OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Imperial Dictionary of Universal Biography/Volume 3/Zeno, the Eleatic

Excerpted from The Imperial Dictionary of Universal Biography, Volume 3, 1876 ed., page 1413. (Ferrier's contributions to the Imperial Dictionary of Universal Biography were for for the edition published 1857-1863. That this is the subsequent edition of 1876 is evidenced in its mentioning later dates—including that of Ferrier's death in 1864.)
​ZENO, the Eleatic philosopher, was born at Elea in Southern Italy about 490 b.c. He was the favourite pupil of Parmenides. In Plato's dialogue entitled Parmenides, it is related how Parmenides and Zeno came to Athens and held a philosophical conversation with Socrates, when the latter was a very young man. This must have been about 450 b.c. when Socrates was twenty years of age. Zeno was intimately associated with Parmenides, not only in the pursuits of philosophy, but also in the avocations of practical life. They took an active part in the administration of the affairs of their native city. Zeno is said to have stood forth as the resolute opponent of tyranny. Whether he was successful in his resistance, or perished in the attempt to obtain for his country a freer form of government, is a matter of uncertainty. The philosophy of Zeno differed but little from that of Parmenides. Both regarded the reason, and not the senses, as the organ of truth. Both argued for "Being," "the one," "the permanent," as that which alone existed; "the many" or "the changeable" being the opposite of the "one," was identical with "non-being." The only difference between the two philosophers seems to have been, that while Parmenides argued affirmatively that "the one," "the permanent," alone was; Zeno argued negatively that "the many"—the universe according to sense—was not. What is memorable in this philosophy is the attempt which it makes to signalize in the strongest terms the contrast or antithesis between sense and reason, and to exhibit the truths of reason in their most extreme opposition to the intimations of the senses. This opposition is principally set forth in those subtle puzzles of which Zeno was the author. One of these is the well-known "Achilles and the tortoise." If the tortoise has the start of Achilles by a hundred feet he can never overtake it; for when Achilles has advanced fifty feet, the tortoise will have advanced in a corresponding ratio, and so on in a progress in which the tortoise keeps the lead for ever. It is no solution of this paradox to show that Achilles does actually outstrip the tortoise. That, in fact, is the very circumstance which occasions the difficulty, for if he did not overtake it there would be no contradiction in the case. The same argument strikes at the possibility of all motion. Motion which is true in point of fact, is shown to be impossible on grounds of reason; for the shortest space is infinitely divisible, and therefore a body in passing from one point to another must traverse infinity, which it cannot possibly do. The only solution of these puzzles is to be found in the philosophy, which has for its principle "the unity of contraries."—J. F. F.
# Imperial Dictionary of Universal Biography/Wornum, Ralph Nicholson

Excerpted from The Imperial Dictionary of Universal Biography, Volume 3, 1876 ed., page 1389.
​* WORNUM, Ralph Nicholson, was born December 29, 1812, at Thornton, near Norham, Durham. Intending to practise painting as a profession, he, on the completion of his general education at University college in 1833, and after a few months' preparatory training in Sass's art school, proceeded to the continent, and spent six years in the schools and galleries of Munich, Dresden, Rome, and Paris. On his return to England at the end of 1839 he established himself as a portrait painter, but gradually turned from the practice to the literature of art. From 1840 to the completion of the work, Mr. Wornum wrote the greater part of the biographies of artists, and many of the articles on art, in the Penny Cyclopedia and its Supplement. In 1841 he contributed the article "Pictura" to Smith's Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities. His "Epochs of Painting" appeared in two volumes of Knight's Monthly Volume, 1847; an enlarged edition in 1859. In 1845 he was authorized by the government to prepare the catalogue of the National gallery, in which, besides an account of every painting, he gave a careful biography of each painter. To the thirty-seventh edition, published in 1863, he added facsimiles of the monograms and signatures on the several pictures. Mr. Wornum was appointed in 1848 lecturer on the history and principles of art to the government schools of design, and in 1852 librarian. In this capacity he prepared a classified catalogue of the library in 1855; and in 1856 published the substance of his lectures under the title of the "Analysis of Ornament," a work of great research and value. In 1855 Mr. Wornum was appointed keeper and secretary to the National gallery, and to his judgment and energy may be ascribed many of the improvements which have since been made in the building, the general disposition of the pictures, the arrangement of the Turner bequest, &c. Besides the works already mentioned, Mr. Wornum wrote the memoir and illustrative text to "The Turner Gallery," folio, 1861; has contributed numerous papers on art to the Art-Journal and other serials; edited the Lectures of the Royal Academicians, for Bohn's Scientific Library, 1848; a new edition of Walpole's Anecdotes of Painting, 1849; and a Biographical Catalogue of Italian Painters, 1855. He is also the author of the biographies of artists, signed R. N. W., in the present work—notices characterized, like all his writings, by fullness and precision of information.—J. T—e.
# Imperial House Law

* related portals: Law of Japan.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
A law governing the imperial house of Japan
* "Imperial House Law", translated by Alfred Stead, in "Japan by the Japanese" (1904)
* "Imperial House Law", translated by Ernest Wilson Clement, in Constitutional Imperialism in Japan (1916) (transcription project)
* Imperial House Law, translated by Imperial Household Agency of Japan (1947)
# Imperial Edict No. 318: National Name of Korea to be Changed to Chōsen

* related portals: Japan, Korea.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
We, the undersigned, hereby authorize the change of name of Korea to Chōsen and make it official.
[Privy Seal of Japan]
August 29, Meiji 43 [1910]
Marquis Katsura Tarō, Prime Minister
Imperial Edict No. 318
The national name of Korea shall be changed to the present name of Chōsen.
Supplementary Provisions
This order shall come into effect on the day of promulgation.
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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Moravian Missions to Greenland

MORAVIAN MISSIONS TO GREENLAND.
Why steers yon bold adventurous prow
 On toward the arctick zone,
Defying blasts that rudely seal
 To Ocean's breast like stone? Why dare her crew those fearful seas
 Where icy mountains dash,
And make the proudest ship a wreck
 With one tremendous crash?
They come, who seek the spirit's gold,
 They dare yon dreary sphere,
And winter startles on his throne,
 Their strain of praise to hear:
They come, Salvation's lamp to light
 Where frost and darkness reign,
And with a deathless joy to cheer
 The sons of want and pain.
And lo! the chapel rears its head
 Beneath those stranger-skies,
And to the sweet-ton'd Sabbath-bell
 The thick-ribb'd ice replies,
The unletter'd Esquimaux doth pluck
 The victory from the tomb,
And grateful seek that glorious clime
 Where flowers forever bloom.
When the last tinge of green departs,
 The last bird takes its flight,
And the far sun no beam bestows
 On that long polar night,
When in her subterranean cell
 To shun the tempest's ire,
Life shrinking guards her pallid flame
 That feebly lifts its spire,
The teachers of a love divine,
 That firm, devoted band,
With no weak sigh of fond regret
 Recall their father-land,
The unchanging smile that lights their brow,
 While storms of Winter roar,
Doth better prove their heaven-born Faith
 Than Learning's loftiest lore.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Nahant

NAHANT.
When fervid summer crisps the shrinking nerve,
And every prismed rock doth catch the ray
As in a burning glass, 'tis wise to seek
This city of the wave. For here the dews With which Hygeia feeds the flower of life
Are ever freshening in their secret founts.
Here may'st thou talk with Ocean, and no ear
Of gossip islet on thy words shall feed.
Send thy free thought upon the winged winds,
That sweep the castles of an older world,
And what shall bar it from their ivyed heights?
—'Tis well to talk with Ocean. Man may cast
His pearl of language on unstable hearts,
And thriftless sower! reap the winds again.
But thou, all-conquering element, dost grave
Strong characters upon the eternal rock,
Furrowing the brow that holdeth speech with thee.
Musing beneath yon awful cliffs, the soul,
That brief shell-gatherer on the shore of time,
Feels as a brother to the drop that hangs
One moment trembling on thy crest, and sinks
Into the bosom of the boundless wave.
—And see, outspreading her broad, silver scroll,
Forth comes the moon, that meek ambassador,
Bearing Heaven's message to the mighty surge.
Yet he, who listeneth to its hoarse reply,
Echoing in anger through the channel'd depths,
Will deem its language all too arrogant,
And Earth's best dialect too poor to claim
Benignant notice from the star-pav'd skies,
And man too pitiful, to lift himself
In the frail armor of his moth-crush'd pride,
Amid o'ershadowing Nature's majesty.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Nature's Beauty

NATURE'S BEAUTY.
I looked on Nature's beauty, and it came
Like a blest spirit to my inmost heart,
And darkness fled away. The fragrant breeze
Swept o'er me, as a tale of other times,
Lifting the curtain from the ancient cells
Of early memory. The young vine put forth
Her quivering tendrils, while the patron bough
Lured their light clasping with that lore which leaves
Do whisper to each other, when they lean
To drink the music of the summer-shower.
 There was a sound of wings, and through the mesh
Of her green-latticed chamber, stole the bird
To cheer her callow young. The stream flowed on,
And on its lake-like breast, the bending trees
Did glass themselves with such serene repose,
That their still haunt seemed holy. The spent sun
Turned to his rest, and full his parting ray
To mountain-top, and spire, and verdant grove,
And burnished casement, and reposing nest,
Spake benediction. And the vesper-strain
Went breathing up from every plant and flower.
The rose did fold itself, as at the cry
From the high minaret, "to prayer! to prayer!"
The Moslem kneels; and the half-sleeping eye
Of the young violet, looked devoutly forth,
Like the meek shepherd from his cottage door,
When the clear horn doth warn the Alpine cliffs,
To praise the Lord. And then the queenly Moon
Came through Heaven's portal. High her vestal train
Did bear their brilliant cressets in their hands,
Trembling with pride and pleasure. Beauty lay,
Like a broad mantle, on each slumbering dell,
And to the domes that peered through woven shades,
Gave attic grace. But on one roof, the eye
Did gaze instinctively, singling it out
From all this flood of loveliness, as turns
The mariner to some fair isle of rest,
Calling it home. I love to see thee raise
Thy stainless forehead through the sheltering elm,
Sequestered mansion. Other forms than those
That I have reared, may in thy nursery play,
Yet ne'er will I forget thee. Stranger-tones
May wake the echoes of thine airy halls,
And other names than his, whose classic taste
Reared thy pure columns, and thy haunts adorned,
May claim thy mastership: for change doth write
With Protean pencil, on all things that man
Would call his own.
 It is not meet that earth
Or aught of earthly heritage, assume
Heaven's feature of duration. Yet 'tis sweet,
On Nature's beauteous page, to read of God,
And I would bear the picture in my heart
Of these sweet woods and waters, summer-drest
And angel-voiced, until I lay me down
On the low pillow of my last repose.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/On Reading the Description of Pompeii, in the "Remains of the Rev. E. D. Griffin"

ON READING THE DESCRIPTION OF POMPEII, IN THE "REMAINS OF THE REV. E. D. GRIFFIN."
"In the garden of a villa was found the skeleton of a man, carrying keys in one hand and money and gold ornaments in the other. Before entering the gate of the city, you perceive the ruins of the guard-house, in which was found the skeleton of a soldier, with lance in hand." Tour in Italy and Switzerland.
It was the evening of the day of God,
And silence reigned around. The waning lamp
Gleamed heavily, and gathering o'er my heart
There seemed a musing sadness.
Then thou cam'st,
Ethereal spirit! on thy classic wing,
Bidding me follow thee.
 And so I sought
The ruined cities of Italia's plain,
And with thee o'er Pompeii's ashes trod,
Courting the friendship of a buried world.
 'Tis fearful to behold the tide of life
In all the tossings of its fervid strength
Thus petrified, and every painted bark
That spread its gay sail o'er the rippling surge
Sealed to its depths.
 Thou haggard skeleton,
Clutching with bony hand thy hoarded gold,
What boots it thus those massy keys to guard
When life's frail key turns in its ward no more?
 Say! hadst thou naught amidst yon wreck, more dear
Than that encumbering dross? no priceless wealth
Of sweet affinity, no tender claim,
No eager turning of fond eyes to thine,
In that last hour of dread extremity?
 Lo! yon grim soldier, faithful at his post,
Bold and unblenching, though a sea of fire
Closed o'er him, with its suffocating wave.
The reeking air grew hot, the blackened heavens
Shrank like a shriveled scroll, and mother earth,
Forgetful of her love, a traitress turned.
Yet still he fled not; though each element
Swerved from the eternal law, he firmly stood,
A Roman Sentinel.
 Thus may we stand
In duty's armor, at our hour of doom,
Though on the climax of our joy, stern Death
Should steal unlocked for, as the lightning flash
Rendeth the summer-cloud.
 But now, adieu,
My sainted guide. The midnight hour doth warn
Me from thy cherished pages, though methinks
The beauty of thy presence and thy voice,
Whose tones, melodious, charmed a listening throng,
Still linger near. It is not meet for us
To call thee brother, we who dwell in clay,
And find the impress of the earth so strong
Upon our purest gold.
 Spirit of bliss!
Who twin'st thyself around the living heart
By holiest memories, my prayer this night
Shall be a hymn of gratitude for thee.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Niagara

NIAGARA.
Flow on forever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty.—Yea, flow on
Unfathom'd and resistless.—God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet.—And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him
Eternally,—bidding the lip of man
Keep silence,—and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.
Ah! who can dare
To lift the insect-trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow,—'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves
Retire abash'd. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent laborer,—and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play
And lull them to a cradle calm:—but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,
Dost rest not, night or day,—The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young Creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem, and those wrecking fires
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears
On thine unending volume.
 Every leaf
That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism.—Lo!—yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing
Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them,
To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapour wreath,
For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee.—Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song
Were profanation.
 Thou dost make the soul
A wondering witness of thy majesty,
But as it presses with delirious joy
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God, through thee.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Missions to Africa

MISSIONS TO AFRICA.
Oh Afric! famed in story,
The nurse of Egypt's might,
A stain is on thy glory,
And quenched thine ancient light.
Stern Carthage made the pinion
Of Rome's strong eagle cower,
But brief was her dominion,
And lost her trace of power.
And thou, the stricken hearted,
The scorned of every land,
The diadem departed
Dost stretch thy fettered hand;
How long shall misery wring thee,
And none arise to save?
And every billow bring thee
Sad tidings from the slave?
Is not thy night of weeping,
Thy time of darkness o'er?
Is not Heaven's justice keeping
Its vigil round thy shore?
I see a watch-light burning
High on thy mountain tower,
To guide thy sons returning
In Freedom's glorious power.
Thy pyramids aspiring,
Unceasing wonder claim,
And still the world admiring
Demands their founder's name;
But more enduring glory
Shall settle on his head
Who blest Salvation's story
Shall o'er thy desert spread.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Mistaken Grief

MISTAKEN GRIEF.
"There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest."—Job.
We mourn for those who toil,
The wretch who ploughs the main,
The slave, who hopeless tills the soil
Beneath the stripe and chain;
For those who in the world's hard race,
O'erwearied and unblest,
A host of gliding phantoms chase,
Why mourn for those who rest?
We mourn for those who sin,
Bound in the tempter's snare,
Whom syren pleasure beckoneth in
To prisons of despair,—
Whose hearts by whirlwind passions torn
Are wreck d on folly's shore,
But why in anguish should we mourn
For those who sin no more?
We mourn for those who weep,
Whom stern afflictions bend,
Despairing o'er the lowly sleep
Of lover or of friend,
But they who Jordan's swelling tide
No more are call'd to stem,
Whose tears the hand of God hath dried,
Why should we mourn for them?
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/On Reading the Memoirs of Mrs. Judson

ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON.
I saw her on the strand. Beside her smil'd
Her land of birth, and her beloved home,
With all their pageantry of tint and shade,
Streamlet and vale.
 There stood her childhood's friends,
Sweet sisters, who her inmost thoughts had shar'd,
And saint-like parents, whose example rais'd
Those thoughts to Heaven. It was a strong array,
And the fond heart clung to its rooted loves.
But Christ had given a panoply, which Earth
Might never take away. And so she turn'd
To boisterous Ocean, and with cheerful step,
Though moisten'd eye, forsook the cherish'd clime
Whose halcyon bowers had rear'd her joyous youth.
—I look'd again. It was a foreign shore.
The tropic sun had laid his burning brow
On twilight's lap. A gorgeous palace caught
His last red ray. Hoarsely the idol-song
To Boodh, mingled with the breeze that curl'd
Broad Irrawaddy's tide. Why do ye point
To yon low prison? Who is he that gropes
Amid its darkness, with those fetter'd limbs?
Mad Pagans! do ye thus requite the man
Who toils for your salvation?
 See that form
Bending in tenderest sympathy to soothe
The victim's sorrow. Tardy months pass by,
And find her still intrepid at the post
Of danger and of disappointed hope.
Stern sickness smote her, yet with tireless zeal,
She bore the hoarded morsel to her love,
Dar'd the rude arrogance of savage power,
To plead for him, and bade his dungeon glow,
With her fair brow, as erst the angel's smile
Arous'd imprison'd Peter, when his hands
From fetters loos'd, were lifted high in praise.
—There was another scene, drawn by his hand
Whose icy pencil blotteth out the grace
And loveliness of man. The keenest shaft
Of anguish quivers in that martyr's breast,
Who is about to wash her garments white
In her Redeemer's blood, and glorious rise
From earthly sorrows to a clime of rest.
—Dark Burman faces are around her bed,
And one pale babe is there, for whom she checks
The death-groan, clasping it in close embrace,
Even till the heart-strings break.
 Behold, he comes!
The wearied man of God from distant toil.
His home, while yet a misty speck it seems,
His straining eye detects, but marks no form
Of his beloved, hasting down the vale,
As wont, to meet him.
Say, what heathen lip
In its strange accent told him, that on earth
Nought now remain'd to heal his wounded heart,
Save that lone famish'd infant? Days of care
Were meted to him, and long nights of grief
Weigh'd out, and then that little, wailing one
Went to her mother's bosom, and slept sweet
'Neath the cool branches of the Hopia-tree.
'Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice,
Which sang sweet hymns to please a father's ear,
Must breath no more.
 This is to be alone!
Alone in this wide world.  Yet not without
A comforter. For the true heart that trusts
Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur'd things
Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar,
Doth find itself drawn upward in their flight,
And poising higher o'er this vale of tears,
And gathering bright revealings of its home,
Doth from its sorrows weave a robe of praise.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/On Reading the "Remains" of Rev. Edmund D. Griffin

ON READING THE "REMAINS" OF REV. EDMUND D. GRIFFIN.
Son of Wyoming's classic vale,
 By early Genius strongly mov'd,
Whom lofty science bow'd to hail,
 And virtue from the cradle lov'd,
Thou of high soul, and radiant brow
Of manly beauty, where art thou?
Not near a mother's cherish'd side,
 Not by a sister's love carest,
Nor listening to the parent-guide,
 Nor in fraternal converse blest,
Still doth thy home the vestments wear
Of Eden,—but thou art not there.
Not at Mount Cenis' stormy base,
 Where crags on crags stupendous hurl'd,
And tower-crown'd cliffs portentous trace
 The ruins of an elder world,
Where keenly gaz'd thy charmed eye
On Nature's cloud-wreath'd majesty.
Not at her feet,—that Queen of Earth,
 Who left unsceptred and alone,
By mighty shades of warrior-birth,
 Half slumbering on her seven-hill'd throne,
Still proudly takes, with palsied hand,
The homage of each pilgrim-land.
Not where thou best didst love to stand,
 A herald for thy Saviour's name,
Dispensing to a listening band
 High words of eloquence and flame,
Such as do burst from lip and soul,
Touch'd by the "altar's living coal."
Yet, what are all the classic springs
 That murmur thro' their ancient grove,
Or all the pomp that Nature brings
 To wake the young enthusiast's love,
Or fond Affections strongest tie,
Weigh'd with their bliss in Christ who die?