OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Horrible History of Jones

The final lines of this poem refer to "You Ask Me Why, Tho' Ill At Ease" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
THE HORRIBLE HISTORY OF JONES
JONES had a dog; it had a chain; Not often worn, not causing pain; But, as the I.K.L. had passed Their "Unleashed Cousins Act" at last, Inspectors took the chain away; Whereat the canine barked "hurray"! At which, of course, the S.P.U. (Whose Nervous Motorists' Bill was through), Were forced to give the dog in charge For being Audibly at Large. None, you will say, were now annoyed, Save, haply, Jones—the yard was void. But something being in the lease About "alarms to aid the police," The U.S.U. annexed the yard For having no sufficient guard; Now if there's one condition The C.C.P. are strong upon It is that every house one buys Must have a yard for exercise; So Jones, as tenant, was unfit, His state of health was proof of it. Two doctors of the T.T.U.'s ​Told him his legs from long disuse, Were atrophied; and saying "So From step to higher step we go Till everything is New and True," They cut his legs off and withdrew. You know the E.T.S.T.'s views Are stronger than the T.T.U.'s: And soon (as one may say) took wing The Arms, though not the Man, I sing. To see him sitting limbless there Was more than the K.K. could bear "In mercy silence with all speed That mouth there are no hands to feed; What cruel sentimentalist, O Jones, would doom thee to exist— Clinging to selfish Selfhood yet? Weak one! Such reasoning might upset The Pump Act, and the accumulation Of all constructive legislation; Let us construct you up a bit—" The head fell off when it was hit: Then words did rise and honest doubt, And four Commissions sat about Whether the slash that left him dead Cut off his body or his head.
An author in the Isle of Wight Observed with unconcealed delight ​A land of just and old renown Where Freedom slowly broadened down From Precedent to Precedent . . . And this, I think, was what he meant.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Kingdom of Heaven

THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
SAID the Lord God, "Build a house, Build it in the gorge of death, Found it in the throats of hell. Where the lost sea muttereth, Fires and whirlwinds, build it well."
Laboured sternly flame and wind, But a little, and they cry, "Lord, we doubt of this Thy will, We are blind and murmur why," And the winds are murmuring still.
Said the Lord God, "Build a house, Cleave its treasure from the earth, With the jarring powers of hell Strive with formless might and mirth, Tribes and war-men, build it well."
Then the raw red sons of men Brake the soil, and lopped the wood, But a little and they shrill, "Lord, we cannot view Thy good," And the wild men clamour still.
​Said the Lord God, "Build a house, Smoke and iron, spark and steam, Speak and vote and buy and sell; Let a new world throb and stream, Seers and makers, build it well."
Strove the cunning men and strong, But a little and they cry, "Lord, mayhap we are but clay, And we cannot know the why," And the wise men doubt to-day.
Yet though worn and deaf and blind, Force and savage, king and seer Labour still, they know not why; At the dim foundation here, Knead and plough and think and ply.
Till at last, mayhap, hereon, Fused of passion and accord, Love its crown and peace its stay Rise the city of the Lord That we darkly build to-day.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The Last Hero

THE LAST HERO
THE wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day, There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away, And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide, Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride. The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars, With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars, Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above, The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love. Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain, You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.
The chance of battle changes—so may all battle be; I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me. I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise, ​More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes. She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine; The sunset never loved me; the wind was never mine. Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse? Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress. O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown, You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown.
The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day, They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way, I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers, As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers. How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave, Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave. Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie, When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky. ​The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose,— You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.
Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich uncounted loans, What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones? My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease, Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas. To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given, The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven. The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see. To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me: One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath: You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/The March of the Black Mountain

THE MARCH OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN
1913
WHAT will there be to remember Of us in the days to be? Whose faith was a trodden ember And even our doubt not free; Parliaments built of paper, And the soft swords of gold That twist like a waxen taper In the weak aggressor's hold; A hush around Hunger, slaying A city of serfs unfed; What shall we leave for a saying Tc praise us when we are dead? But men shall remember the Mountain That broke its forest chains, And men shall remember the Mountain When it arches against the plains: And christen their children from it And season and ship and street, When the Mountain came to Mahomet And looked small before his feet.
His head was as high as the crescent Of the moon that seemed his crown, ​And on glory of past and present The light of his eyes looked down; One hand went out to the morning Over Brahmin and Buddhist slain, And one to the West in scorning To point at the scars of Spain; One foot on the hills for warden By the little Mountain trod; And one was in a garden And stood on the grave of God. But men shall remember the Mountain, Though it fall down like a tree, They shall see the sign of the Mountain Faith cast into the sea; Though the crooked swords overcome it And the Crooked Moon ride free, When the Mountain comes to Mahomet It has more life than he.
But what will there be to remember Or what will there be to see— Though our towns through a long November Abide to the end and be? Strength of slave and mechanic Whose iron is ruled, by gold, Peace of immortal panic, Love that is hate grown cold— Are these a bribe or a warning That we turn not to the sun, ​Nor look on the lands of morning Where deeds at last are done? Where men shall remember the Mountain When truth forgets the plain— And walk in the way of the Mountain That did not fail in vain; Death and eclipse and comet, Thunder and seals that rend: When the Mountain came to Mahomet; Because it was the end.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/On the gorgeous hills of morning

ON THE GORGEOUS HILLS OF MORNING
(Samoan period, 1890-1894)
This page of verse, unfinished though the poem is, has a very personal charm both in the actual picture that it presents (Stevenson, abed, in the forest storm, listening to the early symphony of the birds), and in showing the thoughts that stirred him despite "the merry piping." Though repining was not his way, his letters often indicate his longing for that Scotland which he was never to see again; and here, after the note of tropic beauty has been struck in the initial portion of his poem, he evokes the picture of the far-away Highlands with their "old plain men," and their "young fair lasses." And as cut off from all the activities and interests of his former life he reflects on the remoteness of the secluded island from which he can no longer fare, the great forests seem to him mere "empty places," mocked at not only by life but even by death.
ON THE GORGEOUS HILLS OF MORNING
On the gorgeous hills of morning A sudden piping of birds, A piping of all the forest, high and merry and clear, I lay in my tent and listened; I lay and heard them long, In the dark of the moonlit morning, The birds of the night at song. I lay and listened and heard them Sing ere the day was begun; Sing and sink into Silence one by one. I lay in my bed and looked— Paler than starlight or lightning A glimmer ...
In the highlands in the country places Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair lasses Quiet eyes, Light and heat begin, begin and strengthen, And the shadows turn and shrink and lengthen, As the great sun passes in the skies. ​Life and death go by with heedful faces— Mock with silent steps these empty places.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Rivers and winds among the twisted hills

RIVERS AND WINDS AMONG THE TWISTED HILLS—1890-1894
Obviously a fragment of a poem written in the Samoan days, these verses show how entirely Stevenson has left behind him the active and intense emotional life of the past, and now, among the rivers and winds and twisted hills of his South Sea island, keeps the tranquil brow of reposeful thought, though well knowing that Death is not far off.
RIVERS AND WINDS AMONG THE TWISTED HILLS
Rivers and winds among the twisted hills, Hears, and his hearing slowly fills, And hearkens, and his face is lit, Life facing, Death pursuing it.
As with heaped bees at hiving time The boughs are clotted, as (ere prime) Heaven swarms with stars, or the city street Pullulates with passing feet; So swarmed my senses once, that now Repose behind my tranquil brow, Unsealed, asleep, quiescent, clear; Now only the vast shapes I hear— ​Hear—and my hearing slowly fills— Rivers and winds among the twisting hills, And hearken—and my face is lit— Life facing, Death pursuing it.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Since I am sworn to live my life

SINCE I AM SWORN TO LIVE MY LIFE—1875
Of all the poems belonging to the little group of experimentations in the French style these verses, written at Nemours, are the most successful in their succinct combination of the French spirit and of Stevenson's own attitude towards life, especially in his youth. Not only in form, but likewise in the phrase drawn from the terminology of duelling, or in such an adverb as "gaily,"' we have the French animation, while such lines as "I bear a banner in the strife," and "prudence brawling in the mart," are intimately akin to earlier verses written in Scotland. Then, too, if there is one statement that can always incontrovertibly be made of Stevenson, it is, that he was sworn to lead his life, for all his weakness in health, and his minor weaknesses in character, and that he always carried through, at whatever cost, his main purposes, whether, as in making—against the wishes of his father—literature his profession, or, against the advice of all his friends, in setting forth with little strength and less money on the great adventure of his marriage.
SINCE I AM SWORN TO LIVE MY LIFE
Since I am sworn to live my life, And not to keep an easy heart, Some men may sit and drink apart,— I bear a banner in the strife.
Some can take quiet thought to wife,— I am all day at tierce and carte; Since I am sworn to live my life And not to keep an easy heart.
I follow gaily to the fife, Leave wisdom bowed above a chart And prudence brawling in the mart, And dare misfortune to the knife, Since I am sworn to live my life.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Nay, but I fancy somehow, etc.

NAY, BUT I FANCY SOMEHOW, YEAR BY YEAR—1880
The theme of this poem establishes its approximate date, and though it may possibly have been written in the summer of 1880, more probably it belongs to the little cluster of poems for Fanny Osbourne that were offered to her by Stevenson prior to their marriage in May.
The continuation and growth of their love was for Stevenson a fixed conviction that he incorporated into many of the poems written for his wife. Here it takes form in lines that are preceded by phrases referring directly to the hardships of Stevenson's present and his immediate past. The "my land" is California, and the sea, that Pacific which was to encompass the closing years of Stevenson's life. The poem ends with two lines, notable in their connotation. In "Till all the plain be quickened with the moon," there is the suggestion of romantic love, and in the final line we have in "the lit windows," the thought of domestic life, of the happiness of home.
The sonnet form here adopted is one that Stevenson had used, though not very often, in
​the days of his apprenticeship in verse some ten years earlier. During the Samoan period he now and then resorted to an irregular sonnet form; but this is as far as we know, the only exact sonnet of the intermediate period. Perhaps his acquaintance with French poetry led him to admit the two lines ending with the same sound—feet, defeat—a practice eschewed by the best English sonneteers.
NAY, BUT I FANCY SOMEHOW, YEAR BY YEAR
Nay, but I fancy somehow, year by year The hard road waxing easier to my feet; Nay, but I fancy as the seasons fleet I shall grow ever dearer to my dear. Hope is so strong that it has conquered fear; Love follows, crowned and glad for fear's defeat. Down the long future I behold us, sweet, Pass, and grow ever dearer and more near; Pass and go onward into that mild land Where the blond harvests slumber all the noon, And the pale sky bends downward to the sea; ​Pass, and go forward, ever hand in hand, Till all the plain be quickened with the moon, And the lit windows beckon o'er the lea.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Of schooners, islands and maroons

OF SCHOONERS, ISLANDS AND MAROONS—1881
Although Treasure Island was not published in book form until 1883, Stevenson had well-nigh completed it during his residence at Braemar in 1881, and his letter of the 25th of August of that year, addressed to Henley and signed, "R. L. S., Author of Boy Stories," shows what fun he was having in the writing of this tale. "The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island, A Story for Boys," was the title Stevenson had in mind for the book that was the first to bring him fame; and he wrote to Henley: "If this don't fetch the kids, why, then, they have gone rotten since my day." It is that thought which underlies the present poem, written assuredly as a sort of rhymed preface for his "ripping" novel of adventure among the Buccaneers. If boys have grown too wise to care for treasure islands and derelict ships, for villainous mariners singing "Yo ho ho! and a bottle of rum," why then let the tale remain unread, beside the writings of Kingston and Ballantyne and "Cooper of the land and wave." (This, by the way, is the only reference in Stevenson's verses to ​Cooper.) But the budding romancer probably had no misgivings, and the young lad, Lloyd Osbourne, owing to whom the book was written, and who gave orders that no women were to appear in the story, was there to indicate by his enthusiasm the reception that Treasure Island was to receive from the youth of the world. Like so many others of his prefaces, whether in verse or in prose, this one was not used when the book was published; and its present first appearance in type is an especially interesting contribution to Stevenson literature.
It is worth adding, perhaps, that when Stevenson, writing from the "Schooner Equator, at sea, 190 miles off Samoa, Monday, December 2nd, 1889," gave his friend Colvin—later Sir Sidney—the plan of his proposed book, The South Seas, he began with the heading "Part I. General. Of Schooners, islands, and maroons"—that is, with the first line of this poem.
OF SCHOONERS, ISLANDS AND MAROONS
Of Schooners, Islands and Maroons, And Buccaneers and Buried Gold, And Torches red and rising moons, If all the old romance retold Exactly in the ancient way, Can please, as me they pleased of old, The wiser youngsters of today— So be it, and fall on! If not,— If all the boys on better things Have set their spirits and forgot— So be it, and fall on! If not— If all the boys on solid food Have set their fancies, and forgot Kingston and Ballantyne the brave And Cooper of the land and wave, So be it also; and may I And my late-born piratic brood Unread beside the ancients lie! So be it and fall on! If not,— If studied youth no longer crave,— Their ancients' appetites forgot,— Kingston and Ballantyne the brave, ​For Cooper of the sea and wood— So be it also; and may I And all my pirates share the grave Where these and their creations lie.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Love is the very heart of spring

LOVE IS THE VERY HEART OF SPRING—1876
In foregoing pages it has been shown how, in 1875, while in France, Stevenson had become interested in forms of poetry where the element of the refrain comes musically into play. The present verses are his most sustained attempt at this kind of poetry, and some may feel that the manner wherein he introduces a few lines in constant repetition is so tuneful that the poem becomes a really successful paean of love and springtime.
LOVE IS THE VERY HEART OF SPRING
Love is the very heart of spring; Flocks fall to loving on the lea And wildfowl love upon the wing, When spring first enters like a sea.
When spring first enters like a sea Into the heart of everything, Bestir yourselves religiously, Incense before love's altar bring.
​Incense before love's altar bring, Flowers from the flowering hawthorn tree, Flowers from the margin of the spring, For all the flowers are sweet to see.
Love is the very heart of spring; When spring first enters like a sea Incense before love's altar bring, And flowers while flowers are sweet to see.
Bring flowers while flowers are sweet to see; Love is almighty, love's a King, Incense before love's altar bring, Incense before love's altar bring.
Love's gifts are generous and free When spring first enters like a sea; When spring first enters like a sea, The birds are all inspired to sing.
Love is the very heart of spring, The birds are all inspired to sing, Love's gifts are generous and free; Love is almighty, love's a King.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Poem for a Class Re-union

POEM FOR A CLASS RE-UNION—1875
Mr. D'Arcy Wentworth Thompson, himself an author and a man described as charming in his personality, was the Master referred to in the third line of this poem. It was at his private school in Frederick Street, Edinburgh, that Stevenson during the years 1864-1867 had formed the friendships that led him, some years later, to attend the class re-union for which this poem was written.
POEM FOR A CLASS RE-UNION
Whether we like it, or don't, There's a sort of bond in the fact That we all by one master were taught, By one master were bullied and whackt. And now all the more when we see Our class in so shrunken a state And we, who were seventy-two, Diminished to seven or eight.
One has been married, and one Has taken to letters for bread; Several are over the seas; And some I imagine are dead. ​And that is the reason, you see, Why, as I have the honour to state, We, who were seventy-two, Are now only seven or eight.
One took to heretical views, And one, they inform me, to drink; Some construct fortunes in trade, Some starve in professions, I think. But one way or other, alas! Through the culpable action of Fate We, who were seventy-two Are now shrunken to seven or eight.
So, whether we like it or not, Let us own there's a bond in the past, And, since we were playmates at school, Continue good friends to the last. The roll-book is closed in the room, The clackan is gone with the slate, We, who were seventy-two Are now only seven or eight.
We shall never, our books on our back, Trudge off in the morning again, To the slide at the janitor's door, By the ambush of rods in the lane. ​We shall never be sent for the tawse, Nor lose places for coming too late; We shall never be seventy-two, Who now are but seven or eight!
We shall never have pennies for lunch, We shall never be strapped by Maclean, We shall never take gentlemen down, Nor ever be schoolboys again. But still for the sake of the past, For the love of the days of lang syne The remnant of seventy-two Shall rally together to dine.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Link your arm in mine, my lad

LINK YOUR ARM IN MINE, MY LAD
1872
While this poem is, as its title indicates, a song doubtless sung by Stevenson and his student companions as they quaffed their glasses in the Edinburgh winter of 1871-1872, it is possible that the "lad" who appears in the first line may have been, not any companion in general, but his cousin, the artist and critic of art, Robert Alan Stevenson. The point of view here shown as to the value of endeavor and the relative unimportance of the individual's place in the social scheme, is one that both in verse and in conversation frequently appears in the exchange of thoughts between the two cousins. However this may be, the poem considered merely as a student song presents so unusual a juxtaposition of ideas as to render it unique. If, for a moment, we omit consideration of the chorus, and study the first four stanzas, we find Stevenson closely following the model of student drinking songs such as may be read by the score in the anthology of John Addington Symonds. The linking of the arms of boon companions, the animadversions ​against Fortune, the advice deeply to drain the cheering glass, the carefree wish that
Devil take Posterity And present people too, lad!
are all in the vein of convivial youth, and might be a translation from the Latin of mediaeval days. With such a beginning, we might assuredly expect a ringing chorus with the glowing bowl for its theme; but instead, we have in the chorus itself the unadulterated note of human fraternity, and the only specific suggestion as to conduct has to do, not with the cheer of wine, but with fraternal cheer in the larger sense. And similarly, in the concluding stanzas, immediately following the adjuration to the devil to take both posterity and the present, an appeal implying the futility of all endeavor, the poet devotes himself to the thought of the value of work. There never was a more curious revelation in a drinking song, of cross currents where tendencies towards the easy and the pleasant, the serious and the arduous, are, in their conjunction, expressed in a manner so revelatory of the inner life of the writer.
LINK YOUR ARM IN MINE, MY LAD
Link your arm in mine, my lad— You and I together, You and I and all the rest Shall face the winter weather.
Chorus
Some to good, and some to harm, Some to cheer the others, All the world goes arm in arm, And all the men are brothers.
Fortune kicks us here and there, Small our role in life, lad. Better paltry peace, howe'er, Than hero-laurelled strife, lad.
While there's liquor to be had, Deeply drain the bickers. Ocean plays at marbles, lad, With men of war for knickers.
Who will ever hear of me? Who will hear of you, lad? Devil take posterity And present people too, lad!
​I have work enough to do, Strength enough to do it— I have work and so have you, So put your shoulder to it!
Some do half that I can do, Some can do the double, Some must rule for me and you, To save ourselves the trouble!
Who would envy yonder man Decorated thus, lad? We are workingmen for him, And he's an earl for us, lad!