OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1626/The Arctic Expedition

* THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION.
* (FROM THE WOMEN'S SIDE.)
* May 29th, 1875.
* BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."
* O let me smile a little, I pray,
* Just a little, and while I may;
* Even as a child smiles. After to-day,
* I shall Have whole years to weep in.
* let me talk like a child, unchid:
* After to-day 'twill all be hid;
* No hand will lift up the coffin-lid
* Of the silence I shall sleep in.
* In Portsmouth harbour the good ship rides,
* Rocked safely upon the placid tides,
* As love in a happy heart abides,
* Moving with each emotion;
* With voices and hands alive all o'er;
* And to-morrow — (perhaps for evermore!) —
* I shall look out from a desolate shore
* Upon an empty ocean.
* O love, my hero and my saint,
* My knight of the white shield without taint.
* This woman-heart turns sick and faint,
* Although my lips may fail not:
* I see the rocks under smiling seas,
* I hear a tempest in every breeze,
* I feel the icebergs as they freeze.
* In the deeps where ship can sail not.
* O love, my love, so brave, so young;
* Strong arm, pure heart, and silent tongue;
* O lonely years that stretch out so long!
* One cry as of lost existence,
* And my soul sits down before its doom.
* As a white ghost sits at the door of a tomb:
* No moan, no shriek, no tears, no gloom.
* Only a still persistence.
* Be of good cheer! Sail on, sail on.
* Unto life, or death, for both are one
* To the infinite faith in sweet days gone,
* To the infinite love that folds thee:
* These girlish arms are weak, I know.
* But my heart is strong as a well-bent bow,
* And whither thou goest I will go.
* In my spirit that upholds thee.
* Sail on, sail on, through the frozen seas,
* To endless labour and little ease.
* Come back triumphant, if Heaven so please,
* Or with unwon goal, inglorious;
* Only come back! — No. Should God say
* That He has crowned thee another way.
* Love! see beyond our night. His day!
* And we are yet victorious.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1627/The Praise of Poverty

* THE PRAISE OF POVERTY.
* FROM THE ITALIAN OF B. JACOPONE DA TODI.
* Great should be our love for thee,
* Sweetest love of poverty!
* Little is enough for thee,
* Sister of humility,
* Just a little drink and food,
* Just a dish, however rude.
* Poverty hath scanty store.
* Bread and water — nothing more
* But some herbs — unless, indeed,
* These a little salt should need.
* Very safely doth she fare,
* Having neither thought nor care;
* Dread of thieves she cannot feel
* Who has nothing they can steal.
* Humbly at the door she knocks,
* Carries neither bag nor box;
* Other burden has she none.
* Save the bit she lives upon.
* Poverty has not a bed.
* Nor a roof above her head.
* Cloth nor table for her meat.
* On the ground she sits to eat.
* Ne'er a will to make hath she,
* So in peace dies poverty;
* Kin nor friends can raise a suit,
* There is nothing to dispute.
* Poverty is full of mirth.
* Scorning everything on earth;
* None will court or speak her fair
* In the hope to be her heir.
* Very poor indeed art thou.
* Yet thy home is heaven, I trow;
* Sweetest lady, there can be
* Nothing earthly dear to thee.
* Those who crave for worldly gear,
* They are dull and sad of cheer.
* Always cumbered and distrest.
* Never knowing ease nor rest.
* Poverty is always gay,
* Teaching man the perfect way.
* Earthly things she holds in thrall.
* Just because she spurns them all.
* Hoarding up and laying by
* Never troubleth poverty,
* Free from carking care or sorrow
* For the evening or the morrow.
* Light of foot is she, I ween,
* Glad of heart, and meek of mien.
* Not a burden will she bear,
* She — a stranger everywhere.
* Poverty is frank and free,
* Fareth well where'er she be,
* For she knoweth that a room
* Waits her in her heavenly home.
* Poverty, thou hast a throne,
* And the world is all thine own,
* For the things thou dost disdain
* Must obey thy sovereign reign.
* Poverty, supremely wise.
* Wealth and treasures doth despise,
* And the more she bends her will
* Higher soars in freedom still.
* To the very truly poor
* God's high kingdom is secure:
* This we know — for Christ has spoken.
* And His word is never broken.
* Poverty, most perfect state.
* Thou alone are really great.
* For the eternal life divine
* Is, in truth, already thine.
* Poverty, most full of grace,
* Free from care, and bright of face,
* How can any blush to be
* Faithful lovers unto thee?
* More and more their thirst doth grow
* As thy sweetness more they know.
* For thy waters cannot dry,
* Fairest fount of poverty!
* Through the streets aloud she cries.
* Earthly treasure to despise,
* Bids us turn from worldly pride.
* Casting riches quite aside.
* All these glories of the earth,
* What — I ask you — are they worth?
* Where is now the wealth and gear
* Of the men who once were here?
* Poverty, if thou would'st gain
* Quit this world so poor and vain;
* More than this, too, must thou do
* Scorn thyself supremely too.
* This is poverty — to be
* Stripped and beggared utterly,
* Self to conquer and disdain,
* Then, at last, with Christ to reign.
* The Month.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1626/The Hour-Glass

* THE HOUR-GLASS.
* Sparkling, dancing downwards,
* Merrily drop the sands.
* While the golden hours so gaily pass,
* Amid rose, and lily, and soft green grass;
* Wherefore so eager to turn the glass.
* Oh dimpled baby-hands?
* Glittering, flashing downwards,
* In the glow of the April sun.
* Ah, sweet white fingers, and sky-blue eyes,
* And cheeks as rosy as western skies;
* 'Tis pity in Youth's first Paradise,
* That the sands so swiftly run!
* Stealing forever downwards.
* Grey tinging their virgin gold.
* Pulses still quiver, and hearts still beat,
* But the road grows hard for the tired feet;
* Surely the sky had more warmth and heat,
* And the sands showed brighter of old!
* Dropping drearily downwards.
* The evening is well-nigh o'er.
* The brightest and best the river have crossed.
* The bolt is shot, and the venture lost;
* The barque on the last long wave is tossed,
* The glass needs to turn no more.
* All the Year Round.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1627/Miscellany

Oriental.
# Massacre of Glencoe (1824)/Massacre of Glencoe

THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.
O tell me, Harper, wherefore flow, The wayward, notes of wail and woe Far lown the desert of Glencoe, Where none may list their melody? Say harp at thou to the mists that fly. Or to the dun deer glancing by, O to the eagle that from high Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy.
"No, not to these, for they have rest— To mist wreath has the mountain crest, The stag, his lair the erne her nest; Abode of lone security.
But those for whom I pour the lay, Not wild wood deep nor mountain gray, Not this heap dell that shrouds from day, Could screen from treacherous cruelty.
"Their flag was furl'd, and mute their drum, The very household dogs were dumb, Unwont to bay of guesta that come In guise of hospitality. ​His blithest notes the piper plied. Her gayest snood the maiden tied, The dame her distaff flung aside, To send her kind’y housewifery.
“The hand that mingled in the meal, At midnight drew the felon steel And gave the host’s kind breast to feel Meed for his hospitality The friendly hearth which warm’d that-hand; At midnig’t arm d it with the brand, That bade destruction’s flames expand, Their red and fearful blazonry.
Then woman’s shriek was head in vain. Nor infancy’s unpitied plain, More than the warriors groan could gain, Respite from ruthless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shril, The snows that night that cloaked the hills Though wild and pitiless, had still Far more than south'ron clemency.
“Long has my ha p's best notes been gone. Few are its strings, and faint their tone. They can but sound in desert lone, Their grey-hair'd master’s misery. ​Were each grey hair a minstrel strings, Each cord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, "Revenge for blood and treachery."