OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Leaves of Grass (1882)/Birds of Passage/Song of the Universal

SONG OF THE UNIVERSAL.
I
Come said the Muse, Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted, Sing me the universal.
In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed perfection.
By every life a share or more or less, None born but it is born, conceal'd or unconceal'd the seed is waiting.
2
Lo! keen-eyed towering science, As from tall peaks the modern overlooking, Successive absolute fiats issuing.
Yet again, lo! the soul, above all science, For it has history gather'd like husks around the globe, For it the entire star-myriads roll through the sky.
In spiral routes by long detours, (As a much-tacking ship upon the sea,) For it the partial to the permanent flowing, For it the real to the ideal tends.
For it the mystic evolution, Not the right only justified, what we call evil also justified.
Forth from their masks, no matter what, From the huge festering trunk, from craft and guile and tears, Health to emerge and joy, joy universal.
Out of the bulk, the morbid and the shallow, Out of the bad majority, the varied countless frauds of men and states, Electric, antiseptic yet, cleaving, suffusing all, Only the good is universal.
3
Over the mountain-growths disease and sorrow, An uncaught bird is ever hovering, hovering, High in the purer, happier air.
From imperfection's murkiest cloud, Darts always forth one ray of perfect light, One flash of heaven's glory.
To fashion's, custom's discord, To the mad Babel-din, the deafening orgies, Soothing each lull a strain is heard, just heard, From some far shore the final chorus sounding.
O the blest eyes, the happy hearts, That see, that know the guiding thread so fine, Along the mighty labyrinth.
4
And thou America, For the scheme's culmination, its thought and its reality, For these (not for thyself) thou hast arrived.
Thou too surroundest all, Embracing carrying welcoming all, thou too by pathways broad and new, To the ideal tendest.
The measur'd faiths of other lands, the grandeurs of the past, Are not for thee, but grandeurs of thine own, Deific faiths and amplitudes, absorbing, comprehending all, All eligible to all.
All, all for immortality, Love like the light silently wrapping all, Nature's amelioration blessing all, The blossoms, fruits of ages, orchards divine and certain, Forms, objects, growths, humanities, to spiritual images ripening.
Give me O God to sing that thought, Give me, give him or her I love this quenchless faith, In Thy ensemble, whatever else withheld withhold not from us, Belief in plan of Thee enclosed in Time and Space, Health, peace, salvation universal.
​Is it a dream? Nay but the lack of it the dream, And failing it life's lore and wealth a dream, And all the world a dream.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1662/Miscellany

​Utilization of the Suds from the Washing of Wool.—In nothing has the advance of practical science been more clearly evidenced than in the extent to which substances formerly wasted and lost are now reclaimed and made to constitute an important element in the profits of the manufacturer. One of these applications consists in the recovery of soap-suds from the washings of wool in woollen factories. These were formerly allowed to run down the sewers and into the streams, to the great pollution of the latter; but in Bradford, they are now run from the washing-bowls into vats, and there treated with sulphuric acid. The fats rise to the surface in a mass of grease a foot or more in thickness, which is carefully collected and treated in various ways, mostly by distillation. The products are grease, used for lubricating the cogs of driving-wheels in the mills; oleic acid, which is worth about £30 per ton, and used as a substitute for olive-oil; stearin, worth £80 per ton, etc. It is said that some large mill-owners are now paid from £500 to £1,000 a year for these suds, which a few years ago were allowed to run to waste.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1662/The Primrose

* THE PRIMROSE.
* BY JOHN CLARE.
* Welcome, pale primrose! starting up between
* Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew
* The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through,
* 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green;
* How much thy presence beautifies the ground!
* How sweet thy modest unaffected pride
* Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side
* And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found,
* The schoolboy roams enchantedly along,
* Plucking the fairest with a rude delight:
* While the meek shepherd stops his simple song,
* To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight;
* O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring
* The welcome news of sweet returning spring.
* Chambers' Journal.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1662/Out of my Hand

* OUT OF MY HAND.
* One by one, one by one.
* In the kindred light of the April sun,
* While primrose and snowdrop gem the ground.
* And the birds are mating and building around,
* While violets blossom their steps to greet,
* With laughing voices and dancing feet.
* With wakening fancy and budding hope,
* Beyond my reach, and beyond my scope.
* They pass, while in fear and douot I stand,
* Out of my hand, out of my hand.
* Baby pleasure, and baby care,
* Not one of them but was mine to share;
* Not a tear, but I dried it with a kiss,
* Not a smile, but I joined in its eager bliss;
* Now, the young knight arms for the coming strife.
* The sweet girl-fancies start to life,
* They nestle, the maiden shyness beneath.
* As the bright buds hide in their silken sheath.
* By spring dews nourished, spring breezes fanned.
* Out of my hand, out of my hand.
* I dare not trench on thy realm, my boy,
* Nor rob thy sway of one virgin joy;
* I dare not touch with my faltering fingers
* The blooms where the light of sunrise lingers.
* Nor drag to the garish light of day,
* What youth*s proud reticence would delay;
* I can but wait outside it all.
* Where the cold winds sigh and the brown leaves fall ;
* Oh, the castles I built! oh, the joys I planned!
* Out of my hand, out of my hand.
* Yet did I not bear them in peril and pain,
* Did I not lavish, and watch, and refrain;
* Quitting the pleasures of parting youth.
* The glories of science, and art, and truth.
* That the paths for those little feet might be
* Fresh, and sunny, and safe, and free;
* Scheme, and vision, and hope of mine.
* They were but those golden heads to shrine;
* Now, alone and tired, slow drops the sand,
* Grain by grain, from my failing hand.
* Father of all, Saviour of all.
* Behold at Thy altar-steps I fall;
* Thou wilt not disdain ihnt I come at last,
* With my treasure spent, and my noon-day past;
* Take Thou the guidance that I resign,
* Take this hard embittered heart of mine.
* Take the bafHed ambition, ungranted prayer,
* Baseless terror, repining care;
* Guide each fairy bark to the heavenly strand.
* Take my darlings, my darlings, to Thy hand.
* All The Year Round.
# Les Misérables/Volume 3/Book Seventh

Chapters:
* Chapter 1: Mines and Miners
* Chapter 2: The Lowest Depths
* Chapter 3: Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse
* Chapter 4: Composition of the Troupe
# Les Misérables/Volume 3/Book Sixth

Chapters:
* Chapter 1: The Sobriquet; Mode of Formation of Family Names
* Chapter 2: Lux Facta Est
* Chapter 3: Effect of the Spring
* Chapter 4: Beginning of a Great Malady
* Chapter 5: Divers Claps of Thunder fall on Ma'am Bougon
* Chapter 6: Taken Prisoner
* Chapter 7: Adventures of the Letter U delivered over to Conjectures
* Chapter 8: The Veterans themselves can be Happy
* Chapter 9: Eclipse
# Les Misérables/Volume 3/Book Second/Chapter 7

Such was M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand, who had not lost his hair,-- which was gray rather than white,--and which was always dressed in "dog's ears." To sum up, he was venerable in spite of all this.
He had something of the eighteenth century about him; frivolous and great.
In 1814 and during the early years of the Restoration, M. Gillenormand, who was still young,--he was only seventy-four,--lived in the Faubourg Saint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near Saint-Sulpice. He had only retired to the Marais when he quitted society, long after attaining the age of eighty.
And, on abandoning society, he had immured himself in his habits. The principal one, and that which was invariable, was to keep his door absolutely closed during the day, and never to receive any one whatever except in the evening. He dined at five o'clock, and after that his door was open. That had been the fashion of his century, and he would not swerve from it. "The day is vulgar," said he, "and deserves only a closed shutter. Fashionable people only light up their minds when the zenith lights up its stars." And he barricaded himself against every one, even had it been the king himself. This was the antiquated elegance of his day.
# Letters from a Cat/2

II.
My Dear Helen:
​out, from Mary's talk with the Irish woman, what they were planning to do. But I never could understand Irish, and although I listened till I had cramps in all my legs, from being so long in one position, I was no wiser. Even the things Mary said I could not understand, and I usually understand her very easily. I passed a very uncomfortable night in the carrot bin. As soon as I heard Mary coming down the cellar stairs, this morning, I hid in the arch, and while she was skimming the milk, I slipped upstairs, and ran into the sitting-room. Every thing there is in the same confusion; the ​carpet is gone; and the windows too, and I think some of the chairs have been carried away. All the china is in great baskets on the pantry floor; and your father and mother's clothes are all taken out of the nursery closet, and laid on chairs. It is very dreadful to have to stand by and see all this, and not be able to do any thing. I don't think I ever fully realized before the disadvantage of being only a cat. I have just been across the street, and talked it all over with the Judge's cat, but she is very old and stupid, and so taken up with her six kittens (who are the ugliest I ever saw), ​that she does not take the least interest in her neighbors' affairs. Mrs. Hitchcock walked by the house this morning, and I ran out to her, and took her dress in my teeth and pulled it, and did all I could to make her come in, but she said, "No, no, pussy, I'm not coming in to-day; your mistress is not at home" I declare I could have cried. I sat down in the middle of the path, and never stirred for half an hour.
Your affectionate Pussy.
P. S. Two men have just driven up to the front gate in a great cart, and they are putting all the carpets into it. Oh dear, oh dear, if I only knew what to do! And I just heard Mary say to them, "Be as quick as you can, for I want to get through with this business before the folks come back."
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
# Letters from a Cat

LETTERS FROM A CAT.
Letters from a Cat.
PUBLISHED BY HER MISTRESS
For the Benefit of all Cats
AND
THE AMUSEMENT OF LITTLE CHILDREN.
BY H. H.,
AUTHOR OF "NELLY'S SILVER MINE."
WITH SEVENTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1879.
Copyright, 1879, By Roberts Brothers.
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
# Letters from a Cat/3

III.
My Dear Helen:
I am too stiff and sore from a terrible fall I have had, to write more than one line; but I must let you know that my fright was very silly, and I am very much mortified about it. The house and the things are all safe; your mother has come home; and I will write, and tell you all, just as soon as I can use my pen without great pain.
Your affectionate Pussy.
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
# Letters from a Cat/1

LETTERS FROM A CAT.
I.
My Dear Helen:
That is what your mother calls you, I know, for I jumped up on her writing-table just now, and looked, while she was out of the room; and I am sure I have as much right to call you so as she has, for if you were my own little kitty, and looked just like me, I could not love you any more than ​I do. How many good naps I have had in your lap! and how many nice bits of meat you have saved for me out of your own dinner! Oh, I'll never let a rat, or a mouse, touch any thing of yours so long as I live.
​home you will get a better dish for me.
I hope you found the horse-chestnuts which I put in the bottom of, the carriage for you. I could not think of any thing else to put in, which would remind you of me: but I am afraid you will never think that it was I who put them there, and it will be too bad if you don't, for I had a dreadful time climbing up over the dasher with them, and both my jaws are quite lame from stretching them so, to carry the biggest ones I could find.
Your affectionate Pussy.
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
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1745/Dead, yet Speaking

* DEAD, YET SPEAKING.
* BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."
* "I have been dying for years; now I shall begin to live." These were almost the last words of the Rev. James Drummond Burns, minister of the Presbyterian Church at Hampstead, who died of consumption abroad, in 1865, deeply beloved and lamented.
* Dead, and alive again. Alive to us,
* Who through the long, long lapse of years still mark
* The after-glow thy sunset luminous
* Threw back upon our dark.
* Alive to God, and to his work divine,
* Though in what sphere we know not, nor need know:
* Content to follow those dear steps of thine,
* And where thou goest to go.
* The blessings of the happy and at rest,
* The sorrowful, and those whose sorrows cease,
* Blossom, like April daisies, on thy breast,
* Sleeping the sleep of peace!
* But far beyond all sound of earthly strife,
* Or silent slumber 'neath this long-green sod,
* Thou art passed, triumphant, into perfect life,
* The soul's true life in God.
* Sunday Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1745/Gathered Roses

* GATHERED ROSES.
* Only a bee made prisoner,
* Caught in a gathered rose!
* Was he not 'ware, a flower so fair
* For the first gatherer grows?
* Only a heart made prisoner,
* Going out free no more!
* Was he not 'ware, a face so fair
* Must have been gathered before?
* Spectator.F. W. B.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1745/The Angels' Greeting

* THE ANGELS' GREETING.
* Come to the land of peace!
* Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
* The shadow passes from the soul away,
* The sounds of weeping cease.
* Fear hath no dwelling there!
* Come to the mingling of repose and love,
* Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
* Through the celestial air.
* Come to the bright and blest,
* And crown’d forever! Midst that shining band,
* Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land,
* Thy spirit shall find rest.
* Thou hast been long alone:
* Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore,
* The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
* Shall take its wearied one.
* In silence wert thou left:
* Come to thy sisters! Joyously again,
* All the home voices, blent in one sweet strain,
* Shall greet their long bereft.
* Over thine orphan head
* The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
* Come to thy father! It is finish'd now;
* Thy tears have all been shed.
* In thy divine abode,
* Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
* And, oh! bright victory, death by love no place.
* Come, spirit! to thy God.
* School and Home.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1746/Between the Lines

* BETWEEN THE LINES.
* Sing the song of the singer, merrily ring the rhymes,
* Light is the lay they tell us, light as its echoed chimes;
* Sing the song of the singer, mocking at doubt and fear,
* Catch the joy of its melody, let its daring beauty cheer;
* Well that the mellow music may bear no hidden signs
* Of the broken heart of the poet, written between the lines.
* Watch the part of the player, bravely and deftly done,
* See the difficult height attained, the loud applauses won;
* Weep with his passionate sorrow, thrill to his passionate bliss,
* Blending your joyous laughter with that happy laugh of his;
* Well that his marvellous acting dazzles, wins, refines,
* Who thinks of the desperate effort, written between the lines?
* See the work of the painter, in coloring rare and rich,
* Give it its well-won homage, choose it the choicest niche;
* Hang it where it may render, as an artist's best can do,
* Companionship in its beauty, delicate, pure, and true!
* Well that its silent loveliness softness and thought combines;
* None read the bitter baffling strife, written between the lines.
* Watch the path of the prosperous, sunny, and smooth, and bright,
* Health and wealth to give it its full of sweetness and of light;
* See how the easy future is planned for the careless feet,
* Given each slight desire, flattered each vague conceit.
* Well that the outward surface gladness and peace enshrines;
* Who knows the tale of the skeleton, written between the lines?
* If the singer dies in solitude, his songs sigh on as sweetly;
* If the statesman has a hearth disgraced, does he face the world less metely?
* So the artist's touch is fine and sure, who heeds the hand that guides it?
* Does the player feel a fading life? his miming, masking, hide it.
* Cypress, and rose, and laurel, Fate's reckless hand entwines;
* Life reads the printed story — Death writes between the lines.
* All The Year Round.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1746/On the Coming Winter

From Nature.
ON THE COMING WINTER.
Having recently computed the remaining observations of our earth-thermometers here, and prepared a new projection of all the observations from their beginning in 1837 to their calamitous close last year, results generally confirmatory of those arrived at in 1870 have been obtained, but with more pointed and immediate bearing on the weather now before us.
The chief features undoubtedly deducible for the past thirty-nine years, after eliminating the more seasonal effects of ordinary summer and winter, are: —
1. Between 1837 and 1876 three great heat-waves, from without, struck this part of the earth; viz., the first in 1846•5, the second in 1858•0, and the third in 1868•7. And unless some very complete alteration in the weather is to take place, the next such visitation may be looked for in 1879•5, within limits of half a year each way.
2. The next feature in magnitude and certainty is, that the periods of minimum temperature, or cold, are not either in, or anywhere near, the middle time between the crests of those three chronologically identified heat-waves, but are comparatively close up to them on either side, at a distance of about a year and a half, so that the next such cold wave is due at the end of the present year.
This is, perhaps, not an agreeable prospect, especially if political agitators are at this time moving amongst the colliers, striving to persuade them to decrease the out-put of coal at every pit's-mouth. Being, therefore, quite willing, for the general good, to suppose myself mistaken, I beg to send you a first impression of plate 17 of the forthcoming volume of observations of this Royal Observatory, and shall be very happy if you can bring out, from the measures recorded there, any more comfortable view for the public at large.
Piazzi Smyth.
Astronomer-Royal for Scotland.
Royal Observatory, Edinburgh, September 27.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1746/The Fall of the Year

* THE FALL OF THE YEAR.
* Coldly and bright draws in the day;
* Gloomy and drear it steals away;
* For slowly now comes up the sun,
* His summer's ardent labors done;
* And low his golden wheel declines
* Where winter shews his starry signs.
* No more to earth the fervid beams
* Give beauty such as poet dreams;
* No more descends the glorious ray,
* The rapture of the summer day.
* The sky's deep blue is waxing pale,
* The sun's inspiring fervors fail;
* The slanting beam he gives is chill
* Within the vale and on the hill;
* And now, with many a jealous fold,
* The clouds would all his cheer withhold,
* Nor would on plain or height bestow
* The soothing of his waning glow.
* The flowers are gone, save those that still,
* Like friends who cleave to us through ill,
* Outbrave the bitter wind that blows,
* And deck their season to its close.
* The leaves that late were only stirred
* By gentlest breath, that only heard
* The song-bird's note, round these the blast
* Blows keen and fierce, and rude and fast
* The rising gale flings far and wide
* Their withered bloom and idle pride.
* The birds have fled; the wind alone
* Makes song in many a sullen tone.
* But sudden through the bursting sky
* The sun again comes out on high;
* The clouds fall back to yield him way,
* And fly before his eager ray;
* And gladness fills the breast amain —
* The glimpse of summer come again!
* Ah! sweet the beam, but like the smile
* With which the dying would beguile
* The mourning heart — the last sad ray
* Love gives to cheer our tears away.
* The light is gone, the moment's bloom
* Is sunk again in cold and gloom.
* So pass away all things of earth,
* Whate'er we prize of love and worth —
* The form once dear; the voice that cheered;
* The friends by many a tie endeared;
* The dreams the aching heart forgets;
* The hopes that fade to cold regrets.
* Sweet scenes, dear haunts, that once I knew,
* My heart yet fondly turns to you.
* Let seasons change, and be ye bright
* With all the summer-tide's delight,
* Or let the winter's gloom be yours,
* Your beauty still for me endures;
* For memory keeps unfaded yet
* What love would have me not forget.
* Chambers' Journal.D.F.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1746

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XX. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1746. — December 1, 1877. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXV. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Sir John Bowring, | Westminster Review, | 515 |
| II. | Doris Barugh. A Yorkshire Story. By the author of "Patty." Part VII. | Good Words, | 536 |
| III. | The Story of an Indian Life, | Edinburgh Review, | 551 |
| IV. | Erica. Part II. Translated for The Living Age from the German of | Frau von Ingersleben, | 569 |
| V. | A Glimpse of Adrianople, | Pall Mall Gazette, | 575 |
| VI. | On the Coming Winter, | Nature, | 576 |
POETRY. :
| Between the Lines, | 514 | The Fall of the Year, | 514 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 135/Issue 1747

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XX. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1747. — December 8, 1877. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXV. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | The Court of the Grand Monarque, the author of "Mirabeau," etc., | Temple Bar, | 579 |
| II. | Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By William Black. Part XXXIX., | Harper's Bazar, | 589 |
| III. | The Marshalate: a Chapter of French History. May 1873 - October 1877, | Nineteenth Century, | 600 |
| IV. | Doris Barugh. By Katharine S. MacQuoid, author of "Patty", Part VIII., | Good Words, | 613 |
| V. | Prince Bismarck's Mother, | Tinsley's Magazine, | 626 |
| VI. | Erica. Part III. Translated for The Living Age from the German of | Frau von Ingersleben, | 634 |
| VII. | Singing Mice, | Nature, | 640 |
POETRY. :
| Purgatory, from the French of Marie Jeuna | 578 | At the Last, | 578 |
| Purgatory, from the French of Marie Jeuna | 578 | Villanelle, | 578 |