OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Travels of Ludovico di Varthema

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Ludovico di Varthema was a renowned 16th century world traveler, who provided many of the first writings of contact with foreign cultures, and was the first non-Muslim known to attend the Hajj pilgrimage.
This edition is an 1863 English translation of the original 1510 Italian work.
THE TRAVELS
OF
LUDOVICO DI VARTHEMA
IN
EGYPT, SYRIA, ARABIA DESERTA AND ARABIA FELIX, IN PERSIA, INDIA, AND ETHIOPIA,
A.D. 1503 TO 1508.
Translated
FROM THE ORIGINAL ITALIAN EDITION OF 1510,
WITH A PREFACE,
BY
JOHN WINTER JONES, Esq., F.S.A.,
And Edited
WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTION
BY
George Percy Badger,
LATE GOVERNMENT CHAPLAIN IN THE PRESIDENCY OF BOMBAY, AUTHOR OF "THE NESTORIANS AND THEIR RITUALS ETC., ETC., ETC.
WITH A MAP.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR THE HAKLUYT SOCIETY.
M.DCCC.LXIII
TO THE
RIGHT HONORABLE
SIR CHARLES WODD, Bart., G.C.B.,
HER MAJESTY'S SECRETARY OF STATE FOR INDIA,
THIS EDITION
OF THE EASTERN TRAVELS OF
LUDOVICO DI VARTHEMA,
AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY,
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
BY THE EDITOR.
* Travels in Burma
* Pilgrimage with the Muslims
# The Travels of Macarius, Patriarch of Antioch

Volume I Volume II
# The Travels of Macarius, Patriarch of Antioch/Volume 1

The
Travels of Macarius,
Patriarch of Antioch:
Written
by his Attendant Archdeacon, Paul of Aleppo,
in Arabic.
Volume I.
Translated
by F. C. Belfour, A.M. Oxon. M.R.A.S.
LL.D. of the Greek University of Corfu,
&c. &c. &c.
London:
printed for the Oriental Translation Fund
of Great-Britain and Ireland;
and sold by by A. J. Valpy, Red-Lion Court.
M DCCC XXXVI.
Index to Part I.
Book I. Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
Sect. X.
Sect. XI.
Sect. XII.
Sect. XIII.
Sect. XIV.
Sect. XV.
Sect. XVI.
Sect. XVII.
Book II. Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
Sect. X.
Sect. XI.
Sect. XII.
Sect. XIII.
Sect. XIV.
Sect. XV.
Sect. XVI.
Sect. XVII.
Sect. XVIII.
Sect. XIX.
Sect. XX.
Sect. XXI.
Sect. XXII.
Sect. XXIII.
Sect. XXIV.
Sect. XXV.
Sect. XXVI.
Sect. XXVII.
Index to Part II.
Book III. Wallachia.
Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
Sect. X.
Sect. XI.
Sect. XII.
Sect. XIII.
Sect. XIV.
Book IV. Cossack Country.
Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
Sect. X.
Sect. XI.
Sect. XII.
Sect. XIII.
Sect. XIV.
Sect. XV.
Sect. XVI.
Sect. XVII.
Sect. XVIII.
Sect. XIX.
Index to Part III.
Book V. Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
Sect. X.
Sect. XI.
Book VI. Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
Sect. X.
Sect. XI.
Index to Part IV.
Book VII. Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
Sect. X.
Book VIII. Sect. I.
Sect. II.
Sect. III.
Sect. IV.
Sect. V.
Sect. VI.
Sect. VII.
Sect. VIII.
Sect. IX.
# The Vintage/Part 3

Part III
THE TREADING OF THE GRAPES
# The Sad Years/The Human Touch

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE HUMAN TOUCH
She made roses all the day for pretty ladies' wear, All through the patient hours, half into the night. Dragged into a hurried knot all her dusty hair, Eyes foolish with fatigue, straining to the light.
Pretty ladies roamed away over land and sea, Talked on foreign boulevard, laughed in gay bazaar; Followed summer's sunny road planning times to be, Happy hours of holiday, as the seasons are.
She made roses all the day for pretty ladies' wear, All through the long day, half into the night. Followed all the toiling hours with a dumb despair Lest they overtake her skill in their hurried flight.
Pretty ladies in the park driving up and down, Chatting of the horrid war, strolling on the grass, Shopping long in Regent Street, over cloak or gown, Waving hand or handkerchief as the soldiers pass.
She made roses all the day for pretty ladies' wear, Threepence for a dozen such, working to the night. Just an hour of holiday left her cupboard bare, She knew naught of Regent Street or of war's affright.
Sudden in a dusky hour came a stranger bird, To the frightened city's gloom, in her silent race Flew to drop her evil egg where the slow winds stirred Wrapping mist from some rich store for her nesting place.
But the pitying breath of night blowing from the west Blew the evil bird to go in the smoke and gloom, So that sudden death might bring for the toiler rest— Give her splendid liberty from her prison room.
She had never time to weep, dim eyes and holiday, Left her roses all unborn, left the cupboard bare. Now she cried and rising flung roses all away, Swift as any lady ran down the narrow stair.
All the pretty ladies prayed, with uplifted glance, Thanked God that each lovely life had not met its doom, She prayed in her prison place for the “lucky chance” That had saved her sweated life from the restful tomb.
Thanked God she made roses still for pretty ladies' wear, Threepence for a dozen such, working to the night. Dragged into a hurried knot all her dusty hair— Eyes foolish with fatigue straining to the light.
# The Sad Years/The House of Cards

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE HOUSE OF CARDS
O the chatter, chatter, chatter, Of the things that do not matter. Little wordy things that clatter, Restless feet that pitter patter, All my pretty houses scatter, All my noble castles scatter.
See I build it tower by tower, Kingly hall and queenly bower, Into skies celestial throwing, Spire and turret upward growing, Prisoned sunshine for its lighting, Rainbow beams its roof uniting. Kings and queens and noble people Look from turret, peep from steeple, With a handsome knave or two All the fairy ways pursue.
But the clatter, clatter, clatter, Of the things that do not matter,
All the talk of dining, wining, Discontented people whining, All my pretty houses scatter, All my noble castles scatter.
See from out yon casement shady, Leans a fair and lovely lady. Gems and jewels flashing, gleaming. 'Tis the queen of diamonds dreaming. She is sad and somewhat lonely, All she lost in loving only Riches, games were all her passion, She is mourning in her fashion. See, she leans, her casement gracing, Watching yonder dark king pacing Up and down the paths beneath her. Does she dream he'll kneel, entreat her Into love with serenading, At her coldness stay upbraiding? Ah, she wots not he is sighing, Only is his fond heart sighing For dark eyes and nut-brown tresses. 'Tis not she his love-thought blesses.
Oh, the chatter, chatter, chatter, Of the things that never matter. Of the tongues that rage or flatter And the countless feet that clatter With their noisy pitter patter, Till my castles all they scatter, All my pretty houses scatter.
See yon splendid pageant forming, To the gates the draw-bridge storming. Yonder come in kingly passion Lords and knights in war-like fashion. See the black-browed monarch going, Drums a-rolling, trumpets blowing, Clash of sword and armour's rattle He so full of rage and battle For a mad-cap princess hiding In some secret nook deriding All his wild and fierce pursuing, All his dark and despot wooing.
But they must not in their passion, Break my song in such a fashion,
Make no discord in my singing, That dream song that goes a-ringing Through the chambers of my houses, See the clash of war arouses, He the greatest king who, reigning, Rules in this dear land of feigning, King of hearts, he leads his lady Down the pleasant rue path shady, Down to greet the dark-browed lover, Help his mad-cap queen discover. And I hear from roof to rafter Naught but song and fairy laughter.
Till the chatter, chatter, chatter, Comes of things that do not matter; Much ado of wining, dining, Dismal voices whining, pining. Restless feet that pitter, patter, All my pleasant castles scatter, All my happy houses scatter.
# The Sad Years/The Loiterer

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE LOITERER
When Youth, led on by love and folly, strays, Kissing sweet eyes beyond the allotted hour That he should turn to labour and forget Beyond his window beauty breaks to flower.
O greybeard, pause before thy anger strikes Those joyful moments from his happy face. They make a glory of his sullen task And turn his workshop to a godly place.
Thou couldst not scold if by thy window wide A mating thrush his love-song softly sung, And the green horn of Spring blew Summer airs That once thou chorused well when thou wert young.
Then, greybeard, chase the frown from off thy brow, Since Time, alas! will soon belabour him; And think what would become of joyous Spring Were hoary Winter to be always grim.
# The Sad Years/The Palace Gate

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE PALACE GATE
“Halt, who goes there?” “'Tis for the new-born king, In long processions see what gifts we bring. Here cometh Care with sheaf of troubled years, And here is Grief with dish of women's tears. Frail Glory, too, holds out her heavy crown, And Joy comes pale with merry eyes cast down, Sweet Love drags slow by passion's eager feet To make alarm into a swift retreat, Here Marriage leads the law-selected wife, And yonder Death with the assassin's knife.”
And as they stood before the palace gate, Now all disturbed to wonder and to wait. A little ghost from out the palace ran And through the crowd to force his way began, Their mourning garments beat about his face. He thrust black Care and Glory from their place, Love took one hand, the other held by Joy, Who ran to safety with the pretty boy.
Then soon from far came laughter strangely sweet And on the floor of Heaven running feet.
The soldier closed the clanging palace gate Upon the crowd who murmured still to wait. “Take back your gifts, you may not pass,” he said. “Hear the bell toll—the little king is dead.”
# The Sad Years/The Prisoner

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE PRISONER
All day I lie beneath the great pine tree, Whose perfumed branches wave and shadow me, I hear the groaning of its straining heart As in the breeze its thin leaves meet and part Like frantic fingers loosened and entwined, I hear it whisper to the sighing wind, “What of the mountain peaks, where I was born?” As sharp tears drop I feel its falling thorn.
I see in the far clouds the wild geese fly, Homeward once more, free, in the storm-swept sky. Back to the land they loved, all, all, have gone, How swift the flight by joy and hope led on. “What of the mountain land where I was born?” I cry, they pass, glad in the dawning morn, Home to the moon-pale lake, the heath-clad hill, And give no thought for one imprisoned still.
All day I lie beneath the sad pine tree, Whose groaning branches wave and shadow me,
Chained to the earth, the dark clay of the grave, In helpless passion feel its wild heart rave, “Free, set me free,” I hear its moaning breath, Where liberty means nought, alas, but death. Ah, freedom is but death.
# The Sad Years/The Queen

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE QUEEN
I saw her many years ago, my gladness and my grief.
She stood amongst the barley fields to bind the wayward sheaf.
She walked upon the mountain's side to draw the brown turf home,
She planted many famine crops within the peaty loam.
From rugged rocks and silver shore she gathered grey sloakeen.
She made the green earth brown again, and made the brown earth green.
She wearied in those striving years from morning until night.
Her fields grew wide, her stately home shone in the morning light.
But oh, those hours of yesterday, mo storeen and mo crie,
I saw her turn her face away to hide her grief from me.
I flew to her a while ago, my thousand joys—so dear;
For ruin fell upon her house and I was full of fear.
I saw wild fury seize her home, I heard a red wind scream,
I saw the groaning roof-tree fall, the flame on wall and beam.
I fell upon the broken way, struck down by chill despair:
“My life's long love, my only joy, my dear beyond compare,
A thousand souls will bleed with mine, a thousand hearts expire,
To see so fair a form as thine upon a martyr's fire.”
From out the glow, from out the flame, from ruin fierce and wild,
I saw her come with dancing feet and glad face like a child,
Her red-gold hair, her snow-white brow, her gown of silken green:
Out through the ruins of her home, she walked as would a queen.
Ni Houlihan, Ni Houlihan, she came a splendid queen.
# The Sad Years/The Question

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE QUESTION
Give me the heavy sleep, the dreamless slumber Nor shrouded grief nor sorrow will encumber. Let me but sleep as he whose labour-hand Hath tilled the sod and ploughed the pleasant land, But, God ! to dream, to wake, and dream again, Where screams red war in harvesting dead men. Ah! dream of home, of love, of joy, all thrilling, To wake once more to killing, killing, killing.
Give me the hunter's hand, the patriot's fervour To hold death naught, or for my land to serve her, Slay and still slay, with heart that holds no sorrow For these dead men and all their carnal horror. Was I not one who loved my land for growing Sweet, eager life, and pretty things all blowing? How glad these hands to give their toil, how willing, That now, O God ! grow strong in killing, killing.
I never see a young face grey in dying But from my blade I hear a woman crying:
“Spare, spare my child!” or screams my bullet, saying, “Stay, stay thy flight! My father thou art slaying.” All summer through I heard from each pale sleeper, “Thou shalt not kill.” “Am I my brother's keeper?” I fain replied. And now comes dread December, With “Peace on Earth.” O God! dare I remember? “To men goodwill.” Am I Thy laws fulfilling Who run red-handed—killing, killing, killing?
# The Sad Years/The Defenders

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE DEFENDERS
Leave me my dreams, and I shall not repine; Youth's eager hours, love's restless holiday. Leave me my dreams, a castled garden mine— Where all unchid my wand'ring feet can stray.
Leave me my dreams, the foe is at my door, Time's swinging scythe, and disappointed years. Leave me my dreams, and they can yet restore The crumbling walls, where crouch invading fears.
Leave me my dreams, nor can rude sorrow break Into my fortress where content I go. Leave me my dreams, and who dare combat make On Youth's sweet hours, or lay Hope's castle low?
# The Sad Years/The Hours of Illness

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE HOURS OF ILLNESS
How slow creeps time! I hear the midnight chime, And now late revellers prepare for sleep; A last gay voice rings in a passing rhyme, And past my door the anxious footsteps creep.
The little clocks from hidden places call, 'Tis one o'clock; downstairs the big clock's bell Tolls deep, and then comes forth the merry chime, Like laughing children calling, “All is well!”
'Tis two o'clock ! Why in the lonesome room This creak and crack, if there be no one here? Whose feet disturb the loose board of the floor? Whose secret presence fills the dark with fear?
'Tis three o'clock! O God, when comes sweet rest? To sleep, to sleep, within this sleeping house, Where all could wake with less fatigue than I, Where no one stirs save some adventurous mouse!
'Tis four o'clock! Death stands at my bed-head In meditation deep, with hidden face, And I alone—a coward—alone, afraid, Lest he from his dread brow the shroud displace.
'Tis five o'clock! Within the empty room, Threading their way, the happy dead appear, More living than the quick in this still night— All whom I loved or held me ever dear.
'Tis six o'clock! Death moves from my bed-head, Flings high the shroud from off his hidden face. “O gentle death! O fair and lovely shade, Lift this sad spirit from its dwelling-place!”
The clock at seven! Hear the milkman come. Loud clangs the gate; the room is chill and dark. The maid, reluctant rising, frees the door; A dog runs forth with shrill, offensive bark.
The clock strikes eight! The curtains pulled aside Let in the light, so cold, so bleak, so grey. From their dark hiding come familiar things, And through my window looks another day.
# The Sad Years/The Patchwork Quilt

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE PATCHWORK QUILT
Bring to me white roses, roses, pinks, and lavender, Sweet stock and gillyflowers, poppies mauve and red, Bee-flowers and mignonette, with blue forget-me-not— I would make a coverlet for my narrow bed.
Bring me no silken cloth, velvet sheen or satin shine, Gossamer of woven lace, gold and silver thread, Purple deep and dove, and grey, through my idle fingers fall, Bidding me in patient hours make a patchwork spread.
Since I must go forth alone, far beyond the roof-tree's shade, Out into the open soon lonely there to lie, What want I of silken cloth woven by the hands of men? Time would soon despoil me there as he passed me by.
Bring to me white roses then, roses, pinks and lavender, Sweet stock and gillyflowers, poppies gold and red, Bee-flowers and mignonette and blue forget-me-not, So I have a coverlet for my narrow bed.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/To Damascus

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 87–88
TO DAMASCUS
Where the sinister sun of the Syrians beat On the brittle, bright stubble, And the camels fell back from the swords of the heat, Came Saul, with a fire in the soles of his feet, And a forehead of trouble.
And terrified faces to left and to right, Before and behind him, Fled away with the speed of a maddening fright To the cloughs of the bat and the chasms of night, Each hoping the zealot would fail in his flight To find him and bind him.
For, behold you! the strong man of Tarsus came down With breathings of slaughter, From the priests of the city, the chiefs of the town (The lords with the sword, and the sires with the gown), To harry the Christians, and trample, and drown, And waste them like water.
He was ever a fighter, this son of the Jews— A fighter in earnest; And the Lord took delight in the strength of his thews, For He knew he was one of the few He could choose To fight out His battles and carry His news Of a marvellous truth through the dark and the dews, And the desert lands furnaced!
​He knew he was one of the few He could take For His mission supernal, Whose feet would not falter, whose limbs would not ache, Through the waterless lands of the thorn and the snake, And the ways of the wild—bearing up for the sake Of a Beauty eternal.
And therefore the road to Damascus was burned With a swift, sudden brightness; While Saul, with his face in the bitter dust, learned Of the sin which he did ere he tumbled, and turned Aghast at God's whiteness!
Of the sin which he did ere he covered his head From the strange revelation. But, thereafter, you know of the life that he led— How he preached to the peoples, and suffered, and sped With the wonderful words which his Master had said, From nation to nation.
Now would we be like him, who suffer and see, If the Chooser should choose us! For I tell you, brave brothers, whoever you be, It is right, till all learn to look further, and see, That our Master should use us!
It is right, till all learn to discover and class, That our Master should task us: For now we may judge of the Truth through a glass; And the road over which they must evermore pass, Who would think for the many, and fight for the mass, Is the road to Damascus.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Urara

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 25–26
URARA
Euroka, go over the tops of the hill, For the Death-clouds have passed us to-day, And we'll cry in the dark for the foot-falls still, And the tracks which are fading away! Let them yell to their lubras, the Bulginbah dogs, And say how our brothers were slain, We shall wipe out our grief in the blood of their chief, And twenty more dead on the plain— On the blood-spattered spurs of the plain! But the low winds sigh, And the dead leaves fly, Where our warriors lie, In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen On the banks of the gloomy Urara! Urara! Urara! On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
The Wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass, And crawl to their coverts for fear; But we'll sit in the ashes and let them pass Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear! Oh! our hearts will be lonely and low to-night When we think of the hunts of yore; And the foes that we sought, and the fights which we fought, With those who will battle no more— Who will go to the battle no more! For the dull winds sigh, And the dead leaves fly, Where our warriors lie, In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen On the banks of the gloomy Urara! Urara! Urara! On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Oh! the gorges and gullies are black with crows, And they feast on the flesh of the brave; But the forest is loud with the howls of our foes For those whom they never can save! ​Let us crouch with our faces down to our knees, And hide in the dark of our hair; For we will not return where the camp-fires burn, And see what is smouldering there— What is smouldering, mouldering there! Where the sad winds sigh— The dead leaves fly, And our warriors lie; In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen On the banks of the gloomy Urara! Urara! Urara! On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Waiting and Wishing

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 30–31
WAITING AND WISHING
I loiter by this surging sea, Here, by this surging, sooming sea, Here, by this wailing, wild-faced sea, Dreaming through the dreamy night; Yearning for a strange delight! Will it ever, ever, ever fly to me, By this surging sea, By this surging, sooming sea, By this wailing, wild-faced sea?
​I know some gentle spirit lives, Some loving, lonely spirit lives, Some melancholy spirit lives, Walking o'er the earth for me, Searching round the world for me! Will she ever, ever, ever hither come? Where the waters roam, Where the sobbing waters roam! Where the raving waters roam!
All worn and wasted by the storms, All gapped and fractured by the storms, All split and splintered by the storms, Overhead the caverns groan, Gloomy, ghastly caverns groan!— Will she ever, ever, ever fill this heart? Peace, O longing heart! Peace, O longing, beating heart! Peace, O beating, weary heart!
# The Poems of John Dyer

​The Welsh Library
Edited by Owen Edwards.
THE POEMS OF JOHN DYER
The Welsh Library.
Edited by Owen M. Edwards, Author of "Wales." Each volume Foolscap 8vo. 2s. Cloth; 1s. paper.
Vols. 1-3 THE MABINOGION.
4 THE POEMS OF JOHN DYER. Edited by Edward Thomas, B.A., Author of "Horae Solitariae."
5 A SHORT HISTORY OF WALES. By the Editor.
6 A SHORT HISTORY OF WELSH LITERATURE. By the Editor.
7 THE WORKS OF GEORGE HERBERT. Edited by Miss Louise I. Guiney.
THE POEMS OF JOHN DYER
EDITED BY EDWARD
THOMAS, AUTHOR
OF "HORAE SOLI- TARIAE" LONDON T. FISHER UNWIN ii PATERNOSTER
BUILDINGS. MXCIII
CONTENTS
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 Poems of John Dyer/An Epistle to a Friend in Town

AN EPISTLE
TO A FRIEND IN TOWN.
Have my friends in the town, in the gay busy town, Forgot such a man as John Dyer? Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown, Whose bosom no pageantries fire?
No matter, no matter—content in the shades—5 (Contented!—why everything charms me) Fall in tunes all adown the green steep, ye cascades! Till hence rigid virtue alarms me:
Till outrage arises, or misery needs The swift, the intrepid avenger;10 Till sacred religion or liberty bleeds, Then mine be the deed and the danger.
Alas! what a folly, that wealth and domain We heap up in sin and in sorrow! Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain!15 Is not life to be over to-morrow.
Then glide on my moments, the few that I have, Smooth-shaded, and quiet, and even, While gently the body descends to the grave, And the spirit arises to heaven.20