OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Home and Country/To Little Mary White

TO LITTLE MARY WHITE.
"OUR FIRST-BORN."
THOU precious pledge of love, Of ties that bind two kindred hearts in one, Dear infant Mary; 't is with joy we hail Thy coming; and with joy we both shall strive To make thee happy, useful, thro' the scenes Of mortal life. Heaven watch o'er thee, my child, Thro' all thy infant slumbers; guard thee well In youth's most tempting perils; spare thy life, To us as precious as our own, and give, When life shall end, a crown of joy.
​But know, My child, this is a world of grief and change; And 't is a high behest, beyond the lot Of changeful earthliness and worldly pride, Which thou art sent to finish. When the day That brings the power of knowing right and wrong Shall be to thee, whate'er thou art, and where, Know this, and 'grave it on thy memory, Thy father and thy mother, fearing God, Did, on this day which gave thee life and light, To Him that life and light devote. Know, then, Thou must not think thyself thine own on earth, For thou art wholly consecrate to God, Born for His service, given for His praise. So live that thou mayst honor Him, and then Sit down in heaven with all the glorified.
Waterville, Aug. 5, 1835.
# Poems of Home and Country/N. P. Willis

N. P. WILLIS.
COME back to be buried beneath the green willow, Whose long weeping branches trail over the tomb; The soil of thy birthplace prepares thee a pillow,— Where kindled thy morn, for thy eve there is room.
Come back to be buried, where patriarchs holy In faith breathed thy name at the altar of prayer; Come back, from thy greatness, to sleep with the lowly, Where pride sounds no trumpet, and fame is but air.
Come back to be buried, where honor first found thee, And o'er thee her mantle deliciously flung; Come back with thy robe of renown wrapped around thee, To rest where thy garlands in youth o'er thee hung.
Come back to be buried, as blossomings vernal Fall back to the soil whence their beauty was born; As sunset clouds glitter in glory supernal, Returned from the earth which they moistened at morn.
Come back to be buried,—but still shall the crescent Of fame, early won, the record illume; As chaplets of love, made sempervirescent, Are saved from the night and the damps of the tomb.
​Come back to be buried,—mowed down by the Reaper, Whose pitiless scythe spares nor manhood nor bloom; Come back to be buried, O lone, silent sleeper, Thy kindred await thee,—come, pilgrim, come home.
# Poems of Home and Country/Sallie

SALLIE.
THUS comes another; may she stand Among the saints in light, Blest Saviour, at thy own right hand, And walk with thee in white.
And should her pilgrimage be long, And sharp affliction's rod, Or short her pathway to the skies, Oh, may it end in God!
October 18, 1838.
# Poems of Home and Country/The Consecration of a Cemetery

THE CONSECRATION OF A CEMETERY.
Written June 6, 1857, for the dedication of Newton Cemetery; also sung at dedication of Rose Hill Cemetery, Chicago, Ill.
DEEP 'mid these dim and silent shades The slumbering dead shall lie, Tranquil as summer evening fades Along the western sky.
The whispering winds shall linger here To lull their deep repose,— Like music on the dewy air, Like nightfall on the rose.
Light through the twining boughs shall shed Its calm and cheerful ray, As hope springs from the dying bed And points to perfect day.
Around each funeral urn shall cling The fairest, freshest flowers,— Emblem of heaven's eternal spring, And brighter lands than ours.
Gathered from thousand homes, the dust In soft repose shall lie, Like garnered seed in holy trust For immortality.
Room for the households! till the morn Its glories shall restore, And on the silent sleepers dawn The day that fades no more.
# Poems of Home and Country/The Redeemer's Tears

THE REDEEMER'S TEARS.
'TWAS at the grave of Lazarus, The two fond sisters, in their sackcloth robes, Drenched in affliction, and the godless Jews, In that one scene made lovely, as they went To weep with Mary at the sepulchre, Stood there, a grieving circle. She came forth, Obedient, e'en in sorrow, to the call Of Him who called for her. There was no voice Among the whited stones that pointed out The home of dead men, and no scenery, Or sweet, or gorgeous, in the hills or vales Of loveliest form and hue that spread around them, To call forth a moment's admiration; There was one absorbing sense of sorrow, That burned at the heart's core. The glorious voice Of Him who raised, triumphant, the dead brother Had not broke out in holy thanksgiving; But there they stood, consumed by their deep grief, And there—there, Jesus wept.
​The evening sun slanted among the hills Where Zion's temple shone. Down the descent Of Olivet a joyous crowd advanced, Singing hosannas unto Him that came,— The Son of David, and yet David's Lord, The prophet of their nation; not as when Each heart beat sadly, and the silent tears Stole down the cheeks of all the sorrowing band At the dead brother's tomb. Now all was gay And bright. But unto a devoted place, Cursed as the dwelling of the crucifiers, The crucifiers of the Lord of life And glory, they were drawing near. The crowd, Rejoicing in their city, and the sheen Of their own glorious temple, pressed their way, Thoughtless of coming evil. But, behold! Amid the happy throng one stretched His gaze Into eternity, soon to receive The uncomforted inhabitants, whose towers Were ready to their fall,—the inhabitants Who knew not when their visitation came; One gazed in silent sadness as He thought Upon their coming fate, and Jesus wept.
Wept twice on earth,—once at the tomb of him Whose sorrowing sisters He had loved; and once, When He foresaw Jerusalem's dread fate.
# Poems of Home and Country/Our Golden Wedding

OUR GOLDEN WEDDING.
1834–1884.
BEHOLD, dear wife, how things have changed, Through sunshine and through showers; The spring has ripened into fall, The buds have turned to flowers.
What long, wide paths our feet have trod, Since the far days of old! But love has changed each woe to good, The silver moon to gold.
These fifty years of wedded love, How brief and few they seem! Swift as a summer-day of joy, Eventful as a dream!
The babes we fostered long ago, And called them "children" then; The girls are into mothers grown, The boys to stalwart men.
​We launched our bark in sunny youth,— The date seems far away; But years have shortened into months, Months into fleeting days.
Once, like new ships, that ride in port, With canvas all unfurled, Successful voyagers, our keel Has sailed half round the world.
By day God's loving cloud has moved, A shelter o'er our head; And still by night our winding course The pillared fire has led.
Sail on, fair craft, so bravely kept Unharmed by wind or wave; The hand so skilful to direct, Is mighty, too, to save.
Sail on, sail on, till golden light Shines o'er the distant sea, And guides the vessel to its port, Blest immortality.
September 16, 1884.
# Poems of Home and Country/The Friendships we formed

SOCIAL AMENITIES.
KIND GREETINGS.
THE FRIENDSHIPS WE FORMED.
HARVARD CLASS OF '29.
THE friendships we formed when life was still young; The sports that we joined in, the songs we then sung,— How oft from the chambers of memory they well, Like the echo of waves in the beautiful shell. The griefs we have met on the pathway of life, The conquests won bravely amid the stern strife, The light and the shadow, the joy and the woe,— Form, like sunshine and raindrop, the radiant bow That rests on the brow of the storms that are o'er, That lights up the wave where it breaks on the shore, That fades like the fair hues of hopes that are riven, But sails, as it fades, thro' the blue arch of heaven. The garlands we wove on the foretop of Time, Tho' robbed of the freshness they wore in our prime; The castles we built, so lofty and fair, Tho' crumbled to dust, or vanished in air; The barks we once freighted, with hearts beating high, And launched on the sea without tremor or sigh, ​Tho' sunk in the ocean or dashed on the reef, The more grand their career, the more sad and more brief; Tho' the plants we have loved to angels are given, Having climbed o'er the wall, and are blooming in heaven,— Still this chain of our love does not weaken with years, Nor wear with the friction of toil and of tears; Nor crumble in dust, nor vanish like breath; Nor chill with the darkness, and shadow of death; Nor perish in shipwreck, nor waste in the tomb,— A thing to be lost in earth's gathering gloom. Tho' Time's jealous fingers make all things decay, We brighten its links as the years pass away; We fastened the lock in our youth and our glee, Then wandered abroad and have lost the sole key. But the heart-clasp unites so firmly the chain That 't is welded by time, and must ever remain.
January 6, 1859.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Zong

SUNDRY PIECES.
——o——
A ZONG.
O Jenny, don’t sobby! vor I shall be true; Noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you. My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight The zwell o’ thy bosom, thy eyes’ sparklèn light.
My kinsvo’k would faïn zee me teäke vor my meäte A maïd that ha’ wealth, but a maïd I should heäte; But I’d sooner leäbour wi’ thee vor my bride, Than live lik’ a squier wi’ any bezide.
Vor all busy kinsvo’k, my love will be still A-zet upon thee lik’ the vir in the hill; An’ though they mid worry, an’ dreaten, an’ mock, My head’s in the storm, but my root’s in the rock.
Zoo, Jenny, don’t sobby! vor I shall be true; Noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you. My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight The zwell o’ thy bosom, thy eyes’ sparklèn light.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Aunt's Tantrums

AUNT’S TANTRUMS.
Why ees, aunt Anne’s a little staïd, But kind an’ merry, poor wold maïd! If we don’t cut her heart wi’ slights, She’ll zit an’ put our things to rights, Upon a hard day’s work, o’ nights;  But zet her up, she’s jis’ lik’ vier,  An’ woe betide the woone that’s nigh ’er.
 When she is in her tantrums.
She’ll toss her head, a-steppèn out Such strides, an’ fling the païls about; An’ slam the doors as she do goo, An’ kick the cat out wi’ her shoe, Enough to het her off in two.  The bwoys do bundle out o’ house,  A-lassen they should get a towse,  When aunt is in her tantrums.
She whurr’d, woone day, the wooden bowl In such a veag at my poor poll; It brush’d the heäir above my crown, An’ whizz’d on down upon the groun’, An’ knock’d the bantam cock right down;  But up he sprung, a-teäkèn flight  Wi’ tothers, cluckèn in a fright,  Vrom aunt in such a tantrum!
But Dick stole in, an’ reach’d en down The biggest blather to be voun’. An’ crope an’ put en out o’ zight Avore the vire, an’ plimm’d en tight An crack’d en wi’ the slice thereright.  She scream’d, an’ bundled out o’ house,  An’ got so quiet as a mouse,—  It frighten’d off her tantrum.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Be'mi'ster

For the Dorset town of the same name, see Beaminster.
BE’MI’STER.
Sweet Be’mi’ster, that bist a-bound By green an’ woody hills all round, Wi’ hedges, reachèn up between A thousan’ vields o’ zummer green, Where elems’ lofty heads do drow Their sheädes vor haÿ-meakers below, An’ wild hedge-flow’rs do charm the souls O’ maïdens in their evenèn strolls.
When I o’ Zunday nights wi’ Jeäne Do saunter drough a vield or leäne, Where elder-blossoms be a-spread Above the eltrot’s milk-white head, An’ flow’rs o’ blackberries do blow Upon the brembles, white as snow, To be outdone avore my zight By Jeän’s gaÿ frock o’ dazzlèn white;
Oh! then there’s nothèn that’s ’ithout Thy hills that I do ho about,— Noo bigger pleäce, noo gaÿer town, Beyond thy sweet bells’ dyèn soun’. As they do ring, or strike the hour, At evenèn vrom thy wold red tow’r. No: shelter still my head, an’ keep My bwones when I do vall asleep.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Beauty Undecked

BEAUTY UNDECKED.
The grass mid sheen when wat’ry beäds O’ dew do glitter on the meäds, An’ thorns be bright when quiv’rèn studs O’ raïn do hang upon their buds— As jewels be a-meäde by art To zet the plaïnest vo’k off smart
But sheäkèn ivy on its tree, An’ low-bough’d laurel at our knee, Be bright all day, without the gleäre, O’ drops that duller leäves mid weär— As Jeäne is feäir to look upon In plaïnest gear that she can don.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Zong ov Harvest Hwome

A ZONG OV HARVEST HWOME.
The ground is clear. There’s nar a ear  O’ stannèn corn a-left out now, Vor win’ to blow or raïn to drow;  ’Tis all up seäfe in barn or mow.  Here’s health to them that plough’d an’ zow’d;  Here’s health to them that reap’d an’ mow’d,  An’ them that had to pitch an’ lwoad,  Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
​An’ mid noo harm o’ vire or storm  Beval the farmer or his corn; An’ ev’ry zack o’ zeed gi’e back  A hunderd-vwold so much in barn.  An’ mid his Meäker bless his store,  His wife an’ all that she’ve a-bore,  An’ keep all evil out o’ door.  Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Mid nothèn ill betide the mill,  As day by day the miller’s wheel Do dreve his clacks, an’ heist his zacks,  An’ vill his bins wi’ show’rèn meal:  Mid’s water never overflow  His dousty mill, nor zink too low,  Vrom now till wheat ageän do grow,  An’ we’ve another Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Drough cisterns wet an’ malt-kil’s het,  Mid barley paÿ the malter’s païns; An’ mid noo hurt bevall the wort,  A-bweilèn vrom the brewer’s graïns.  Mid all his beer keep out o’ harm  Vrom bu’sted hoop or thunder storm,  That we mid have a mug to warm  Our merry hearts nex’ Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Mid luck an’ jaÿ the beäker pay,  As he do hear his vier roar, Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,  A-reekèn vrom the oven door. ​ An’ mid it never be too high  Vor our vew zixpences to buy,  When we do hear our childern cry  Vor bread, avore nex’ Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Wi’ jaÿ o’ heart mid shooters start  The whirrèn pa’tridges in vlocks; While shots do vlee drough bush an’ tree,  An’ dogs do stan’ so still as stocks.  An’ let em ramble round the farms  Wi’ guns ’ithin their bended eärms,  In goolden zunsheen free o’ storms,  Rejaïcèn vor the Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Witch

A WITCH.
There’s thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus’ past! I wish the ugly sly wold witch Would tumble over into ditch; I woulden pull her out not very vast. No, no. I don’t think she’s a bit belied, No, she’s a witch, aye, Molly’s evil-eyed. Vor I do know o’ many a-withrèn blight A-cast on vo’k by Molly’s mutter’d spite; She did, woone time, a dreadvul deäl o’ harm To Farmer Gruff’s vo’k, down at Lower Farm. Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her, An’ not a little to their sorrow, Because they woulden gi’e or lend her Zome’hat she come to bag or borrow; An’ zoo, they soon began to vind That she’d agone an’ left behind ​Her evil wish that had such pow’r, That she did meäke their milk an’ eäle turn zour, An’ addle all the aggs their vowls did lay; They coulden vetch the butter in the churn, An’ all the cheese begun to turn All back ageän to curds an’ whey; The little pigs, a-runnèn wi’ the zow, Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know’d how, An’ vall, an’ turn their snouts towárd the sky. An’ only gi’e woone little grunt, and die; An’ all the little ducks an’ chickèn Wer death-struck out in yard a-pickèn Their bits o’ food, an’ vell upon their head, An’ flapp’d their little wings an’ drapp’d down dead. They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive; They coulden seäve their lambs alive; Their sheep wer all a-coath’d, or gi’ed noo wool; The hosses vell away to skin an’ bwones, An’ got so weak they coulden pull A half a peck o’ stwones: The dog got dead-alive an’ drowsy, The cat vell zick an’ woulden mousy; An’ every time the vo’k went up to bed, They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead. They us’d to keep her out o’ house, ’tis true, A-nailèn up at door a hosses shoe; An’ I’ve a-heärd the farmer’s wife did try To dawk a needle or a pin In drough her wold hard wither’d skin, An’ draw her blood, a-comèn by: But she could never vetch a drap, For pins would ply an’ needless snap Ageän her skin; an’ that, in coo’se, Did meäke the hag bewitch em woo’se.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Wold Friend

A WOLD FRIEND.
Oh! when the friends we us’d to know,  ’V a-been a-lost vor years; an’ when Zome happy day do come, to show  Their feäzen to our eyes ageän, Do meäke us look behind, John, Do bring wold times to mind, John,  Do meäke hearts veel, if they be steel, All warm, an’ soft, an’ kind, John.
When we do lose, still gaÿ an’ young,  A vaïce that us’d to call woone’s neäme, An’ after years ageän his tongue  Do sound upon our ears the seäme, Do kindle love anew, John, Do wet woone’s eyes wi’ dew, John,  As we do sheäke, vor friendship’s seäke, His vist an’ vind en true, John.
What tender thoughts do touch woone’s soul,  When we do zee a meäd or hill Where we did work, or play, or stroll,  An’ talk wi’ vaïces that be still; ’Tis touchèn vor to treäce, John, Wold times drough ev’ry pleäce, John;  But that can’t touch woone’s heart so much, As zome wold long-lost feäce, John.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Angels by the Door

ANGELS BY THE DOOR.
Oh! there be angels evermwore, A-passèn onward by the door, A-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come To bring us zome—O Meärianne. Though doors be shut, an’ bars be stout, Noo bolted door can keep em out; But they wull leäve us ev’ry thing They have to bring—My Meärianne.
An’ zoo the days a-stealèn by, Wi’ zuns a-ridèn drough the sky, Do bring us things to leäve us sad, Or meäke us glad—O Meärianne. The day that’s mild, the day that’s stern, Do teäke, in stillness, each his turn; An’ evils at their worst mid mend, Or even end—My Meärianne.
But still, if we can only bear Wi’ faïth an’ love, our pain an’ ceäre, We shan’t vind missèn jaÿs a-lost, Though we be crost—O Meärianne. ​But all a-took to heav’n, an’ stow’d Where we can’t weäste em on the road, As we do wander to an’ fro, Down here below—My Meärianne.
But there be jaÿs I’d soonest choose To keep, vrom them that I must lose; Your workzome hands to help my tweil, Your cheerful smile—O Meärianne. The Zunday bells o’ yonder tow’r, The moonlight sheädes o’ my own bow’r, An’ rest avore our vier-zide, At evenèn-tide—My Meärianne.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Bad News

BAD NEWS.
I do mind when there broke bitter tidèns,  Woone day, on their ears, An’ their souls wer a-smote wi’ a stroke As the lightnèn do vall on the woak, An’ the things that wer bright all around em  Seem’d dim drough their tears.
Then unheeded wer things in their vingers,  Their grief wer their all. All unheeded wer zongs o’ the birds, All unheeded the child’s perty words, All unheeded the kitten a-rollèn  The white-threaded ball.
Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em  Had nothèn to show. Though it brighten’d their tears as they vell, An’ did sheen on their lips that did tell, In their vaïces all thrillèn an’ mwoansome,  O’ nothèn but woe.
​But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy,  The news werden true; An’ they shook, wi’ low laughter, as quick As a drum when his blows do vall thick, An’ wer eärnest in words o’ thanksgivèn,  Vor mercies anew.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Bees a-Zwarmèn

BEES A-ZWARMEN.
Avore we went a-milkèn, vive Or six o’s here wer all alive A-teäkèn bees that zwarm’d vrom hive;  An’ we’d sich work to catch The hummèn rogues, they led us sich A dance all over hedge an’ ditch; An’ then at last where should they pitch,  But up in uncle’s thatch?
​Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han’. Liz beät a cannister, an’ Nan Did bang the little fryèn-pan  Wi’ thick an’ thumpèn blows; An’ Tom went on, a-carrèn roun’ A bee-pot up upon his crown, Wi’ all his edge a-reachèn down  Avore his eyes an’ nose.
An’ woone girt bee, wi’ spitevul hum, Stung Dicky’s lip, an’ meäde it come All up amost so big’s a plum;  An’ zome, a-vleèn on, Got all roun’ Liz, an’ meäde her hop An’ scream, a-twirlèn lik’ a top, An’ spring away right backward, flop  Down into barken pon’:
An’ Nan’ gi’ed Tom a roguish twitch Upon a bank, an’ meäde en pitch Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,—  Tom coulden zee a wink. An’ when the zwarm wer seäfe an’ sound In mother’s bit o’ bee-pot ground, She meäde us up a treat all round  O’ sillibub to drink.
# Police v. City of Newark

* related portals: United States Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
170 F.3d 359 (3d Cir. 1999), was a case in which the City of Newark had ordered its police officers to be clean-shaven; however, it made an exception for medical conditions. Two Muslim members of the police asserted a religious belief that required them to maintain beards, and filed a lawsuit complaining that their freedom of religion was being violated. The District Court ruled in their favor, and it was affirmed by the Third Circuit, which found that the city had failed to provide a substantial justification for refusing to make accommodation for religious belief in this policy.
* Court Documents
* Opinion of the Court
* Wikipedia article
* 170 F.3d 359
* FRATERNAL ORDER OF POLICE NEWARK LODGE NO. 12; FARUQ ABDUL-AZIZ; SHAKOOR MUSTAFA
* v.
* CITY OF NEWARK; NEWARK POLICE DEPARTMENT; JOSEPH J. SANTIAGO, NEWARK POLICE DIRECTOR; THOMAS C. O'REILLY, NEWARK CHIEF OF POLICE, Appellants
* No. 97-5542
* United States Court of Appeals, Third Circuit.
* June 25, 1998, Argued
* March 3, 1999, Filed
* Certiorari Denied October 4, 1999
ON APPEAL FROM THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE DISTRICT OF NEW JERSEY. (D.C. Civil No. 97-02672). (District Judge: Honorable John W. Bissell).
Affirmed.
MICHELLE HOLLAR-GREGORY, DARRYL M. SAUNDERS (Argued), City of Newark, Newark, NJ, Counsel for Appellants.
ROBERT R. CANNAN (Argued), MARIO E. DIRIENZO, Spevack & Cannan, Iselin, NJ, Counsel for Appellees.
KEVIN J. HASSON (Argued), ERIC W. TREENE, ROMAN STORZER, The Becket Fund for Religious Liberty, Washington, DC. RONALD K. CHEN, DAVID ROCAH, American Civil Liberties Union of New Jersey, Newark, NJ. STEVEN M. FREEMAN, DAVID ROSENBERG, ERICA M. BROIDO, LAUREN LEVIN, Anti-Defamation League, New York, NY, Counsel for Amici Curiae in Support of Appellees.
Before: GREENBERG, ALITO, and McKEE, Circuit Judges.
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
# Police report of the shipwreck of 'Geffrard'

* related portals: Shipwrecks.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
​6 Division 22/209
Vass Station
9/4 Sub Inspector Dyer
I have to report for your information to the Superintendent of Police that in the night of the 13th instant the Brig Geffrard lying at Quindalup nearly loaded with timber for Adelaide went on shore. She parted one chain and (illegible text) one (illegible text) of the (illegible text) broke. She is now nearly full of water (illegible text) Cap$^t$ Munday has informed me to day that she is quite a wreck that her stern post is nocked up and now lying beneath her.
B S Back R (illegible text)
16-6-75
[Sidenote:]
Forwarded to the superintendent of police—
(illegible text)
Bunbury 17-6-75