The narrative of a Japanese; what he has seen and the people he has met in the course of the last forty years./Errata

ON PAGE. LINE.
No. 15.--19: For “his” read “this.”
“ 27.--4: “ “Shutaro”read “Chutaro.”
“ 127.--2: “ (No. 8, on the plan, read No. 6, &c.)
“ 169.--Plate VI, for “June,” read “July 19th.”
“ 216.--18: For Commanded read Command.
“ 230.--8: “ “failed do”read “failed to do.”
“ 233.--1: “ Hanabusa read Takezoye.
“ 245.--28: “ Caps read cups.
# The narrative of a Japanese; what he has seen and the people he has met in the course of the last forty years./Chapter 18

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# The narrative of a Japanese; what he has seen and the people he has met in the course of the last forty years./Chapter 8

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# Tom Tiddler's Ground

Tom Tiddler's Ground is a portmaneau written by five authors who each contributed at least one chapter.
* the text of an unknown edition, containing three chapters written by Dickens
* a 1900 reprint of Dickens' chapters from The Holly-Tree Inn and Other Reprinted Pieces
# Tom Tiddler's Ground (1900)

This is a 1900 reprint from the The Holly-Tree Inn and Other Reprinted Pieces collection of short stories, published as the second volume of A Child's History of England and Miscellaneous Pieces.
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. [1861.] IN THREE CHAPTERS.
* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
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
# Tom Tiddler's Ground (unknown edition)

Table of Contents
    Chapter I – Picking Up Soot And Cinders
    Chapter II – omitted
    Chapter III – omitted
    Chapter IV – omitted
    Chapter V – omitted
    Chapter VI – Picking Up Miss Kimmeens
    Chapter VII – Picking Up The Tinker
Note: Dickens did not write chapters 2 through 5. They were written by Charles Allston Collins, Amelia Ann Blandford Edwards, Wilkie Collins, and John Harwood respectively and are omitted in this edition.
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
# Tom Thumb and his Nurse

A poem published at the end of Nurse Lovechild's collections of nursery rhymes.
* "Tom Thumb & his Nurse" in Tommy Thumb's Pretty Song Book (1744)
* "Tom Thumb and Nurse" in Tommy Thumb's Song Book (1815)
# Tom Thumb (Grimm/Taylor and Jardine)

* "Tom Thumb" in German Popular Stories (1823) (transcription project)
* "Tom Thumb" in Grimm's Goblins (1876) (transcription project)

## See also

* "A Legend of Tom Thumb" (1829), Taylor and Jardine translation, revised by George Godfrey Cunningham (transcription project)
* "Tom Thumb" (1912), Taylor and Jardine translation, revised by Marian Edwardes
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Training

Not this week nor this month dare I lie down In languour under lime trees or smooth smile. Love must not kiss my face pale that is brown.
My lips, parting, shall drink space, mile by mile; Strong meats be all my hunger; my renown Be the clean beauty of speed and pride of style.
Cold winds encountered on the racing Down Shall thrill my heated bareness; but awhile None else may meet me till I wear my crown.
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
# Trails to Two Moons/end matter

Layout 4
Love story, adventure story, nature story—all three qualities combine in this tale of modern man and woman arrayed against the forces of age-old savagery
THE VOICE OF THE PACK
By EDISON MARSHALL
With frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton
12mo. Cloth. 305 pages
" 'The Voice of the Pack' is clean, fine, raw, bold, primitive; and has a wonderfully haunting quality in the repeated wolf-note"—Zane Grey.
"Taken all around 'The Voice of the Pack' is the best of the stories about wild life that has come out in many, many moons."—The Chicago Daily News.
"As a story that mingles Adventure, Nature Study and Romance, 'The Voice of the Pack' is undeniably of the front rank. Mr. Marshall knows the wild places and the ways of the wild creatures that range them—and he knows how to write. The study of Dan Failing's development against a background of the wild life of the mountains, is an exceedingly clever piece of literary work."—The Boston Herald.
"An unusually good tale of the West, evidently written by a man who knows about the habits of the wolf-packs and cougars."—The New York Times.
LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers 34 Beacon Street, Boston
A lively story of ranch-life on the Texas plains, in which men settle their accounts on sight with "six-guns"
By GEORGE GILBERT
With frontispiece by George Gage
12mo. Cloth. 302 Pages
It was a lucky thing for Old Man Peters that Ed Beltrane came riding into Coppered Jack, "just looking around" for a job, at the particular moment he did.
All the cards were stacked against Peters, and he needed help. Barnquist, the biggest cattle prince in the country—who held the sheriff and the law in the palm of his hand—had his eye on the valuable water rights on Peters' homestead. Barnquist's son had his eye on Peters' daughter, and between the two they meant to dispose of the old man and help themselves to his belongings.
But they had not counted on Beltrane and his big stallion Midnight,—a man of men and a stallion unsurpassed. So their plans did not work out exactly as they had expected, with the result that Coppered Jack quickly found itself the centre of a lively drama of Western life, in which bullets flew and men settled their accounts on sight with "six-guns," without waiting for discussion.
LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers 34 Beacon Street, Boston
# Twentieth Century Impressions of Hongkong, Shanghai, and other Treaty Ports of China/S. T. Dunn

​MR. STEPHEN TROYTE DUNN, B.A., F.L.S., J.P., who, since 1903, has been Superintendent of the Botanical and Forestry Department, Hongkong, was born at Bristol in 1868. The son of the Rev. James Dunn, he was educated at Radley and at Merton College, Oxford. He was private secretary to Sir Thomas Acland in 1897, and in the following year became private secretary to Sir William Dyer, the Director of the Royal Botanical Gardens, Kew. For about two years he was assistant for India at Kew. In 1903 he was sent to report upon the agricultural prospects of Wei-hai-wei, and for his services received the thanks of the Secretary of State. Two years later he was sent to investigate the flora of Central Fokien. His publications include "The Flora of West Surrey" (1903), and "The Alien Flora of Britain" (1905), besides numerous papers in the Journal of the Linnean Society, &c. In 1901 Mr. Dunn married Maud, youngest daughter of the Rev. W. H. Thornton, rector of North Bovey, Devon. He is a member of the Hongkong Club. His local address is the Botanic Gardens, Hongkong, and his English address is Gumley Cottage, Kew Green, S.W.
# Twentieth Century Impressions of Hongkong, Shanghai, and other Treaty Ports of China/St. Paul's College

​ ST. PAUL'S COLLEGE.—This institution, situated in the Lower Albert Road, Hongkong, was founded in 1843 by the first Colonial Chaplain of the Colony, with the object of providing men as native teachers and preachers. It is now the Training College of the Church Missionary Society's South China Mission, and comprises two departments—one for boys and the other for men. In that for boys the sons of Christian parents are received at the age of sixteen, and, after three years training, if they are found suitable, they pass into the day or boarding schools of the mission as schoolmasters, under the supervision of English or Chinese clergy. In the student class, under a separate organisation, men not under the age of twenty are trained as native preachers and catechists. This department was commenced in 1899 by the Rev. C. Bennett, at Shiu-Hing, and later in the same year the students were moved to Canton. In 1900 it was found that Hongkong would be a more suitable centre, and the college was ultimately transferred to its present premises, placed at its disposal by the late Bishop Hoare. Recently there has been established in connection with the college a preparatory school at Kowloon, where an old official yamen is held under the Colonial Government on a repairing lease.
The Archbishop of Canterbury is hon. visitor to the college, and the Bishop of Victoria is the warden. The Sub-warden and Principal is the Rev. G. A. Bunbury, M.A., who is loyally assisted in the work by a Chinese graduate. There are four men in the student class, twenty boys in the training college, and about fifty boarders and day-boys in the Kowloon preparatory school. The curriculum embraces the essential subjects, the aim of the college being directed rather towards thoroughness of teaching than towards variety. The Chinese language is, at present, the medium of instruction.
# Trees and Other Poems/Memorial Day

MEMORIAL DAY
"Dulce et decorum est"
THE bugle echoes shrill and sweet, But not of war it sings to-day. The road is rhythmic with the feet Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red On tombs where weary soldiers lie; Flags wave above the honored dead And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel, They kept the faith and fought the fight. Through flying lead and crimson steel They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, Who went through fire and death to earn At last the accolade of God.
​In shining rank on rank arrayed They march, the legions of the Lord; He is their Captain unafraid, The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.
# Trees and Other Poems/Mount Houvenkopf

MOUNT HOUVENKOPF
SERENE he stands, with mist serenely crowned, And draws a cloak of trees about his breast. The thunder roars but cannot break his rest And from his rugged face the tempests bound. He does not heed the angry lightning's wound, The raging blizzard is his harmless guest, And human life is but a passing jest To him who sees Time spin the years around.
But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find High vantage-points and view him from afar. How low he seems to the ascended mind, How brief he seems where all things endless are; This little playmate of the mighty wind This young companion of an ancient star.
# Trees and Other Poems/Delicatessen

DELICATESSEN
WHY is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man's affairs? Why do we titter at his name Who come to buy his curious wares?
Here is a shop of wonderment. From every land has come a prize; Rich spices from the Orient, And fruit that knew Italian skies,
And figs that ripened by the sea In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil, Strange pungent meats from Germany, And currants from a Grecian hill.
He is the lord of goodly things That make the poor man's table gay, Yet of his worth no minstrel sings And on his tomb there is no bay.
​Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised, This trafficker in humble sweets, Because his little shops are raised By thousands in the city streets.
Yet stars in greater numbers shine, And violets in millions grow, And they in many a golden line Are sung, as every child must know.
Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes, His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face, His shop, and all he sells and buys Are desperately commonplace.
Well, it is true he has no sword To dangle at his booted knees. He leans across a slab of board, And draws his knife and slices cheese.
He never heard of chivalry, He longs for no heroic times; He thinks of pickles, olives, tea, And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes.
​His world has narrow walls, it seems; By counters is his soul confined; His wares are all his hopes and dreams, They are the fabric of his mind.
Yet—in a room above the store There is a woman—and a child Pattered just now across the floor; The shopman looked at him and smiled.
For, once he thrilled with high romance And tuned to love his eager voice. Like any cavalier of France He wooed the maiden of his choice.
And now deep in his weary heart Are sacred flames that whitely burn. He has of Heaven's grace a part Who loves, who is beloved in turn.
And when the long day's work is done, (How slow the leaden minutes ran!) Home, with his wife and little son, He is no huckster, but a man!
​And there are those who grasp his hand, Who drink with him and wish him well. O in no drear and lonely land Shall he who honors friendship dwell.
And in his little shop, who knows What bitter games of war are played? Why, daily on each corner grows A foe to rob him of his trade.
He fights, and for his fireside's sake; He fights for clothing and for bread: The lances of his foemen make A steely halo round his head.
He decks his window artfully, He haggles over paltry sums. In this strange field his war must be And by such blows his triumph comes.
What if no trumpet sounds to call His armed legions to his side? What if, to no ancestral hall He comes in all a victor's pride?
​The scene shall never fit the deed. Grotesquely wonders come to pass. The fool shall mount an Arab steed And Jesus ride upon an ass.
This man has home and child and wife And battle set for every day. This man has God and love and life; These stand, all else shall pass away.
O Carpenter of Nazareth, Whose mother was a village maid, Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath In scorn on any humble trade?
Have pity on our foolishness And give us eyes, that we may see Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress The splendor of humanity!
# Trees and Other Poems/Pennies

PENNIES
A FEW long-hoarded pennies in his hand Behold him stand; A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad. The joy that once he had, The first delight of ownership is fled. He bows his little head. Ah, cruel Time, to kill That splendid thrill!
Then in his tear-dimmed eyes New lights arise. He drops his treasured pennies on the ground, They roll and bound And scattered, rest. Now with what zest He runs to find his errant wealth again!
So unto men Doth God, depriving that He may bestow. Fame, health and money go, But that they may, new found, be newly sweet. ​Yea, at His feet Sit, waiting us, to their concealment bid, All they, our lovers, whom His Love hath hid.
Lo, comfort blooms on pain, and peace on strife, And gain on loss. What is the key to Everlasting Life? A blood-stained Cross.
# Trees and Other Poems/Old Poets

OLD POETS
(For Robert Cortez Holliday)
IF I should live in a forest And sleep underneath a tree, No grove of impudent saplings Would make a home for me.
I'd go where the old oaks gather, Serene and good and strong, And they would not sigh and tremble And vex me with a song.
The pleasantest sort of poet Is the poet who's old and wise, With an old white beard and wrinkles About his kind old eyes.
For these young flippertigibbets A-rhyming their hours away They won't be still like honest men And listen to what you say.
​The young poet screams forever About his sex and his soul; But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, And polishes its bowl.
There should be a club for poets Who have come to seventy year. They should sit in a great hall drinking Red wine and golden beer.
They would shuffle in of an evening, Each one to his cushioned seat, And there would be mellow talking And silence rich and sweet.
There is no peace to be taken With poets who are young, For they worry about the wars to be fought And the songs that must be sung.
But the old man knows that he's in his chair And that God's on His throne in the sky. So he sits by the fire in comfort And he lets the world spin by.
# Trees and Other Poems/Martin

MARTIN
WHEN I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.
Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.
How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. ​How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth.
Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child.
Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!