OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/At Parting

Previously printed in The Athenæum, August 7th, 1875, p. 181.
AT PARTING.
For a day and a night Love sang to us, played with us, Folded us round from the dark and the light; And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us, Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight For a day and a night.
From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us, Covered us close from the eyes that would smite, From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us Spirit and flesh growing one with delight For a day and a night.
But his wings will not rest and his feet will not stay for us: Morning is here in the joy of its might; With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us; Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us; Love can but last in us here at his height For a day and a night.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Ballad against the Enemies of France

Previously printed in The Athenæum, February 17th, 1877, p. 224.
BALLAD AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE.
May he fall in with beasts that scatter fire, Like Jason, when he sought the fleece of gold, Or change from man to beast three years entire, As King Nebuchadnezzar did of old; Or else have times as shameful and as bad As Trojan folk for ravished Helen had; Or gulfed with Proserpine and Tantalus Let hell's deep fen devour him dolorous, With worse to bear than Job's worst sufferance, Bound in his prison‑maze with Dædalus, Who could wish evil to the state of France!
May he four months, like bitterns in the mire, Howl with head downmost in the lake‑springs cold,
Or to bear harness like strong bulls for hire To the Great Turk for money down be sold; Or thirty years like Magdalen live sad, With neither wool nor web of linen clad; Drown like Narciss', or swing down pendulous Like Absalom with locks luxurious, Or liker Judas fallen to reprobance; Or find such death as Simon sorcerous, Who could wish evil to the state of France!
May the old times come of fierce Octavian's ire, And in his belly molten coin be told; May he like Victor in the mill expire, Crushed between moving millstones on him rolled, Or in deep sea drenched breathless, more adrad Than in the whale's bulk Jonas, when God bade: From Phœbus' light, from Juno's treasure‑house Driven, and from joys of Venus amorous, And cursed of God most high to the utterance, As was the Syrian king Antiochus, Who could wish evil to the state of France!
envoy.
To sea‑king Glaucus' wild wood cavernous Bear him bereft of peace and hope's least glance, For worthless is he to get good of us, Who could wish evil to the state of France.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Ballad of François Villon

Previously printed in The Athenæum, September 15th, 1877, p. 337.
A BALLAD OF FRANÇOIS VILLON,
PRINCE OF ALL BALLAD‑MAKERS.
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years, First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears; When song new‑born put off the old world's attire And felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that came Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears, And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume‑plucked gaol‑birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears; Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire, When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fame Spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears! Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy‑bells crossed with death‑bells in our ears! What far delight has cooled the fierce desire That like some ravenous bird was strong to tire
On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame, But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
envoi.
A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame. But from thy feet now death has washed the mire, Love reads out first at head of all our quire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Ad Catullum

Previously printed (under the title Walter Savage Landor) in The Academy, December 12th, 1874, p. 634.
AD CATULLUM.
Catulle frater, ut velim comes tibi Remota per vireta, per cavum nemus Sacrumque Ditis haud inhospiti specus, Pedem referre, trans aquam Stygis ducem Secutus unum et unicum, Catulle, te, Ut ora vatis optimi reviserem, Tui meique vatis ora, quem scio Venustiorem adîsse vel tuo lacum, Benigniora semper arva vel tuis, Ubi serenus accipit suos deus, Tegitque myrtus implicata laureâ, Manuque mulcet halituque consecrat Fovetque blanda mors amabili sinu, Et ore fama fervido colit viros
Alitque qualis unus ille par tibi Britannus unicusque in orbe præstitit Amicus ille noster, ille ceteris Poeta major, omnibusque floribus Priore Landor inclytum rosâ caput Revinxit extulitque, quam tuâ manu Recepit ac refovit integram suâ.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Age and Song

Previously printed (under the tentative title Barry Cornwall, and accompanied by a prose note) in The Pall Mall Gazette, October 20th, 1874, p. 11.
AGE AND SONG.
(TO BARRY CORNWALL.)
i.
Old loves or make old memories falter, That with the old year the old year's life closes. The old dew still falls on the old sweet flowers, The old sun revives the new-fledged hours, The old summer rears the new-born roses.
ii.
Raiment and wreath and flower of honour, Gathered long since and long since woven, Fades not or falls as fall the vernal Blossoms that bear no fruit eternal, By summer or winter charred or cloven.
iii.
Such loves, such memories, and such praises, As need no grace of sun or shower, No saving screen from frost or thunder, To tend and house around and under The imperishable and fearless flower.
iv.
Outlive men's lives and lives of nations, Dead, but for one thing which survives— The inalienable and unpriced treasure, The old joy of power, the old pride of pleasure, That lives in light above men's lives.
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# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Ballad of the Lords of Old Time

BALLAD OF THE LORDS OF OLD TIME. (AFTER THE FORMER ARGUMENT.)
What more? Where is the third Calixt, Last of that name now dead and gone, Who held four years the Papalist? Alphonso king of Aragon, The gracious lord, duke of Bourbon, And Arthur, duke of old Britaine? And Charles the Seventh, that worthy one? Even with the good knight Charlemain.
The Scot too, king of mount and mist, With half his face vermilion, Men tell us, like an amethyst From brow to chin that blazed and shone;
The Cypriote king of old renown, Alas! and that good king of Spain, Whose name I cannot think upon? Even with the good knight Charlemain.
No more to say of them I list; 'Tis all but vain, all dead and done: For death may no man born resist, Nor make appeal when death comes on. I make yet one more question; Where's Lancelot, king of far Bohain? Where's he whose grandson called him son? Even with the good knight Charlemain.
Where is Guesclin, the good Breton? The lord of the eastern mountain‑chain, And the good late duke of Alençon? Even with the good knight Charlemain.
# Pennywit v. Eaton on Motion/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
* Linked case(s):
* 82 U.S. 382
The CHIEF JUSTICE:
The Pulaski County Court was requested to hold, that if it appeared from the evidence that the judge who presided in the court at New Orleans and rendered the judgment there, held his office by appointment from a military governor of the State of Louisiana, and under no other authority, the judgment was void. This raised, though somewhat obscurely, the question whether the court so held had any jurisdiction under the Constitution of the United States, and the question was decided against the privilege claimed under the Constitution by the defendants.
We cannot, therefore, dismiss the case for want of jurisdiction, although we may have a very clear conviction that the decision of the State court was correct.
MOTION DENIED.
[See the next case.]
# Penrod

* related portals: Children's literature, Humor.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article.
a collection of comic sketches that was first published in 1914. The book follows the misadventures of Penrod Schofield, an eleven-year-old boy growing up in the pre-World War I Midwestern United States. The work established characters who appeared in two further books, Penrod and Sam (1916) and Penrod Jashber (1929). The three books were published together in one volume, Penrod: His Complete Story, in 1931. Penrod was adapted into a play, in 1916, at the Apollo Theatre, Atlantic City; and as a silent film in 1922.
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"Eleva-ter!" shouted Penrod. "Ting-ting."
PENROD
ByBOOTH
TARKINGTON
ILLUSTRATED BY
GORDON GRANT
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian
Episodes in this book are also protected by following copyrights.
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY BUTTERICK PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1913, 1914, BY HEARST CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY CURTIS PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE CO.
To
John, Donald and Booth Jameson
From a Grateful Uncle
page
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
—— THE BEAUTIFUL LADY
THE FLIRT
THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA
THE GUEST OF QUESNAY
HIS OWN PEOPLE
IN THE ARENA
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE
THE TWO VANREVELS
page
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
page
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. 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
# Poems (Van Vorst)/Sing Again

LYRICS
# Poems (Van Vorst)/The Fireside

SONGS
# Poems of Passion/Guilo

Yes, yes! I love thee, Guilo; thee alone.  Why dost thou sigh, and wear that face of sorrow? The sunshine is to-day's, although it shone  On yesterday, and may shine on to-morrow.
I love but thee, my Guilo! be content;  The greediest heart can claim but present pleasure. The future is thy God's. The past is spent.  To-day is thine; clasp close the precious treasure.
See how I love thee, Guilo! Lips and eyes  Could never under thy fond gaze dissemble. I could not feign these passion-laden sighs;  Deceiving thee, my pulses would not tremble.
"So I loved Romney." Hush, thou foolish one—  I should forget him wholly wouldst thou let me; Or but remember that his day was done  From that supremest hour when first I met thee.
"And Paul?" Well, what of Paul? Paul had blue eyes,  And Romney gray, and thine are darkly tender! One finds fresh feelings under change of skies—  A new horizon brings a newer splendor.
As I love thee I never loved before;  Believe me, Guilo, for I speak most truly. What though to Romney and to Paul I swore  The self-same words; my heart now worships newly.
We never feel the same emotion twice:  No two ships ever ploughed the self-same billow; The waters change with every fall and rise;  So, Guilo, go contented to thy pillow.
# Poems of Passion/Creation

The impulse of all love is to create.  God was so full of love, in his embrace  He clasped the empty nothingness of space, And low! the solar system! High in state  The mighty sun sat, so supreme and great  With this same essence, one smile of its face Brought myriad forms of life forth; race on race,
 From insects up to men. Through love, not hate,  All that is grand in nature or in art  Sprang into being. He who would build sublime And lasting works, to stand the test of time,  Must inspiration draw from his full heart.  And he who loveth widely, well, and much, The secret holds of the true master touch.
# Poems of Passion/Floods

In the dark night, from sweet refreshing sleep I wake to hear outside my window-pane The uncurbed fury of the wild spring rain, And weird winds lashing the defiant deep, And roar of floods that gather strength and leap Down dizzy, wreck-strewn channels to the main. I turn upon my pillow and again Compose myself for slumber. Let them sweep; I once survived great floods, and do not fear, Though ominous planets congregate, and seem To foretell strange disasters. From a dream— Ah! dear God! such a dream!—I woke to hear, Through the dense shadows lit by no star's gleam, The rush of mighty waters on my ear. Helpless, afraid, and all alone, I lay; The floods had come upon me unaware. I heard the crash of structures that were fair; The bridges of fond hopes were swept away By great salt waves of sorrow. In dismay I saw by the red lightning's lurid glare That on the rock-bound island of despair I had been cast. Till the dim dawn of day I heard my castles falling, and the roll Of angry billows bearing to the sea The broken timbers of my very soul. Were all the pent-up waters from the whole Stupendous solar system to break free, There are no floods that now can frighten me.
# Poems of Passion/Gracia

Nay, nay, Antonio! nay, thou shalt not blame her, My Gracia, who hath so deserted me. Thou art my friend, but if thou dost defame her I shall not hesitate to challenge thee.
"Curse and forget her?" So I might another, One not so bounteous-natured or so fair; But she, Antonio, she was like no other— I curse her not, because she was so rare.
She was made out of laughter and sweet kisses; Not blood, but sunshine, through her blue veins ran Her soul spilled over with its wealth of blisses; She was too great for loving but a man.
None but a god could keep so rare a creature: I blame her not for her inconstancy; When I recall each radiant smile and feature, I wonder she so long was true to me.
Call her not false or fickle. I, who love her, Do hold her not unlike the royal sun, That, all unmated, roams the wide world over And lights all worlds, but lingers not with one.
If she were less a goddess, more a woman, And so had dallied for a time with me, And then had left me, I, who am but human, Would slay her and her newer love, maybe.
But since she seeks Apollo, or another Of those lost gods (and seeks him all in vain) And has loved me as well as any other Of her men loves, why, I do not complain.
# Poems of Passion/Delilah

In the midnight of darkness and terror,  When I would grope nearer to God, With my back to a record of error  And the highway of sin I have trod, There come to me shapes I would banish—  The shapes of the deeds I have done; And I pray and I plead till they vanish—  All vanish and leave me, save one.
That one with a smile like the splendor  Of the sun in the middle-day skies— That one with a spell that is tender—  That one with a dream in her eyes— Cometh close, in her rare Southern beauty,  Her languor, her indolent grace; And my soul turns its back on its duty,  To live in the light of her face.
She touches my cheek, and I quiver—  I tremble with exquisite pains; She sighs—like an overcharged river  My blood rushes on through my veins', She smiles—and in mad-tiger fashion,  As a she-tiger fondles her own, I clasp her with fierceness and passion,  And kiss her with shudder and groan.
Once more, in our love's sweet beginning,  I put away God and the World; Once more, in the joys of our sinning,  Are the hopes of eternity hurled. There is nothing my soul lacks or misses  As I clasp the dream shape to my breast; In the passion and pain of her kisses  Life blooms to its richest and best.
O ghost of dead sin unrelenting,  Go back to the dust and the sod! Too dear and too sweet for repenting,  Ye stand between me and my God. If I, by the Throne, should behold you,  Smiling up with those eyes loved so well, Close, close in my arms I would fold you,  And drop with you down to sweet Hell!
# Poems of Passion/Drougth

Why do we pity those who weep? The pain That finds a ready outlet in the flow Of salt and bitter tears is blessed woe, And does not need our sympathies. The rain But fits the shorn field for new yield of grain; While the red, brazen skies, the sun's fierce glow, The dry, hot winds that from the tropics blow Do parch and wither the unsheltered plain. The anguish that through long, remorseless years Looks out upon the world with no relief Of sudden tempests or slow-dripping tears— The still, unuttered, silent, wordless grief That evermore doth ache, and ache, and ache— This is the sorrow wherewith hearts do break.
# Poems of Passion/Friendship after Love

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze  Has burned itself to ashes, and expires  In the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days, Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.  So after Love has led us, till he tires  Of his own throes and torments and desires, Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze He beckons us to follow, and across  Cool, verdant vales we wander free from care.  Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?  We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;  And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.
# Poems of Passion/Desolation

I think that the bitterest sorrow or pain  Of love unrequited, or cold death's woe,  Is sweet compared to that hour when we know That some grand passion is on the wane;
When we see that the glory and glow and grace  Which lent a splendor to night and day  Are surely fading, and showing the gray And dull groundwork of the commonplace;
When fond expressions on dull ears fall,  When the hands clasp calmly without one thrill,  When we cannot muster by force of will The old emotions that came at call;
When the dream has vanished we fain would keep,  When the heart, like a watch, runs out of gear,  And all the savor goes out of the year, Oh, then is the time—if we can—to weep!
But no tears soften this dull, pale woe;  We must sit and face it with dry, sad eyes.  If we seek to hold it, the swifter joy flies— We can only be passive, and let it go.
# Poems of Passion/Earnestness

The hurry of the times affects us so  In this swift rushing hour, we crowd and press And thrust each other backward as we go,  And do not pause to lay sufficient stress  Upon that good, strong, true word, Earnestness. In our impetuous haste, could we but know Its full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh,  Then might we grasp the secret of success! In that receding age when men were great,  The bone and sinew of their purpose lay  In this one word. God likes an earnest soul— Too earnest to be eager. Soon or late  It leaves the spent horde breathless by the way,  And stands serene, triumphant at the goal.
# Poems of Passion/From the Grave

When the first sere leaves of the year were falling,  I heard, with a heart that was strangely thrilled, Out of the grave of a dead Past calling,  A voice I fancied forever stilled.
All through winter and spring and summer,  Silence hung over that grave like a pall, But, borne on the breath of the last sad comer,  I listen again to the old-time call.
It is only a love of a by-gone season,  A senseless folly that mocked at me A reckless passion that lacked all reason,  So I killed it, and hid it where none could see.
I smothered it first to stop its crying,  Then stabbed it through with a good sharp blade, And cold and pallid I saw it lying,  And deep—ah' deep was the grave I made.
But now I know that there is no killing  A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no hushing, there is no stilling  That which is part of your life and breath.
You may bury it deep, and leave behind you  The land, the people, that knew your slain; It will push the sods from its grave, and find you  On wastes of water or desert plain.
You may hear but tongues of a foreign people,  You may list to sounds that are strange and new; But, clear as a silver bell in a steeple,  That voice from the grave shall call to you.
You may rouse your pride, you may use your reason.  And seem for a space to slay Love so; But, all in its own good time and season,  It will rise and follow wherever you go.
You shall sit sometimes, when the leaves are falling,  Alone with your heart, as I sit to-day, And hear that voice from your dead Past calling  Out of the graves that you hid away.
# Petri Privilegium/III/Appendix 3

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III.
ACT OF CONDEMNATION BY THE COUNCIL OF CERTAIN PAMPHLETS, &c.
Reverendissimi Patres,—Ex quo Sacrosancta Synodus Vaticana, opitulante Deo, congregata est, acerrimum statim contra eam bellum exarsit; atque ad venerandam, eius auctoritatem penes fidelem populum imminuendam, ac si fieri posset, penitus labefactandam, contumeliose de ilia detrahere, eamque putidissimis calumniis oppetere plures scriptores certatim aggressi sunt non modo inter heterodoxos et apertos Crucis Christi inimicos, sed etiam inter eos qui Catholicae Eeclesiae filios sese dictitant, et quod maxim e dolendum est inter ipsos eius sacros ministros.
Quae in publicis cuiusque idiomatis ephemeridibus, quaeque in libellis absque auctoris nomine passim editis et furtive distributis, congesta hac de re fuerint probrosa mendacia, omnes apprime norunt, quin nobis necesse sit ilia singillatim edicere. Verum inter anonymos istiusmodi libellos duo praesertim extant, gallice conscripti sub titulis: Ce qui se passe au Concile et La dernière heure du Concile, qui ob suam calumniandi artem, obtrectandique licentiam ceteris palmam praeripuisse videntur. In his enim nedum huius Concilii dignitas ae plena libertas turpissimis oppugnantur mendaciis, iuraque Apostolicae Sedis evertuntur; sed ipsa quoque SSm̃i Dñi Nostri augusta persona gravibus lacessitur iniuriis. lam vero Nos officii nostri memores, ne silentium nostrum, si diutius protraheretur, sinistre a malevolis hominibus interpretari valeat, contra tot tantasque obtrectationes vocem extollere cogimur, atque in conspectu omnium vestrum, Bmi Patres, protestari ac declarare: falsa omnino esse et calumniosa quaecumque in praedictis ephemeridibus et libellis effutiuntur, sive in spretum et contumeliam SSm̃i Dñi Nostri et Apostolicae Sedis, sive in dedecus huius Sacrosanctae Synodi, et contra assertum defectum in ilia legitimae libertatis.
Datum ex Aula Concilii Vaticani, die 16 Iulii 1870.
Philippus Card. De Angelis Praeses. Antonius Card. De Luca Praeses. Andreas Card. Bizzarri Praeses. Aloisius Card. Bilio Praeses. Hannibal Card. Capalti Praeses.
Iosephus Ep. S. Hippolyti, Secretarius.
# Poems of Home and Country/The Little Cricket

THE LITTLE CRICKET.
YOU sweet little cricket, Amid the night dew, While the moon shines so brightly, I'll listen to you. I love your dull chirping, Your shrill monotone; You soothe, with your music, This bosom so lone.
Your voice, like the breezes That mournfully play, When the red leaves of autumn Look gaudy and gay, Tells of joys now departed, No more to return, Of summer hopes blasted, Of fair flowers torn.
​Sweet cricket, thy music Will quickly be still, When the tempests of winter Roar loud on the hill; But I go when the storm comes, Where all my friends dwell,— No more shall my heart say To gladness farewell!
July 26, 1831.