OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 143/Issue 1852/Familiar Faces

Originally published in Irish Monthly.
Familiar Faces
I know the words are beautiful,  That those well-chosen rhymes Fall smoothly clear, and musical  As softly calling chimes.
But seldom now I heed the flow  Of rhymes so often told, Although the thoughts that lie below  Seem sweeter than of old.
'Tis much the same, O friend, with you:  I often hardly see How darkly fringed and deeply blue  The eyes you turn on me.
Yes, words and faces that we know  Will pall at times, I fear: 'Tis thoughts and souls that do but grow  More intimately dear.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 143/Issue 1852/Rest

Originally published in Chambers' Journal.
Rest
When thou art weary of the world, and leaning  Upon my breast, My soul will show to thine its hidden meaning,  And thou shalt rest, When thou art eagerly, but vainly, aiming  At some far end, Thou knowest not thy pining and complaining  Have pierced thy Friend. My presence is around thee and about thee —  Thou dost not know — But if thou knewest, thou wouldst ne'er doubt me,  I love thee so. Thou art a very child, and needest guiding —  Thee I will lead: Another guide might be too quick in chiding,  Nor know thy need.
Lean on me, child—nor faint beneath thy sighing,  With help so near: I took upon me all thy grief and dying  To heal thy fear. When thou art resting in my secret dwelling,  Shadowed by me. Thou shalt not tire of listening — I of telling  My love for thee. Thine eyes are bent upon each loving token  Sent by my hand; With these alone thy spirit would be broken  In thy fair land. Thou art a lover of all things of beauty  In earth and space; Then, surely, 'twere thy pleasure and thy duty  Their source to trace.
Track the bright river of each much-prized blessing  Back to its source; See all the blooming growth thy foot is pressing  Along its course. See, gathered in thy storehouse of sweet dreaming,  Each glowing thought, Which daylight, starlight, or the moon's sweet gleaming  To thee have brought, All real beauty which thy heart is greeting —  In this fair earth — All music which thy charmed ear is meeting,  From me had birth. But this will be revealed when thou art leaning  Upon my breast. Thy soul shall comprehend my hidden meaning —  And thou shalt rest.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1855/Beyond

Originally published in Sunday Magazine.
Beyond
Never a word is said,  But it trembles in the air,  And the truant voice has sped,  To vibrate everywhere; And perhaps far off in eternal years The echo may ring upon our ears.
 Never are kind acts done  To wipe the weeping eyes,  But like flashes of the sun,  They signal to the skies; And up above the angels read How we have helped the sorer need.
 Never a day is given,  But it tones the after years,  And it carries up to heaven  Its sunshine or its tears; While the to-morrows stand and wait, The silent mutes by the outer gate.
 There is no end to the sky,  And the stars are everywhere,  And time is eternity,  And the here is over there; For the common deeds of the common day Are ringing bells in the far-away.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1855/Rondeau

Originally published in Academy.
Rondeau
O scorn me not, although my worth be slight, Although the stars alone can match thy light, Although the wind alone can mock thy grace, And thy glass only show so fair a face, Yet let me find some favor in thy sight!  The proud stars will not bend from their lone height,  Nor will the wind thy faithfulness requite —  Thy mirror gives thee but a cold embrace.  O scorn me not!
My lamp is feeble, but by day or night It shall not wane, and but for thy delight My footsteps shall not for a moment's space Forego the echo of thy gentle pace; I would so serve and guard thee if I might.  O scorn me not.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 143/Issue 1852/A Valentine

Originally published in "Poems by Mary T. Reiley."
A Valentine
If I were a leaf on a tree,  And you were the wind from the west; Would you waft me away in your strong embrace,  And pillow my head on your breast?
If you were the sun in his strength,  And I were a morsel of dew; Would you lift me away from my low estate,  And carry me nearer you?
If you were the king among men,  And only my love were mine, Would you single me out from all maidens on earth,  To choose me your Valentine?
# Letters to his brother Quintus/2.12

Translated by Evelyn Shuckburgh

## To Q. Tullius Cicero in Gaul
### Cumae, May 54 BC

I have up to now received two letters from you, one just as I was leaving town, the other dated Ariminum: others which you say in your letter that you have sent I have not received. I am having a fairly pleasant time (except that you are not here) at Cumae and [w:Pompeii|Pompeii]], and intend staying in these parts till the 1st of June. I am writing the treatise of which I spoke to you, On the Republic, a very bulky and laborious work. But if it turns out as I wish, it will be labour well bestowed, and if not I shall toss it into the very sea which I have before my eyes as I write, and set to work on something else; since to do nothing is beyond my power. I will carefully observe your instruction both as to attaching certain persons to myself and not alienating certain others. But my chief care will be to see your son, or rather our son, if possible, every day at any rate, and to watch the progress of his education as often as possible; and, unless he declines my help, I will even offer to be his instructor, a practice to which I have become habituated in the leisure of these days while bringing my own boy, the younger Cicero, on. Yes, do as you say in your letter, what, even if you had not said so, I know you do with the greatest care—digest, follow up, and carry out my instructions. For my part, when I get to Rome, I will let no letter-carrier of Caesar go without a letter for you. During these days you must excuse me: there has been no one to whom I could deliver a letter until the present bearer M. Orfius, a Roman knight, a man that is my friend as well from personal consideration as because he comes from the municipium of Atella, which you know is under my patronage. Accordingly, I recommend him to you with more than common warmth, as a man in a brilliant position in his own town and looked up to even beyond it. Pray attach him to yourself by your liberal treatment of him: he is a military tribune in your army. You will find him grateful and attentive. I earnestly beg you to be very friendly to Trebatius.

## Footnotes

* ↑ A municipium of Campania nine miles from Naples.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 131/Issue 1696/Psalm CXLVIII

* PSALM CXLVIII.
* This versification of the one hundred and forty-eighth psalm was written for the New York Evening Post for Thanksgiving.
* Praise ye the Lord in heaven above
* Ye angels who around him move,
* Ye glorious band of satellites
* Who people his eternal heights.
* Ye first creations of his hand
* Who sprang to life at his command,
* A life that by his firm decree
* Shall lengthen to eternity.
* Ye sun and moon and stars of light,
* The bright reflectors of his sight,
* Ye waters from his throne that spring,
* Praise ye the name of Zion's King!
* Praise him, O earth, in hills and deeps!
* Praise him who all thy creatures keeps,
* Ye elements his praise declare,
* Ye who his earthly cohorts are.
* Mountains and hills and fruitful trees,
* And cedars waving in the breeze,
* Cattle and beasts and creeping things,
* And birds that spread their snowy wings,
* Princes who earthly sceptres sway,
* All people who their rule obey,
* And ye who give the world its law,
* Of your Creator stand in awe.
* Let all mankind, the young, the old,
* Praise him for mercies still untold;
* Let all his mighty sceptre own,
* Whose name is excellent alone.
* Above our faint conceptions far,
* Higher than heaven's remotest star,
* Bow down thine ear, Eternal King,
* Accept the offering we bring!
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 131/Issue 1696/Two Songs

* TWO SONGS.
* [FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.]
* I murmur not. When heart-break is my lot,
* O love forever lost! I murmur not.
* Though diamond-radiance clothes thy form in light,
* There falls no ray upon thy heart's black night.
* That knew I long. I saw thee in a dream,
* And saw the darkness through thy bosom stream,
* And saw the worm which feeds upon thy heart;
* And saw, my love, how sorrowful thou art.
* Yes, thou art wretched, and I murmur not;—
* My love, we shall be wretched, thou and I!
* Till of each aching heart death breaks the knot,
* My love, we shall be wretched, thou and I.
* Upon thy mouth, scorn its light traces leaves,
* I see thine eyes flash out defiantly,
* I see the pride with which thy bosom heaves,—
* Yet, wretched art thou, love, wretched as I.
* Unseen the smart about thy month's unrest,
* Concealed the tears which dim thy lucent eyne,
* Secret the pain which wrings thy haughty breast,—
* Perennial anguish, love, is mine and thine.
* Spectator.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 131/Issue 1696/"Ja, du bist elend, und ich grolle nicht"

* Yes, thou art wretched, and I murmur not;—
* My love, we shall be wretched, thou and I!
* Till of each aching heart death breaks the knot,
* My love, we shall be wretched, thou and I.
* Upon thy mouth, scorn its light traces leaves,
* I see thine eyes flash out defiantly,
* I see the pride with which thy bosom heaves,—
* Yet, wretched art thou, love, wretched as I.
* Unseen the smart about thy month's unrest,
* Concealed the tears which dim thy lucent eyne,
* Secret the pain which wrings thy haughty breast,—
* Perennial anguish, love, is mine and thine.
* Spectator.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 131/Issue 1697

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XVI. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1697. — December 23, 1876. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXI. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Lord Althorpe and the Reform Act of 1832, | Fortnightly Review, | 707 |
| II. | The Marquis of Lossie. By George Macdonald, author of "Malcolm," etc. Part V., | Advance Sheets, | 723 |
| III. | Bunsen and his Wife, | Contemporary Review, | 731 |
| IV. | Thoughts on Criticism, By a Critic, | Cornhill Magazine, | 743 |
| V. | Pages from the Story of my Childhood, | Blackwood’s Magazine, | 751 |
| VI. | An English Homestead, | Fraser’s Magazine, | 762 |
POETRY. :
| King Henry’s Hunt, | King Henry’s Hunt, | King Henry’s Hunt, | 706 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 768 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 131/Issue 1697/King Henry’s Hunt

* From Fraser's Magazine.
* KING HENRY'S HUNT.
* A BALLAD.
* King Henry stood in Waltham Wood,
* One morn in merry May-time;
* Years fifteen hundred thirty-six,
* From Christ had roll'd away time.
* King Henry stood in Waltham Wood,
* All young green, sunny-shady.
* He would not mount his pawing horse,
* Though men and dogs were ready.
* "What ails his Highness? Up and down
* In moody sort he paceth;
* He is not wont to be so slack,
* Whatever game he chaseth."
* He paced and stopp'd; he paced and turn'd;
* At times he inly mutter'd;
* He pull'd his girdle, twitch'd his beard;
* But not one word he utter'd.
* The hounds in couples nosed about,
* Or on the sward lay idle;
* The huntsmen stole a fearful glance,
* While fingering girth or bridle.
* Among themselves, but not too loud,
* The young lords laugh'd and chatter'd,
* Or broke a branch of hawthorn-bloom,
* As though it nothing matter'd.
* King Henry sat on a fell'd oak,
* With gloomier eyes and stranger;
* His brows were knit, his lip he bit;
* To look that way was danger.
* Mused he on pope and emperor?
* Denied them and defied them?
* Or traitors in his very realm
* Complotting? — woe betide them!
* Suddenly on the south-west wind,
* Distinct though distant, sounded
* A cannon shot, — and to his feet
* The king of England bounded.
* "My horse!" he shouts, — "Uncouple now!"
* And all were quickly mounted.
* A hind was found; man, horse, and hound
* Like furious demons hunted.
* Fast fled the deer by grove and glade,
* The chase did faster follow;
* And every wild-wood alley rang
* With hunter's horn and hollo.
* Away together streamed the hounds;
* Forward press'd every rider.
* You're free to slay a hind in May,
* If there's no calf beside her.
* King Harry rode a mighty horse,
* His Grace being broad and heavy,
* And like a stormy wind he crash'd
* Through copse and thicket leavy.
* He rode so hard, and roar'd so loud,
* All men his course avoided;
* The fiery steed, long held on fret,
* With many a snort enjoy'd it.
* The hind was kill'd, and down they sat
* To flagon and to pasty.
* "Ha, by Saint George, a noble prince!
* Tho' hot, by times, and hasty."
* Lord Norfolk knew, and other few,
* Wherefore that chase began on
* The signal of a gun far off,
* One growl of distant cannon, —
* And why so jovial grew his Grace,
* That erst was sad and sullen:
* With that boom from the tower, had fall'n
* The head of fair Anne Bullen.
* Her neck, which Henry used to kiss,
* The bloody axe did sever;
* Their little child, Elizabeth,
* She'll see no more forever.
* Gaily the king for Greenwich rides;
* Each moment makes his glee more;
* He thinks — "To-morrow I'm betrothed,
* At last, to young Jane Seymour!"
* The sunshine falls, the wild-bird calls,
* Across the slopes of Epping;
* From grove to glade, through light and shade,
* The troops of deer are stepping.
* W. A..
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 131/Issue 1696/The Night Cometh

* THE NIGHT COMETH.
* Cometh the night wherein no man may labor,
* Therefore we work while yet the day is light;
* To thee, to me, to foeman, friend and neighbor
* Cometh the night—the night.
* Toil on—toil on, nor dally with the morning,
* Sweet syren couching in a thousand snares,
* Faithless she flies—scanty and brief her warning—
* Leaving thee unawares.
* Then am'rous breath of noon will tempt to pleasure,
* And ease and rest, until the heat be past;—
* Arise, and work! We have no time for leisure
* Whose sky is overcast.
* Aye, overcast. Tho' morn be sweet and pleasant,
* And later noon shall offer fresh delight,
* He surely sees, who looks beyond the present,
* The shadow of the night.
* Terrible night to those with task half ended,
* Who revel careless thro' the rosy hours;
* Leaving the corn, the goodly corn, untended,
* To gather in the flow'rs:
* Which close, or droop, or die when eve advances,
* And lo, the sorry harvest withered lies;
* And phantoms of lost hope, lost time, lost chances
* Out of the gloom arise.
* Not so comes night to all. Sweet sleep will strengthen
* Toilers with burden of the day opprest;
* To whom the evening shadows, while they lengthen,
* Bring peace, and hard-won rest.
* Oh, welcome rest for weary hearts and aching,
* And wounded feet all travel-stained and sore;
* Welcome the rest,—thrice welcome the awaking,
* Never to need it more.
* Work then, nor fear the struggle and the labor;
* For tho', maybe, the day yet seemeth bright,
* To thee, to me, to foeman, friend and neighbor
* Cometh the night — the night.
* Argosy.S. E. G..
# Les Misérables/Volume 3/Book First

Chapters:
* Chapter 1: Parvulus
* Chapter 2: Some of his Particular Characteristics
* Chapter 3: He is Agreeable
* Chapter 4: He may be of Use
* Chapter 5: His Frontiers
* Chapter 6: A Bit of History
* Chapter 7: The Gamin should have his Place in the Classifications of India
* Chapter 8: In which the Reader will find a Charming Saying of the Last King
* Chapter 9: The Old Soul of Gaul
* Chapter 10: Ecce Paris, ecce Homo
* Chapter 11: To Scoff, to Reign
* Chapter 12: The Future Latent in the People
* Chapter 13: Little Gavroche
# Les Misérables/Volume 3/Book First/Chapter 1

Paris has a child, and the forest has a bird; the bird is called the sparrow; the child is called the gamin.
Couple these two ideas which contain, the one all the furnace, the other all the dawn; strike these two sparks together, Paris, childhood; there leaps out from them a little being. Homuncio, Plautus would say.
This little being is joyous. He has not food every day, and he goes to the play every evening, if he sees good. He has no shirt on his body, no shoes on his feet, no roof over his head; he is like the flies of heaven, who have none of these things. He is from seven to thirteen years of age, he lives in bands, roams the streets, lodges in the open air, wears an old pair of trousers of his father's, which descend below his heels, an old hat of some other father, which descends below his ears, a single suspender of yellow listing; he runs, lies in wait, rummages about, wastes time, blackens pipes, swears like a convict, haunts the wine-shop, knows thieves, calls gay women thou, talks slang, sings obscene songs, and has no evil in his heart. This is because he has in his heart a pearl, innocence; and pearls are not to be dissolved in mud. So long as man is in his childhood, God wills that he shall be innocent.
If one were to ask that enormous city: "What is this?" she would reply: "It is my little one."
# Les Misérables/Volume 3/Book First/Chapter 2

The gamin--the street Arab--of Paris is the dwarf of the giant.
Let us not exaggerate, this cherub of the gutter sometimes has a shirt, but, in that case, he owns but one; he sometimes has shoes, but then they have no soles; he sometimes has a lodging, and he loves it, for he finds his mother there; but he prefers the street, because there he finds liberty. He has his own games, his own bits of mischief, whose foundation consists of hatred for the bourgeois; his peculiar metaphors: to be dead is to eat dandelions by the root; his own occupations, calling hackney-coaches, letting down carriage-steps, establishing means of transit between the two sides of a street in heavy rains, which he calls making the bridge of arts, crying discourses pronounced by the authorities in favor of the French people, cleaning out the cracks in the pavement; he has his own coinage, which is composed of all the little morsels of worked copper which are found on the public streets. This curious money, which receives the name of loques--rags--has an invariable and well-regulated currency in this little Bohemia of children.
Lastly, he has his own fauna, which he observes attentively in the corners; the lady-bird, the death's-head plant-louse, the daddy-long-legs, "the devil," a black insect, which menaces by twisting about its tail armed with two horns. He has his fabulous monster, which has scales under its belly, but is not a lizard, which has pustules on its back, but is not a toad, which inhabits the nooks of old lime-kilns and wells that have run dry, which is black, hairy, sticky, which crawls sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly, which has no cry, but which has a look, and is so terrible that no one has ever beheld it; he calls this monster "the deaf thing." The search for these "deaf things" among the stones is a joy of formidable nature. Another pleasure consists in suddenly prying up a paving-stone, and taking a look at the wood-lice. Each region of Paris is celebrated for the interesting treasures which are to be found there. There are ear-wigs in the timber-yards of the Ursulines, there are millepeds in the Pantheon, there are tadpoles in the ditches of the Champs-de-Mars.
As far as sayings are concerned, this child has as many of them as Talleyrand. He is no less cynical, but he is more honest. He is endowed with a certain indescribable, unexpected joviality; he upsets the composure of the shopkeeper with his wild laughter. He ranges boldly from high comedy to farce.
A funeral passes by. Among those who accompany the dead there is a doctor. "Hey there!" shouts some street Arab, "how long has it been customary for doctors to carry home their own work?"
Another is in a crowd. A grave man, adorned with spectacles and trinkets, turns round indignantly: "You good-for-nothing, you have seized my wife's waist!"--"I, sir? Search me!"
# Les Misérables/Volume 3/Book First/Chapter 12

As for the Parisian populace, even when a man grown, it is always the street Arab; to paint the child is to paint the city; and it is for that reason that we have studied this eagle in this arrant sparrow. It is in the faubourgs, above all, we maintain, that the Parisian race appears; there is the pure blood; there is the true physiognomy; there this people toils and suffers, and suffering and toil are the two faces of man. There exist there immense numbers of unknown beings, among whom swarm types of the strangest, from the porter of la Rapee to the knacker of Montfaucon. Fex urbis, exclaims Cicero; mob, adds Burke, indignantly; rabble, multitude, populace. These are words and quickly uttered. But so be it. What does it matter? What is it to me if they do go barefoot! They do not know how to read; so much the worse. Would you abandon them for that? Would you turn their distress into a malediction? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? Let us return to that cry: Light! and let us obstinately persist therein! Light! Light! Who knows whether these opacities will not become transparent? Are not revolutions transfigurations? Come, philosophers, teach, enlighten, light up, think aloud, speak aloud, hasten joyously to the great sun, fraternize with the public place, announce the good news, spend your alphabets lavishly, proclaim rights, sing the Marseillaises, sow enthusiasms, tear green boughs from the oaks. Make a whirlwind of the idea. This crowd may be rendered sublime. Let us learn how to make use of that vast conflagration of principles and virtues, which sparkles, bursts forth and quivers at certain hours. These bare feet, these bare arms, these rags, these ignorances, these abjectnesses, these darknesses, may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Gaze past the people, and you will perceive truth. Let that vile sand which you trample under foot be cast into the furnace, let it melt and seethe there, it will become a splendid crystal, and it is thanks to it that Galileo and Newton will discover stars.
# Lytle v. Arkansas

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Lytle v. Arkansas."
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* Lytle v. Arkansas (50 U.S. 314)
* Lytle v. Arkansas (63 U.S. 193)