OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Pieces People Ask For/The Labor Question

THE LABOR QUESTION.
​I believe in the temperance movement. I am a temperance man of nearly forty years' standing; and I think it one of the grandest things in the world, because it holds the basis of self-control. Intemperance is the cause of poverty, I know; but there is another side to that : poverty is the cause of intemperance. Crowd a man with fourteen hours' work a day, and you crowd him down to a mere animal life. You have eclipsed his aspirations, dulled his tastes, stunted his intellect, and made him a mere tool, to work fourteen hours, and catch a thought in the interval ; and, while a man in a hundred will rise to be a genius, ninety-nine will cower down under the circumstances.
That is why I say, lift a man, give him life, let him work eight hoars a day, give him the school, develop his taste for music, give him a garden, give him beautiful things to see, and good books to read, and you will starve out those lower appetites. Give a man a chance to earn a good living, and you may save his life.
Wendell Phillips.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 40

ODE XL.—CUPID WOUNDED.
Young Cupid, once, in luckless hour, Saw and pluck'd his favourite flower, A blooming rose—whose leaves among A bee that slept his finger stung. Loud he scream'd with sudden pain, Stamp'd and sobb'd—then scream'd again. He runs—he flies through mead and grove, To seek the beauteous Queen of Love. "Ah me! mamma, I'm kill'd," he cries, "Thy child, thy own dear Cupid dies! For, as I play'd on yonder plain, A winged serpent—ah! what pain! A thing the ploughmen call a bee, With dart of poison wounded me." Fair Venus, smiling, thus replies: "Oh dry those pretty pearly eyes;
Think if a little insect's sting Such painful smart to Cupid bring, Oh, what must their keen anguish be Who're wounded to the heart by thee!"
* ↑ The ideas contained in this ode have been made the subject of a song, which was a great favourite, and is still frequently heard. It is however very doubtful whether many who sing it know that they are warbling the strains of a poet who flourished more than two thousand years ago; or, in other words, that they are singing a new version of one of the odes of Anacreon.
* ↑ In order to make Cupid express his pain and alarm more strongly, Anacreon has made him persist in calling the bee a serpent. Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyllium.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 41

ODE XLI.—THE BANQUET OF WINE.
Come, let the mantling cups be crown'd, And let the jovial song go round. To Bacchus still the strain prolong, Who taught the dance, and loves the song. Companion blithe with Cupid seen, Beloved alike by beauty's queen; The father, he, of joy and mirth, To him the Graces owe their birth. He heals the wounds of pain and grief, In him the wretched find relief. When blooming youths present the bowl Sweet joys alone possess the soul; And, borne aloft, our sorrows fly On swift-wing'd storms that sweep the sky. Then let us anxious thoughts dismiss, And pledge the cup to scenes of bliss; For what avails heart-rending care, Since mortal man is sorrow's heir. How short his life's uncertain date! Unknown and dark his future state. But when the brimming bowl I drain I love to dance along the plain,
With sweet perfumes to bathe my hair And frolic with the young and fair. Let anxious idiots still despise The joys which wiser men will prize. Then, while the jovial cup goes round, To Bacchus let the song resound.
* ↑ Madame Dacier supposes this to be the passage on which was founded the opinion that the Graces were the daughters of Venus and Bacchus.
* ↑ The ancient poets all agree in enforcing the necessity of enjoying life, on account of its brevity and uncertainty. Martial says, "I'll live to-morrow, none but fools will say: To-morrow is too late—live then today." If this be true in the sense in which they meant it, how much more forcibly will it apply to our own altered views and circumstances!
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 45

ODE XLV.—CUPID'S DARTS.
* ↑ Lemnos was an island in the Ægean Sea, sacred to Vulcan, who, in the first book of the Iliad, gives an account of Jupiter's throwing him from heaven, and his fall on that island:— "Once in your cause I felt his matchless might, Hurl'd headlong downward from th' ethereal height; Toss'd all the day in rapid circles round; Nor till the sun descended touch'd the ground; Breathless I fell, in giddy motion lost; The Sinthians raised me on the Lemnian coast." Pope's Homer.
* ↑ The proportions of the spear and arrow are finely contrasted. The tiny weapon makes the deeper wound.
* ↑ This sentiment is extremely beautiful; intimating that one cannot even touch the darts of Cupid with safety. Moschus concludes his first idyllium with a similar thought:— "Perhaps he'll say, 'Alas! no harm I know, Here, take my darts, my arrows, and my bow.' Ah! touch them not, fallacious is his aim, His darts, his arrows, all are tipp'd with flame." Fawkes.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 37

ODE XXXVII.—ON THE SPRING.
The newborn Spring awakes the flowers, And bathes their buds in dewy showers: The roses bloom, the Graces wear Fresh flowery garlands in their hair. How sleeps the sea in placid rest! No storms disturb its peaceful breast; But oft upon its surface green The diving duck is sporting seen. From distant skies now comes the crane To seek her well-known haunts again;
The smiling sun resumes his sway, And drives the dismal clouds away; The teeming' earth is big with fruits, Forth into day the olive shoots; Rich, juicy clusters deck the vine, Which soon shall ripen into wine: The charming sight with joy I see, To Bacchus welcome—and to me.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 38

ODE XXXVIII.—ON HIMSELF.
True, ah! true, I'm growing old; Why should not the truth be told? Still, from youths I never shrink When the business is to drink. When the joyous troop advance, Still I join the merry dance: I no useless sceptre bear; But on high my bottle rear. Should the grape some hero fire, Should he wars and fights desire, Let him fight then, if he please, I prefer my peaceful ease. Bring me, then, my gentle page, Wine that glows with strength and age.
True, I'm old; but you shall see Old Silenus, full of glee, Acted to the life by me.
* ↑ Among the ancients, the leader in the Bacchanalian dances bore a rod or sceptre.
* ↑ However degenerated in other respects, the modern Greeks still know "where the best Chian, and what it may cost them;" at least if we may judge from the following extract:— "The red wine is the most esteemed in the island: a small part only is exported, the Greeks making too good a use of it themselves. It cannot greatly sooth or propitiate a Turk's feelings towards the despised and infidel Greeks to see them quaffing with keen delight the rich juice of the grape, and giving loose in the moment to unbounded gayety; while he, poor forbidden follower of Islam! must solace himself gravely with the pure fountain, his meager sherbet, or at most a cup of the coffee of Mocha."—Carne's Letters from the East, vol. i., p. 63.
* ↑ Silenus was the foster-father and tutor of Bacchus, represented as a little, flat-nosed, bald, fat, tun-bellied, old, drunken fellow, riding on an ass. His picture is thus drawn by Ovid:— "Around the Bacchæ and the Satyrs' throng, Behind, Silenus drunk lags slow along; On his dull ass he nods from side to side, Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride."—Eusden.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 42

ODE XLII.—ON HIMSELF.
A friend to mirth and harmless sport, I love the dance which Bacchus taught. I dearly love to wake the lyre When wine or love my lays inspire; But dearer, sweeter joys I prove, When with gay smiling maids I rove; While hyacinths sweet odours breathe, And round my brows their blossoms wreath, My heart from envious thoughts is free, And even Envy still spares me: From Slander's venom'd tongue I fly, And shun the shafts of calumny. Fierce quarrels o'er the festive board My honest heart has e'er abhorr'd: But, dancing to the lute's soft strain, I love to join the blooming train. Oh! let us banish barb'rous strife, And lead a happy, peaceful life.
* ↑ Such sentiments as these do honour to the poet, and establish his claim to the title of "the wise Anacreon."
* ↑ Anacreon seems to have esteemed tranquillity the greatest blessing of life: thus, ode 39, "Peaceful pleasures are my theme."
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 43

ODE XLIII.—ON THE GRASSHOPPER.
* ↑ This insect, though called a grasshopper, is certainly of a very different species of locust from that so common in our fields and meadows. Indeed, its habit of settling on trees is of itself a sufficient distinction. I am not aware that it has any proper English name, though by some writers it is called the cicada, or cicala.
* ↑ The ancient Athenians compared themselves to these insects, either on account of their skill in music, or because, like them, they were descended from the earth. They likewise wore golden ornaments in their hair, resembling grasshoppers. The Chinese ladies still wear fastened to their heads by springs small golden figures of a bird, the wings of which flutter with the slightest motion.
* ↑ Homer represents the gods as being free from blood; and, speaking of Venus being wounded, he says, "From the clear vein a stream immortal flow'd, Such stream as issues from a wounded god; Pure emanation! uncorrupted flood! Unlike our gross, diseased, terrestrial blood. (For not the bread of man their life sustains, Nor wine's inflaming juice supplies their veins.)" Pope's Homer, book v.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 44

ODE XLIV.—THE DREAM.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 39

ODE XXXIX.—ON HIMSELF.
When the rosy wine inspires, Every muse my bosom fires, All the joys of love and song Cheer my heart and tune my tongue.
When the joys of wine I share, Farewell every anxious care; Sportive winds my sorrows sweep To the restless, roaring deep.
When I drain the spacious bowl, Bacchus charms my ravish'd soul; Perfumed gales from beds of flowers Bathe in bliss the happy hours.
When with rosy garlands crown'd, The social cup I pass around; Rapt in fancy's airy dream, Peaceful pleasures are my theme.
When I quaff the grape's rich juice, Bathed in liquid sweets profuse, Venus claims my votive strain, Chloe fills my arms again.
When the joy-inspiring draught Frees my soul from anxious thought, Graver thoughts I fling away, Sporting with the young and gay.
When I glow with generous wine, Life's real blessings all are mine, Joys beyond the reach of fate— Death is sure in every state.
# Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 4

ODE IV.—ON HIMSELF.
On this flowery couch reclining, Thick with leaves of myrtle strew'd, Every graver care resigning, I will drink in joyous mood.
Mis tunic shorten'd—standing near me, His waist with rushy girdle bound, With rosy wine let Cupid cheer me, And serve the golden goblet round.
For, ah! with what unwearied pace The ceaseless wheel of life runs on! Just like the chariot's rapid race, How swift the course, how quickly run!
Yet thus, alas! our moments fly; Thus pass our fleeting years away; And soon shall we neglected lie, A little dust—a lump of clay!
Then why, when life's short scene is o'er, Anoint a cold unconscious stone? Why vainly rich libations pour, Or call ray ghost with useless moan?
Nay, rather, friends, anoint me now, While life remains, and fate is kind; With rosy garlands crown my brow, And go, my lovely fair one find.
My cares I'll drown in pleasure's tide, Before my wand'ring spirit go Where unsubstantial spectres glide, And dance in dismal shades below.
* ↑ Madame Dacier observes that the ancients were fond of reposing on leaves of fragrant herbs and flowers, which afforded them a soft and pleasant couch, and at the same time regaled their senses with their agreeable odours. A passion for perfumes and flowers seems to be common to all oriental nations.
* ↑ If, according to the ancient proverb, it is commendable to receive instruction even from an enemy, surely we should not disdain to be made wiser by a heathen. These lines contain a fine moral sentiment; and the Christian reader, excited by higher motives, will seek to improve that time which, ceaseless in its progress, and irrevocable in its flight, is given to him for nobler purposes than to be wasted in trifling pursuits or sensual indulgences.
* ↑ The custom among the ancients of pouring sweet unguents on the tombs of their deceased friends, and crowning them with chaplets of flowers, is well known. The eastern nations are still remarkable for the careful and affectionate attention they bestow on their departed relatives. "The Turkish burying ground stands on the slope of the hill, at a small distance from the town, near that of the Jews and is encircled by a deep grove of cypress trees. No guard or shade around a cemetery can be so suitable as that of this noble tree; with its waveless and mournful foliage, it looks the very emblem of mortality. The Orientals love that everything should be sad and impressive round the abodes of their dead, which they never approach but with the deepest reverence; and they often sit for hours in their kiosks on the Bosphorus, gazing with mournful pleasure on the shores of Asia, where the ashes of their fathers are laid."—Carne's Letters from the East, p. 65.
* ↑ It seems not a little remarkable that the ancients, amid all their wild and extravagant fancies, never "affected the skies;" or, in other words, that they contented themselves with an elysium in the infernal regions, assigning the heavens above them to their gods and demigods alone. In this, as in many other respects, Christianity has enlarged our ideas, and exalted our hopes beyond the most daring conceptions of the heathen world.
# Oregon Exchanges/Volume 1

* Number 1 (June 1917)
* Number 2 (July 1917)
* Number 3 (November 1917)
* Number 4 (December 1917)
* Number 5 (March 1918)
* Number 6 (June 1918)
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Higher Unity

THE HIGHER UNITY
"The Rev. Isaiah Bunter has disappeared into the interior of the Solomon Islands, and it is feared that he may have been devoured by the natives, as there has been a considerable revival of religious customs among the Polynesians."
A real paragraph from a real Paper; only the names altered.
IT was Isaiah Bunter Who sailed to the world's end, And spread religion in a way That he did not intend.
He gave, if not the gospel-feast, At least a ritual meal; And in a highly painful sense He was devoured with zeal.
And who are we (as Henson says) That we should close the door? And should not Evangelicals All jump at shedding Gore?
And many a man will melt in man, Becoming one, not two, When smacks across the startled earth The Kiss of Kikuyu.
​When Man is the Turk, and the Atheist, Essene, Erastian Whig, And the Thug and the Druse and the Catholic, And the crew of the Captain's gig.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Mortal Answers

THE MORTAL ANSWERS
. . . . . . COME AWAY— WITH THE FAIRIES, HAND IN HAND,
FOR THE WORLD IS MORE FULL OF WEEPING
THAN YOU CAN UNDERSTAND.
FROM the Wood of the Old Wives' Fables They glittered out of the grey, And with all the Armies of Elf-land I strove like a beast at bay;
With only a right arm wearied, Only a red sword worn, And the pride of the House of Adam That holdeth the stars in scorn.
For they came with chains of flowers And lilies lances free, There in the quiet greenwood To take my grief from me.
And I said, "Now all is shaken When heavily hangs the brow, When the hope of the years is taken The last star sunken. Now—
​"Hear, you chattering cricket, Hear, you spawn of the sod, The strange strong cry in the darkness Of one man praising God,
"That out of the night and nothing With travail of birth he came To stand one hour in the sunlight Only to say her name.
"Falls through her hair the sunshine In showers; it touches, see, Her high bright cheeks in turning; Ah, Elfin Company,
"The world is hot and cruel, We are weary of heart and hand, But the world is more full of glory: Than you can understand."
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Earth's Vigil

THE EARTH'S VIGIL
THE old earth keepeth her watch the same, Alone in a voiceless void doth stand, Her orange flowers in her bosom flame, Her gold ring in her hand. The surfs of the long gold-crested morns Break ever more at her great robe's hem, And evermore come the bleak moon-horns, But she keepeth not watch for them.
She keepeth her watch through the æon, But the heart of her groweth not old, For the peal of the bridegroom's pæans, And the tale she once was told.
The nations shock and the cities reel, The empires travail and rive and rend, And she looks on havoc and smoke and steel, And knoweth it is not the end. The faiths may choke and the powers despair, The powers re-arise and the faiths renew, She is only a maiden, waiting there, For the love whose word is true.
She keepeth her watch through the æons, But the heart of her groweth not old, ​For the peal of the bridegroom's pæans, And the tale she once was told.
Through the cornfield's gleam and the cottage shade, They wait unwearied, the young and old, Mother for child and man for maid, For a love that once was told. The hair grows grey under thatch or slates, The eyes grow dim behind lattice panes, The earth-race wait as the old earth waits, And the hope in the heart remains.
She keepeth her watch through the æons, But the heart of her groweth not old, For the peal of the bridegroom's pæans, And the tale she once was told.
God's gold ring on her hand is bound, She fires with blossom the grey hill-sides, Her fields are quickened, her forests crowned, While the love of her heart abides, And we from the fears that fret and mar Look up in hours and behold awhile Her face, colossal, mid star on star, Still looking forth with a smile.
She keepeth her watch through the æons, But the heart of her groweth not old, For the peal of the bridegroom's pæans, And the tale she once was told.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Great Minimum

THE GREAT MINIMUM
IT is something to have wept as we have wept, It is something to have done as we have done, It is something to have watched when all men slept, And seen the stars which never see the sun.
It is something to have smelt the mystic rose, Although it break and leave the thorny rods, It is something to have hungered once as those Must hunger who have ate the bread of gods.
To have seen you and your unforgotten face, Brave as a blast of trumpets for the fray, Pure as white lilies in a watery space, It were something, though you went from me to-day.
To have known the things that from the weak are furled, Perilous ancient passions, strange and high; It is something to be wiser than the world, It is something to be older than the sky.
In a time of sceptic moths and cynic rusts, And fattened lives that of their sweetness tire In a world of flying loves and fading lusts, It is something to be sure of a desire.
​Lo, blessed are our ears for they have heard; Yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen: Let thunder break on man and beast and bird And the lightning. It is something to have been.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The House of Christmas

THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS
THERE fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome.
For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honour and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun.
A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam; Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost—how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky's dome.
​This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star.
To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Nativity

THE NATIVITY
THE thatch on the roof was as golden, Though dusty the straw was and old, The wind had a peal as of trumpets, Though blowing and barren and cold, The mother's hair was a glory Though loosened and torn, For under the eaves in the gloaming A child was born.
Have a myriad children been quickened, Have a myriad children grown old, Grown gross and unloved and embittered, Grown cunning and savage and cold? God abides in a terrible patience, Unangered, unworn, And again for the child that was squandered A child is born.
What know we of æons behind us, Dim dynasties lost long ago, Huge empires, like dreams unremembered, Huge cities for ages laid low? ​This at least—that with blight and with blessing, With flower and with thorn, Love was there, and his cry was among them, "A child is born."
Though the darkness be noisy with systems, Dark fancies that fret and disprove, Still the plumes stir around us, above us The wings of the shadow of love: Oh! princes and priests, have ye seen it Grow pale through your scorn. Huge dawns sleep before us, deep changes, A child is born.
And the rafters of toil still are gilded With the dawn of the star of the heart, And the wise men draw near in the twilight, Who are weary of learning and art, And the face of the tyrant is darkened, His spirit is torn, For a new King is enthroned; yea, the sternest, A child is born.
And the mother still joys for the whispered First stir of unspeakable things, Still feels that high moment unfurling Red glory of Gabriel's wings. ​Still the babe of an hour is a master Whom angels adorn, Emmanuel, prophet, anointed, A child is born.
And thou, that art still in thy cradle, The sun being crown for thy brow, Make answer, our flesh, make an answer, Say, whence art thou come—who art thou? Art thou come back on earth for our teaching To train or to warn—? Hush—how may we know?—knowing only A child is born.