OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The City of the Dead

THE CITY OF THE DEAD.
'Twas dark with cypresses and yews, which cast  Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers—  Affection's latest signs.***
 Dark portal of another world—the grave—  I do not fear thy shadow; and methinks,  If I may make my own heart oracle,—  The many long to enter thee, for thou  Alone canst reunite the loved and lost  With those who pine for them. I fear thee not;  I only fear my own unworthiness,  Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make  Another parting in another world.
I.
Laurel! oh, fling thy green boughs on the air, There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do there? Thou that art worn on the conqueror's shield, When his country receives him from glory's red field;
Thou that art wreathed round the lyre of the bard, When the song of its sweetness has won its reward. Earth's changeless and sacred—thou proud laurel tree! The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?
II.
Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright, Thou whose whole life is one breath of delight; Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer wind. Fair tablet, still vow'd to the thoughts of the lover, Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written all over; Fragrant as blooming—thou lovely rose tree! The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?
III.
Dark cypress! I see thee—thou art my reply, Why the tears of the night on thy comrade trees lie; That laurel it wreathed the red brow of the brave, Yet thy shadow lies black on the warrior's grave. That rose was less bright than the lip which it prest, Yet thy sad branches bend o'er the maiden's last rest; The brave and the lovely alike they are sleeping, I marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping.
IV.
Yet, sunbeam of heaven! thou fall'st on the tomb— Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom? Before thee the grove and the garden are spread— Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead? Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere, Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here.
Thou art as a herald of hope from above:— Weep, mourner, no more o'er thy grief and thy love! Still thy heart in its beating; be glad of such rest, Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and best. Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie; Weep no more that the loved and the loving must die; Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your feet: But gaze on yon starry world—there ye shall meet.
V.
O heart of mine! is there not One dwelling there To whom thy love clings in its hope and its prayer? For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the day, As a link in the fetters that keep me away? When I think of the glad and the beautiful home, Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come: That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath prest,
That I may be with thee at home and at rest: When wanderer no longer on life's weary shore, I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no more: While death holds such hope forth to soothe and to save, Oh, sunbeam of heaven, thou may'st well light the grave!
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Forgotten One

THE FORGOTTEN ONE.
No shadow rests upon the place  Where once thy footsteps roved; Nor leaf, nor blossom, bear a trace  Of how thou wert beloved. The very night dew disappears Too soon, as if it spared its tears.
Thou art forgotten!—thou, whose feet  Were listen'd for like song! They used to call thy voice so sweet;—  It did not haunt them long. Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth— How could they bear their lonely hearth!
There is no picture to recall  Thy glad and open brow; No profiled outline on the wall  Seems like thy shadow now; They have not even kept to wear One ringlet of thy golden hair.
When here we shelter'd last, appears  But just like yesterday; It startles me to think that years  Since then are pass'd away. The old oak tree that was our tent, No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.
A shower in June—a summer shower,  Drove us beneath the shade;
A beautiful and greenwood bower  The spreading branches made. The raindrops shine upon the bough, The passing rain—but where art thou?
But I forget how many showers  Have wash'd this old oak tree, The winter and the summer hours,  Since I stood here with thee: And I forget how chance a thought Thy memory to my heart has brought.
I talk of friends who once have wept,  As if they still should weep; I speak of grief that long has slept,  As if it could not sleep;
I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness, Have I, myself, forgotten less?
I've mingled with the young and fair,  Nor thought how there was laid One fair and young as any there,  In silence and in shade. How could I see a sweet mouth shine With smiles, and not remember thine?
Ah! it is well we can forget,  Or who could linger on Beneath a sky whose stars are set,  On earth whose flowers are gone? For who could welcome loved ones near, Thinking of those once far more dear,
Our early friends, those of our youth?  We cannot feel again The earnest love, the simple truth,  Which made us such friends then. We grow suspicious, careless, cold; We love not as we loved of old.
No more a sweet necessity,  Love must and will expand, Loved and beloving we must be,  With open heart and hand, Which only ask to trust and share The deep affections which they bear.
Our love was of that early time;  And now that it is past,
It breathes as of a purer clime  Than where my lot is cast. My eyes fill with their sweetest tears In thinking of those early years.
It shock'd me first to see the sun  Shine gladly o'er thy tomb; To see the wild flowers o'er it run  In such luxuriant bloom. Now I feel glad that they should keep A bright sweet watch above thy sleep.
The heaven whence thy nature came  Only recall'd its own; It is Hope that now breathes thy name,  Though borrowing Memory's tone.
I feel this earth could never be The native home of one like thee.
Farewell! the early dews that fall  Upon thy grass-grown bed Are like the thoughts that now recall  Thine image from the dead. A blessing hallows thy dark cell— I will not stay to weep. Farewell!
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Frozen Ship

THE FROZEN SHIP.
The fair ship cut the billows,  And her path lay white behind, And dreamily amid her sails  Scarce moved the sleeping wind.
The sailors sang their gentlest songs,  Whose words were home and love; Waveless the wide sea spread beneath—  And calm the heaven above.
But as they sung, each voice turn'd low,  Albeit they knew not why; For quiet was the waveless sea,  And cloudless was the sky.
But the clear air was cold as clear;  'Twas pain to draw the breath; And the silence and the chill around  Were e'en like those of death.
Colder and colder grew the air,  Spell-bound seem'd the waves to be; And ere night fell, they knew they were lock'd  In the arms of that icy sea.
Stiff lay the sail, chain-like the ropes,  And snow pass'd o'er the main; Each thought, but none spoke, of distant home  They should never see again.
Each look'd upon his comrade's face,  Pale as funereal stone;
Yet none could touch the other's hand,
 For none could feel his own.
Like statues fixed, that gallant band  Stood on the dread deck to die; The sleet was their shroud, the wind their dirge,  And their churchyard the sea and the sky.
Fond eyes watch'd by their native shore,  And prayers to the wild winds gave; But never again came that stately ship  To breast the English wave.
Hope grew fear, and fear grew hope,  Till both alike were done: And the bride lay down in her grave alone,  And the mother without her son.
Years pass'd, and of that goodly ship  Nothing of tidings came; Till, in after-time, when her fate had grown  But a tale of fear and a name—
It was beneath a tropic sky  The tale was told to me; The sailor who told, in his youth had been  Over that icy sea.
He said it was fearful to see them stand,  Nor the living nor yet the dead, And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes  Whose human look was fled.
For frost had done one half life's part,  And kept them from decay;
Those they loved had mouldered, but these  Look'd the dead of yesterday.
Peace to the souls of the graveless dead!  'Twas an awful doom to dree; But fearful and wondrous are thy works,  O God! in the boundless sea!
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Churchyard

THE CHURCHYARD.
The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground, Hallowing its place of rest; and here the dead Slumber, where all religious impulses, And sad and holy feelings, angel like, Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake Those sorrowful emotions in the heart Which purify it, like a temple meet For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life, The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here Do thy remembrances intrude?
The willow shade is on the ground,  A green and solitary shade; And many a wild flower on that mound  Its pleasant summer home has made. And every breath that waves a leaf  Flings down upon the lonely flowers A moment's sunshine, bright and brief—  A blessing looked by passing hours.
Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air,  Half sleep, half song—half false, half true, As if the wind that brought them there  Had touched them with its music too. It is the very place to dream  Away a twilight's idle rest; Where Thought floats down a starry stream,  Without a shadow on its breast.
Where Wealth, the fairy gift, 's our own,  Without its low and petty cares; Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown,  To hide the weary face she wears. Where hopes are high, yet cares come not,  Those fellow-waves of life's drear sea, Its froth and depth—where Love is what  Love only in a dream can be.
I cannot muse beside that mound—  I cannot dream beneath that shade— Too solemn is the haunted ground  Where Death his resting-place has made, I feel my heart beat but to think  Each pulse is bearing life away; I cannot rest upon the grave,  And not feel kindred to its clay.
There is a name upon the stone—  Alas! and can it be the same— The young, the lovely, and the loved?—  It is too soon to bear thy name. Too soon!—oh no, 'tis best to die  Ere all of life save breath is fled:
Why live when feelings, friends, and hopes,  Have long been numbered with the dead?
But thou, thy heart and cheek were bright—  No check, no soil had either known; The angel natures of yon sky  Will only be to thee thine own. Thou knew'st no rainbow-hopes that weep  Themselves away to deeper shade; Nor Love, whose very happiness  Should make the weakening heart afraid.
The green leaves e'en in spring they fall,  The tears the stars at midnight weep, The dewy wild-flowers—such as these  Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep.
For human tears are lava-drops,  That scorch and wither as they flow; Then let them flow for those who live,  And not for those who sleep below.
Oh, weep for those whose silver chain  Has long been loosed, and yet live on— The doomed to drink of life's dark wave,  Whose golden bowl has long been gone! Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn,  Dragged downward by some earthly tie, By some vain hope, some vainer love,  Who loathe to live, yet fear to die.
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Danish Warrior’s Death Song

THE DANISH WARRIOR'S DEATH SONG.
Away, away! your care is vain;  No leech could aid me now; The chill of death is at my heart,  Its damp upon my brow.
Weep not—I shame to see such tears  Within a warrior's eyes: Away! how can ye weep for him  Who in the battle dies?
If I had died with idle head  Upon my lady's knee— Had Fate stood by my silken bed,   Then might ye weep for me.
But I lie on my own proud deck  Before the sea and sky; The wind that sweeps my gallant sails  Will have my latest sigh.
My banner floats amid the clouds,  Another droops below: Well with my heart's best blood is paid  Such purchase from a foe.
Go ye and seek my halls, there dwells  A fair-hair'd boy of mine; Give him my sword, while yet the blood  Darkens that falchion's shine.
Tell him that only other blood  Should wash such stains away;
And if he be his father's child,  There needs no more to say.
Farewell, my bark! farewell, my friends!  Now fling me on the wave; One cup of wine, and one of blood,  Pour on my bounding grave.
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Factory

THE FACTORY.
'Tis an accursed thing!—
There rests a shade above yon town,  A dark funereal shroud: 'Tis not the tempest hurrying down,  'Tis not a summer cloud.
The smoke that rises on the air  Is as a type and sign; A shadow flung by the despair  Within those streets of thine.
That smoke shuts out the cheerful day,  The sunset's purple hues,
The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray,  The morning's pearly dews.
Such is the moral atmosphere  Around thy daily life; Heavy with care, and pale with fear,  With future tumult rife.
There rises on the morning wind  A low appealing cry, A thousand children are resigned  To sicken and to die!
We read of Moloch's sacrifice,  We sicken at the name, And seem to hear the infant cries—  And yet we do the same;—
And worse—'twas but a moment's pain  The heathen altar gave, But we give years,—our idol, Gain,  Demands a living grave!
How precious is the little one,  Before his mother's sight, With bright hair dancing in the sun,  And eyes of azure light!
He sleeps as rosy as the south,  For summer days are long; A prayer upon the little mouth,  Lull'd by his nurse's song.
Love is around him, and his hours  Are innocent and free;
His mind essays its early powers  Beside his mother's knee.
When after-years of trouble come,  Such as await man's prime, How will he think of that dear home,  And childhood's lovely time!
And such should childhood ever be,  The fairy well; to bring To life's worn, weary memory  The freshness of its spring.
But here the order is reversed,  And infancy, like age, Knows of existence but its worst,  One dull and darkened page;—
Written with tears, and stamp'd with toil,  Crushed from the earliest hour, Weeds darkening on the bitter soil  That never knew a flower.
Look on yon child, it droops the head,  Its knees are bow'd with pain; It mutters from its wretched bed,  "Oh, let me sleep again!"
Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes  Turn mournfully away; Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,  And yet it is not day.
The lantern's lit—she hurries forth,  The spare cloak's scanty fold
Scarce screens her from the snowy north,  The child is pale and cold.
And wearily the little hands  Their task accustom'd ply; While daily, some mid those pale bands,  Droop, sicken, pine, and die.
Good God! to think upon a child  That has no childish days, No careless play, no frolics wild,  No words of prayer and praise!
Man from the cradle—'tis too soon  To earn their daily bread, And heap the heat and toil of noon  Upon an infant's head.
To labour ere their strength be come,  Or starve,—is such the doom That makes of many an English home  One long and living tomb?
Is there no pity from above,—  No mercy in those skies; Hath then the heart of man no love,  To spare such sacrifice?
Oh, England! though thy tribute waves  Proclaim thee great and free, While those small children pine like slaves,  There is a curse on thee!
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 8

August, 1891. (transcription project)
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​ "A SELECT COMMITTEE." (After the picture in the Royal Academy by H. Stacy Marks, R.A.)
* Illustrated Interviews. No. II. Henry Stacy Marks, R.A., by Harry How. Illustrations by Henry Stacy Marks and W. S. Stacey.
* Quarantine Island, by Walter Besant. Illustrations by A. Forestier.
* Cats, by J. Maclaren Cobban. Illustrations by Harrison Weir.
* The Story of a Game; from the French of Albert Delpit. Illustrations by H. Hillbom.
* Celebrities at Play. Illustrations by J. F. Sullivan.
* The Doctor's Story; from the French of Guy de Maupassant. Illustrations by Gordon Browne.
* Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives.
* The Duke of Norfolk.
* The German Emperor.
* The German Empress.
* J. Ashby Sterry.
* Miss Fortescue.
* Augustus Harris.
* Hall Caine.
* Henry Labouchere.
* In & About Newmarket. Illustrations by John Gülich.
* The Prisoner of Assiout, by Grant Allen. Illustrations by A. Pearse.
* The Music of Birds. Illustrations by Allan Barraud.
* Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Adventure II. The Red-Headed League, by A. Conan Doyle. Illustrations by Sidney Paget.
* Up a Shot Tower. Illustrations by J. Johnson.
* The Blue Cat, a Story for Children; From the French of Daniel Dare. Illustrations by H. R. Millar.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The Times/1926/Obituary/Professor Gamble

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Source: The Times, Thursday, Sep 16, 1926; Issue 44378; pg. 14 — Obituaries. Professor Gamble.
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Professor Gamble
Dr. F. W. Gamble, F.R.S., Mason Professor of Zoology in the University of Birmingham, died at Alvechurch, Worcestershire, on Tuesday, at the age of 57.
Frederick William Gamble was born in Manchester on July 13, 1869, son of the late Mr. William Gamble, and the late Mrs. Gamble, of Brantfall, Arnside, Westmorland. He was sent to Manchester Grammar School, and passed on to Manchester University, where he graduated B.Sc. with first-class honours in 1891, and obtained the Bishop Berkeley Fellowship in 1892. He also studied at Leipzig University. Returning to Manchester, he became lecturer and demonstrator in zoology, and afterwards served as assistant director of the University Zoological Laboratories. He took a degree of D.Sc. in 1900, and in 1907 was elected a fellow of the Royal Society. In 1909 he was appointed to the chair of Zoology at Birmingham. Professor Gamble was president of the Zoology Section at the British Association meeting at Toronto in 1924. He was author of "Animal Life," 1908, and "The Animal World," 1911, and edited the fifth, sixth, and seventh editions of "Practical Zoology," by Marshall and Hurst. He also contributed many papers to scientific journals.
This work was published in 1926 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 97 years or less since publication.
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# The Times/1926/News/New Lyon King of Arms

Source: The Times, Tuesday, Sep 14, 1926; Issue 44376; pg. 17; col B — New Lyon King Of Arms.
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New Lyon King of Arms
The King has been pleased, on the recommendation of the Secretary of State for Scotland, to approve of the appointment of Captain George Sitwell Campbell Swinton, at present Albany Herald to be Lyon King of Arms in Scotland and Secretary to the Order of the Thistle in succession to Sir James Balfour Paul, K.C.V.O., LL.D., whose resignation takes effect as from December 31, 1926.
Sir James Balfour Paul, who will be 80 next November, has been Lyon King since 1890. The great improvement in Scottish heraldic art is due largely to his wise encouragement of Mr. Grahame Johnston, the Herald Painter to his Court, Mr. Law Samson., and other artists in according to the armorial designs issued by the Lyon Office a vigour of treatment reminiscent of the best period of heraldry. He is deeply learned and scholarly antiquary, as his published works prove.
Captain Swinton, formerly March Pursuivant of Arms, has been Albany Herald since 1923, and is well qualified for the difficult task of succeeding Sir James Balfour Paul. He has served a long time on the L.C.C., was chairman of the Town Planning Committee of the new Delhi, and was hon. secretary of the Scottish National War Memorial Committee in 1918.
This work was published in 1926 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 97 years or less since publication.
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# The Times/1926/Obituary/Alfred Trice Martin

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Source: Obituary. The Times, Monday, Dec 20, 1926; Issue 44459; pg. 14; col E — Mr. A. Trice Martin.
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Mr. A. Trice Martin
Mr. Alfred Trice Martin, who died on the evening of December 16 at Blagdon, Somerset, whither he had been moved from Clifton in failing health some months ago, was the last head master of Bath College.
The sixth son of Mr. Samuel Martin, he was born in 1855. He went to Magdalen Hall, now Hertford College, Oxford, in 1872, but soon migrated to Worcester College, where he had been selected as an exhibitioner. he was in the second class in classical moderations in 1874, and in the third class in Lit. Hum. in 1876. Soon after the beginning of the present century he succeeded the late Canon Yorke Fausset as head master of Bath College. The school, founded in 1878 by Mr. T. W. Dunn (who still survives), came to an end in 1909, in spite of Martin's admirable and spirited endeavours to prolong its success. He subsequently went to Siam as educational adviser, but the climate took its toll of a man no longer in his first youth. Returning to Clifton, where (like Dunn) he had formerly been a master, he undertook some measure of his former activities, and had in the past few years taken a vigorous and successful part in the Bath College War Memorial scheme.
A brave man and an inspiring teacher, he will be long remembered both at Bath and Clifton for his warm-hearted loyalties, his wide humanity, and his single-mindedness. His published works include a history of Bath for schools and an edition of Malory. He was a keen antiquary and did good work in the excavation of Caerwent. He leaves a widow, a daughter, and three sons, the eldest of whom is Commissioner of Lands in Kenya.
The funeral will be at Blagdon Church to-morrow at 2 p.m.
This work was published in 1926 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 97 years or less since publication.
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# The Times/1926/Obituary/George Farewell Jones

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Source: The Times, Tuesday, Feb 23, 1926; Issue 44203; pg. 18 — Obituary.
Layout 2Mr. George Farewell Jones, solicitor, a member of the firm of Soames, Edwards, and Jones, Lennox House, Norfolk-street, Strand, died yesterday at his residence at Mitcham after a short illness. Mr. Jones, who was 75 years of age, had been for many years a member of the Mitcham Urban District Council, and Farewell-place, a new road at Mitcham, was named after him.
This work was published in 1926 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 97 years or less since publication.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse