OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/Joseph

If the stars fell; night's nameless dreams  Of bliss and blasphemy came true, If skies were green and snow were gold,  And you loved me as I love you;
O long light hands and curled brown hair,  And eyes where sits a naked soul; Dare I even then draw near and burn  My fingers in the aureole?
Yes, in the one wise foolish hour  God gives this strange strength to a man. He can demand, though not deserve,  Where ask he cannot, seize he can.
But once the blood's wild wedding o'er,  Were not dread his, half dark desire, To see the Christ-child in the cot,  The Virgin Mary by the fire?
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Ancient of Days

A child sits in a sunny place,  Too happy for a smile, And plays through one long holiday  With balls to roll and pile; A painted wind-mill by his side  Runs like a merry tune, But the sails are the four great winds of heaven,  And the balls are the sun and moon.
A staring doll's-house shows to him  Green floors and starry rafter, And many-coloured graven dolls  Live for his lonely laughter. The dolls have crowns and aureoles,  Helmets and horns and wings. For they are the saints and seraphim,  The prophets and the kings.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/Ecclesiastes

There is one sin: to call a green leaf grey,  Whereat the sun in heaven shuddereth. There is one blasphemy: for death to pray,  For God alone knoweth the praise of death.
There is one creed: 'neath no world-terror's wing  Apples forget to grow on apple-trees. There is one thing is needful - everything -  The rest is vanity of vanities.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/Eternities

I cannot count the pebbles in the brook.  Well hath He spoken: 'Swear not by thy head,  Thou knowest not the hairs,' though He, we read, Writes that wild number in his own strange book.
I cannot count the sands or search the seas,  Death cometh, and I leave so much untrod.  Grant my immortal aureole, O my God, And I will name the leaves upon the trees.
In heaven I shall stand on gold and glass,  Still brooding earth's arithmetic to spell;  Or see the fading of the fires of hell Ere I have thanked my God for all the grass.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/King’s Cross Station

This circled cosmos whereof man is god  Has suns and stars of green and gold and red, And cloudlands of great smoke, that range o'er range  Far floating, hide its iron heavens o'erhead.
God! shall we ever honour what we are,  And see one moment ere the age expire, The vision of man shouting and erect,  Whirled by the shrieking steeds of flood and fire?
Or must Fate act the same grey farce again,  And wait, till one, amid Time's wrecks and scars, Speaks to a ruin here, 'What poet-race  Shot such cyclopean arches at the stars?'
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/Song of the Children

The World is ours till sunset,  Holly and fire and snow; And the name of our dead brother  Who loved us long ago.
The grown folk mighty and cunning,  They write his name in gold; But we can tell a little  Of the million tales he told.
He taught them laws and watchwords,  To preach and struggle and pray; But he taught us deep in the hayfield  The games that the angels play.
Had he stayed here for ever,  Their world would be wise as ours-- And the king be cutting capers,  And the priest be picking flowers.
But the dark day came: they gathered:  On their faces we could see They had taken and slain our brother,  And hanged him on a tree.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/Modern Elfland

I cut a staff in a churchyard copse,  I clad myself in ragged things, I set a feather in my cap  That fell out of an angel's wings.
I filled my wallet with white stones,  I took three foxgloves in my hand, I slung my shoes across my back,  And so I went to fairyland.
But Lo, within that ancient place  Science had reared her iron crown, And the great cloud of steam went up  That telleth where she takes a town.
But cowled with smoke and starred with lamps  That strange land's light was still its own; The word that witched the woods and hills  Spoke in the iron and the stone.
Not Nature's hand had ever curved  That mute unearthly porter's spine. Like sleeping dragon's sudden eyes  The signals leered along the line.
The chimneys thronging crooked or straight  Were fingers signalling the sky; The dog that strayed across the street  Seemed four-legged by monstrosity.
'In vain,' I cried, 'though you too touch  The new time's desecrating hand, Through all the noises of a town  I hear the heart of fairyland.'
I read the name above a door,  Then through my spirit pealed and passed: 'This is the town of thine own home,  And thou hast looked on it at last.'
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Ballad of God-Makers

A bird flew out at the break of day  From the nest where it had curled, And ere the eve the bird had set  Fear on the kings of the world.
The first tree it lit upon  Was green with leaves unshed; The second tree it lit upon  Was red with apples red;
The third tree it lit upon  Was barren and was brown, Save for a dead man nailed thereon  On a hill above a town.
That right the kings of the earth were gay  And filled the cup and can; Last night the kings of the earth were chill  For dread of a naked man.
'If he speak two more words,' they said,  'The slave is more than the free; If he speak three more words,' they said,  'The stars are under the sea.'
Said the King of the East to the King of the West,  I wot his frown was set, 'Lo; let us slay him and make him as dung,  It is well that the world forget.'
Said the King of the West to the King of the East,  I wot his smile was dread, 'Nay, let us slay him and make him a god,  It is well that our god be dead.'
They set the young man on a hill,  They nailed him to a rod; And there in darkness and in blood  They made themselves a god.
And the mightiest word was left unsaid,  And the world had never a mark, And the strongest man of the sons of men  Went dumb into the dark.
Then hymns and harps of praise they brought,  Incense and gold and myrrh, And they thronged above the seraphim,  The poor dead carpenter.
'Thou art the prince of all,' they sang,  'Ocean and earth and air.' Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross,  And hid in the dead man's hair.
'Thou art the sun of the world,' they cried,  'Speak if our prayers be heard.' And the brown bird stirred in the dead man's hair,  And it seemed that the dead man stirred.
Then a shriek went up like the world's last cry  From all nations under heaven, And a master fell before a slave  And begged to be forgiven.
They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes  The ancient wrath to see; And the bird flew out of the dead Christ's hair,  And lit on a lemon-tree.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/Femina Contra Mundum

The sun was black with judgment, and the moon  Blood: but between I saw a man stand, saying, 'To me at least  The grass is green.
'There was no star that I forgot to fear  With love and wonder. The birds have loved me'; but no answer came--  Only the thunder.
Once more the man stood, saying, 'A cottage door,  Wherethrough I gazed That instant as I turned - yea, I am vile;  Yet my eyes blazed.
'For I had weighed the mountains in a balance,  And the skies in a scale, I come to sell the stars - old lamps for new -  Old stars for sale.'
Then a calm voice fell all the thunder through,  A tone less rough: 'Thou hast begun to love one of my works  Almost enough.'
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/Gold Leaves

Lo! I am come to autumn,  When all the leaves are gold; Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out  The year and I are old.
In youth I sought the prince of men,  Captain in cosmic wars, Our Titan, even the weeds would show  Defiant, to the stars.
But now a great thing in the street  Seems any human nod, Where shift in strange democracy  The million masks of God.
In youth I sought the golden flower  Hidden in wood or wold, But I am come to autumn,  When all the leaves are gold.
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/Sonetto di Vittorelli

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.
PER MONACA.
Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata: e diretto al genitore della sacra sposa.
Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo, Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte L' una e l' altra veggendo, ambe chiedeo.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo: La tua, Francesco, in suggellate porte Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai dalla gelosa Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onde, Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa: Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.
[Opere Edite e Postume di J. Vittorelli, Bassano, 1841, p. 294.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/So we'll go no more a-roving

SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING.
1.
So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
2.
For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And Love itself have rest.
3.
Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
Feb. 28, 1817. [First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 79.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/Sonnet to Lake Leman

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN.
Rousseau—Voltaire—our Gibbon—and De Staël— Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more, Their memory thy remembrance would recall: To them thy banks were lovely as to all, But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core Of human hearts the ruin of a wall Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, ​The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which of the Heirs of Immortality Is proud, and makes the breath of Glory real!
Diodati, July, 1816. [First published, Prisoner of Chillon, etc., 1816.]
* ↑ Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne. [For Rousseau, see Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 277, note 1, 300, 301, note 18; for Voltaire and Gibbon, vide ibid., pp. 306, 307, note 22; and for De Staël, see Letters, 1898, ii. 223, note 1. Byron, writing to Moore, January 2, 1821, declares, on the authority of Monk Lewis, "who was too great a bore ever to lie," that Madame de Staël alleged this sonnet, "in which she was named with Voltaire, Rousseau, etc.," as a reason for changing her opinion about him—"she could not help it through decency." (Letters, 1901, v. 213). It is difficult to believe that Madame de Staël was ashamed of her companions, or was sincere in disclaiming the compliment, though, as might have been expected, the sonnet excited some disapprobation in England. A writer in the Gentleman's Magazine (February, 1818. vol. 88, p. 122) relieved bis feelings by a "Retort Addressed to the Thames"— "Restor'd to my dear native Thames' bank, My soul disgusted spurns a Byron's lay,— · · · · · Leman may idly boast her Staël, Rousseau, Gibbon, Voltaire, whom Truth and Justice shun— · · · · · Whilst meekly shines midst Fulham's bowers the sun O'er Sherlock's and o'er Porteus' honour'd graves, Where Thames Britannia's choicest meads exulting laves."]
* ↑ [Compare— "Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face." Childe Harold Canto III, stanza lxviii. line 1, Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 257.
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/Sonnet on the Nuptials of the Marquis Antonio Cavalli with the Countess Clelia Rasponi of Ravenna

SONNET ON THE NUPTIALS OF THE MARQUIS ANTONIO CAVALLI WITH THE COUNTESS CLELIA RASPONI OF RAVENNA.
A noble Lady of the Italian shore Lovely and young, herself a happy bride, Commands a verse, and will not be denied, ​From me a wandering Englishman; I tore One sonnet, but invoke the muse once more To hail these gentle hearts which Love has tied, In Youth, Birth, Beauty, genially allied And blest with Virtue's soul, and Fortune's store. A sweeter language, and a luckier bard Were worthier of your hopes, Auspicious Pair! And of the sanctity of Hymen's shrine, But,—since I cannot but obey the Fair, To render your new state your true reward, May your Fate be like Hers, and unlike mine.
Ravenna, July 31, 1819. [From an autograph MS. in the possession of the Lady Dorchester, now for the first time printed.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/Sonnet to the Prince Regent

SONNET TO THE PRINCE REGENT.
ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.
To be the father of the fatherless, To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy Sire's sway by a kingdom less,— This is to be a monarch, and repress Envy into unutterable praise. Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless? Were it not easy, Sir, and is't not sweet To make thyself belovéd? and to be Omnipotent by Mercy's means? for thus Thy Sovereignty would grow but more complete, A despot thou, and yet thy people free, And by the heart—not hand—enslaving us.
Bologna, August 12. 1819. [First published, Letters and Journals, ii. 234, 235.]
* ↑ To the Prince Regent on the repeal of the bill of attainder against Lord E. Fitzgerald, June, 1819.
* ↑ To leave ——.—[MS. M.]
* ↑ Who now would lift a hand ——.—[MS. M.]
* ↑ —— becomes but more complete Thyself a despot ——.—[MS.M.]
* ↑ ["So the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' Sonetto! There, you dogs! there's a Sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Mr. Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good; it was a very noble piece of principality."—Letter to Murray, August 12, 1819. For [William Thomas] Fitgerald, see Poetical Works, 1898, i. 297, note 3; for Lord Edward Fitzgerald (1763-1798), see Letters, 1900, iv. 345, note 1. The royal assent was given to a bill for "restoring Edward Fox Fitzgerald and his sisters Pamela and Lucy to their blood," July 13, 1819. The sonnet was addressed to George IV. when Prince Regent. The title, "To George the Fourth," affixed in 1831, is incorrect.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/On the Bust of Helen by Canova

ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA.
In this belovéd marble view Above the works and thoughts of Man, What Nature could but would not do, And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond Imagination's power, Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With Immortality her dower, Behold the Helen of the heart.
November 25, 1816. [First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 61.]
# The Unhappy couple/The lass of Humber-side

The LASS of HUMBER-SIDE.
IN lonely cot, by Humber-ſide, I ſit and mourn my hours away; For conſtant Will was Peggy's pride, and now he ſleeps in Iceland Bay.
Chor. Still as the ſhips paſs to and fro, I fondly lilt to yo, ya, yo; Still as the ſhips paſs to and fro, I fondly lilt to yo, ya, yo. Yo, ya, yo, Yo, ya, yo, Yo, ya, ⟨yo⟩
Six months on Greenland's icy coaſt, where half the year is dreary night, He toil'd for me, and oft would boaſt, that Peggy was his ſole delight.&c.
Ah! woe is me! I often cry, as thro' the broken panes peep, And as the diſtant fails I ſpy I think on deareſt Will and weep.&c.
​(illegible text) loud and ſwelling forms I heard, as on my loneſome bed I lay'd, ⟨All⟩ night alone for Will I fear'd, all night for Will alone I pray'd. Chor Still as the ſhips, &c.
⟨The⟩ bride-knot which my love did wear, looſe hung a pendant o'er my door, ⟨And⟩ when it told the wind was fair, I fancy'd ſoon he'd be on ſhore. Chor. Still as the ſhips, &c.
⟨At⟩ length the very ſhip I ſpy'd, in which my conſtant Will had fail'd; With haſte I ran to Humber-ſide: and loud and oft the ſailors hail'd: ⟨The⟩ deck they travers'd to and fro, and anſwer'd nought but yo, ya, yo.
⟨The⟩ boatſwain, now full near the ſhore, I aſked for Will---he ſhook his head: ⟨I⟩ fear ſaid I, he is no more--- his anſwer was,Poor Will is dead!" ⟨Ah⟩ me! I fell, oppreſs'd with woe! and heard no more their yo, ye, yo.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Union - Who are its Real Friends

The Union - Who Are Its Real Friends?
Not those who charge others with not being its friends, whilst their own conduct is wantonly multiplying its enemies.
Not those who favor measures which, by pampering the spirit of speculation within and without the Government, disgust the best friends of the Union.
Not those who promote unnecessary accumulations of the debt of the Union, instead of the best means of discharging it as fast as possible, thereby increasing the causes of corruption in the Government, and the pretext for new taxes under its authority, the former undermining the confidence, the latter alienating the affection, of the people.
Not those who study, by arbitrary interpretations and insidious precedents, to pervert the limited Government of the Union into a government of unlimited discretion, contrary to the will and subversive of the authority of the people.
Not those who avow or betray principles of monarchy and aristocracy, in opposition to the republican principles of the Union and the republican spirit of the people, or who espouse a system of measures more accommodated to the depraved examples of those hereditary forms than to the true genius of our own.
Not those, in a word, who would force on the people the melancholy duty of choosing between the loss of the Union and the loss of what the Union was meant to secure.
The real Friends of the Union are those who are friends to the authority of the people, the sole foundation on which the Union rests;
Who are friends to liberty, the great end for which the Union was formed;
Who are friends to the limited and republican system of government, the moans provided by that authority for the attainment of that end;
Who are enemies to every public measure that might smooth the way to hereditary government, for resisting the tyrannies of which the Union was first planned, and for more effectually excluding which it was put into its present form;
Who, considering a public debt as injurious to the interests of the people and baneful to the virtue of the Government, are enemies to every contrivance for unnecessarily increasing its amount, or protracting its duration, or extending its influence.
In a word, those are the real friends of the Union who are friends to that republican policy throughout, which is the only cement for the union of a republican people, in opposition to a spirit of usurpation and monarchy, which is the menstruum most capable of dissolving it.
March 31st.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Joseph Addison to Jonathan Swift - 9

FROM MR. ADDISON.
I AM just now come from Finglass, where I have been drinking your health, and talking of you, with one who loves and admires you better than any man in the world, except your humble servant. We both agree in a request, that you will set out for Dublin as soon as possible. To tell you truly, I find the place disagreeable, and cannot imagine why it should appear so now more than it did last year. You know I look upon every thing that is like a compliment as a breach of friendship; and therefore shall only tell you, that I long to see you; without assuring you, that I love your company and value your conversation more than any man's, or that I am, with the most inviolable sincerity and esteem, Dear sir,
Your most faithful, most humble, and most obedient servant, J. ADDISON.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Martha Whiteway to Jonathan Swift - 3

FROM MRS. WHITEWAY.
I RECEIVE as a high favour your just reprimand for not answering your letter by the first post; nay, I will add another fault to it, by endeavouring to excuse myself. It was out of the highest respect I did not write, lest you should think me too forward in giving trouble. But, since I have your license, I will not miss an opportunity of paying my most humble duty, and of acknowledging the greatest obligations I ever lay under to any mortal. I have had the very ill fortune to come late under your care; yet even these disadvantages do not hinder you from acting the most friendly part, of endeavouring to enlarge my mind, and mend my errours: you see how industriously I avoid mentioning the word faults. When you left us, I did not think it would be possible for me to dread getting a letter from you; but the account of your leg, which I find worse and worse, alarms me to that degree, that I tremble for the consequence. I conjure you, dear sir, not to trust any longer to country helps: your appetite, your health, is in the greatest danger, by sitting so much as you must be obliged to do till that is well. I know life is as little regarded by you as any one; but to live in misery, is what I am sure you ought to avoid. The wine was packed up on Tuesday last in a hogshead: I thought that was safer than a hamper: Mr. Kenrick and Laud were by all the time: they and ​ Mr. Shele were here with me that night: they tell me, they got large bottles, of which I gave a great charge. Mr. Shele desires the wine may be kept in the same manner it is now packed, and taken out by half dozens as it is used: the numbers taken out may be chalked on the head of the vessel, to see that justice is done: he thinks it will keep better that way than perhaps in a cellar. I think you came off scandalously cheap, with treating sixteen gentlemen for a moidore. Pray, doctor Sheridan, when the dean next uses you ill, tell him of his pitiful doings.
My son is greatly obliged to you, sir, for your care and advice ; and assures me, your word shall be an oracle to him. He has not had a return of his disorder; yet his stomach is gone, and of consequence his spirits. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan have commanded me to send you their most obedient respects, and are much concerned about your leg. Pray, sir, date your letters. I believe both you and Dr. Sheridan hate writing the word November; for not one of them have been dated. I only hate the day of the month: the truth was, in my last I could not recollect it (for I think I forgot it) and watched for some of the brats to tell me. Lest I should do the same now, be pleased to remember I write this Nov. 22, 1735. I am, sir, your most obedient and most obliged humble servant,
MARTHA WHITEWAY.
If you are pleased to direct to me under cover to Mr. Morgan, I shall get your letters. Perhaps Mr. Rochfort may go out of town, and then I should be long without them.