OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Grapes

* related authors: Arthur Rackham.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons gallery, Commons category, Wikidata item.
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES
A HUNGRY Fox saw some fine bunches of Grapes hanging from a vine that was trained along a high trellis, and did his best to reach them by jumping as high as he could into the air. But it was all in vain, for they were just out of reach: so he gave up trying, and walked away with an air of dignity and unconcern, remarking, “I thought those Grapes were ripe, but I see now they are quite sour.”
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Lion

* related authors: Arthur Rackham.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons gallery, Commons category, Wikidata item.
THE FOX AND THE LION
A FOX who had never seen a Lion one day met one, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he was ready to die with fear. After a time he met him again, and was still rather frightened, but not nearly so much as he had been when he met him first. But when he saw him for the third time he was so far from being afraid that he went up to him and began to talk to him as if he had known him all his life.
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Monkey

THE FOX AND THE MONKEY
A FOX and a Monkey were on the road together, and fell into a dispute as to which of the two was the better born. They kept it up for some time, till they came to a place where the road passed through a ​cemetery full of monuments, when the Monkey stopped and looked about him and gave a great sigh. “Why do you sigh?” said the Fox. The Monkey pointed to the tombs and replied, “All the monuments that you see here were put up in honour of my forefathers, who in their day were eminent men. The Fox was speechless for a moment, but quickly recovering he said, “Oh! don’t stop at any lie, sir; you’re quite safe: I’m sure none of your ancestors will rise up and expose you.”
Boasters brag most when they cannot be detected.
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Snake

THE FOX AND THE SNAKE
A SNAKE, in crossing a river, was carried away by the current, but managed to wriggle on to a bundle of thorns which was floating by, and was thus carried at a great rate down-stream. A Fox caught sight of it from the bank as it went whirling along, and called out, “Gad! the passenger fits the ship!”
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Bramble

THE FOX AND THE BRAMBLE
IN making his way through a hedge a Fox missed his footing and caught at a Bramble to save himself from falling. Naturally, he got badly scratched, and in disgust he cried to the Bramble, “It was your help I wanted, and see how you have treated me! I’d sooner have fallen outright.” The Bramble, interrupting him, replied, “You must have lost your wits, my friend, to catch at me, who am myself always catching at others.”
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Goat

THE FOX AND THE GOAT
A FOX fell into a well and was unable to get out again. By and by a thirsty Goat came by, and seeing the Fox in the well asked him if the water was good. “Good?” said the Fox, “it’s the best water I ever tasted in all my life. Come down and try it yourself.” The Goat thought of nothing but the prospect of quenching his thirst, and jumped in at once. When he had had enough to drink, he looked about, like the Fox, for some way of getting out, but could find none. Presently the Fox said, “I have an idea. You stand on your hind legs, and plant your forelegs firmly against the side of the well, and then I’ll climb on to your back, and, from there, by stepping on your horns, I can get out. And when I’m out, I’ll help you out too.” The Goat did as he was requested, and the Fox climbed on to his back and so out of the well; and then he coolly walked away. The Goat called loudly after him and reminded him of his promise to help him out: but the Fox merely turned and said, “If you had as much sense in your head as you have hair in your beard you wouldn’t have got into the well without making certain that you could get out again.”
Look before your leap.
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Hedgehog

THE FOX AND THE HEDGEHOG
A FOX, in swimming across a rapid river, was swept away by the current and carried a long way downstream in spite of his struggles, until at last, bruised and exhausted, he managed to scramble on to dry ground from a backwater. As he lay there unable to move, a swarm of horseflies settled on him and sucked his blood undisturbed, for he was too weak even to shake them off. ​A Hedgehog saw him, and asked if he should brush away the flies that were tormenting him; but the Fox replied, “Oh, please, no, not on any account, for these flies have sucked their fill and are taking very little from me now; but, if you drive them off, another swarm of hungry ones will come and suck all the blood I have left, and leave me without a drop in my veins.”
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Grasshopper

THE FOX AND THE GRASSHOPPER
A GRASSHOPPER sat chirping in the branches of a tree. A Fox heard her, and, thinking what a dainty morsel she would make, he tried to get her down by a trick. Standing below in full view of her, he praised her song in the most flattering terms, and begged her to descend, saying he would like to make the acquaintance of the owner of so beautiful a voice. But she was not to be taken in, and replied, “You are very much mistaken, my dear sir, if you imagine I am going to come down: I keep well out of the way of you and your kind ever since the day when I saw numbers of grasshoppers’ wings strewn about the entrance to a fox’s earth.”
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Leopard

* related authors: Arthur Rackham.
* sister projects: Commons category, Wikidata item.
THE FOX AND THE LEOPARD
A FOX and a Leopard were disputing about their looks, and each claimed to be the more handsome of the two. The Leopard said, “Look at my smart coat; you have nothing to match that.” But the Fox replied, “Your coat may be smart, but my wits are smarter still.”
# Æsop's Fables (V. S. Vernon-Jones)/The Fox and the Crow

* related authors: Arthur Rackham.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
THE FOX AND THE CROW
A CROW was sitting on a branch of a tree with a piece of cheese in her beak when a Fox observed her and set his wits to work to discover some way of getting the cheese. Coming and standing under the tree he looked up and said, “What a noble bird I see above me! Her beauty is without equal, the hue of her plumage exquisite. If only her voice is as sweet as her looks are fair, she ought without doubt to be Queen of the Birds.” The Crow was hugely flattered by this, and just to show the Fox that she could sing she gave a loud caw. Down came the cheese, of course, and the Fox, snatching it up, said, “You have a voice, madam, I see: what you want is wits.”
THE FOX AND THE CROW
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of a Young Lady at the Retreat for the Insane

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY AT THE RETREAT FOR THE INSANE.
Youth glows upon her blossom'd cheek,
 Glad beauty in her eye,
And fond affections pure and meek
 Her every want supply:
Why doth her glance so wildly rove
 Some fancied foe to find?
What dark dregs stir her cup of love?
 Go ask the sickening mind!
They bear her where with cheering smile
 The hope of healing reigns
For those whom morbid Fancy's wile
 In torturing bond constrains;
Where Mercy spreads an angel-wing
 To do her Father's will,
And heaven-instructed plucks the sting
 From Earth's severest ill.
Yet o'er that sufferer's drooping head
 No balm of Gilead stole,
Diseas'd Imagination spread
 Dark chaos o'er the soul;
But recollected truths sublime
 Still fed Devotion's stream,
And beings from a sinless clime
 Blent with her broken dream.
Then came a coffin and a shroud,
 And many a bursting sigh,
With shrieks of laughter long and loud,
 From those who knew not why;
For she, whom Reason's fickle ray
 Oft wilder'd and distress'd
Hush'd in unwonted slumber lay,
 A cold and dreamless rest.
Think ye of Heaven! how glorious bright
 Will break its vision clear,
On souls that rose from earthly night
 All desolate and drear;
So ye who laid that stricken form
 Down to its willing sleep,
Snatch'd like a flowret from the storm,
 Weep not as others weep.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of a Young Lady

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
We had a Rose,—its breast
 Was bright with pearly dew,
Nor blight, nor time had stain'd the flower,
Yet it sank away from its cherish'd bower,
 It faded where it grew.
We had a Harp,—'tis gone,
 We will not say 'tis broken,—
No—no,—its tones are deep and high,
Where music wraps in melody,
 Each thought by angels spoken.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of a Former Pupil

DEATH OF A FORMER PUPIL.
I saw her toiling for the unclad poor
With tireless zeal, and bending o'er the sick
Through the long watches of the winter night.
Why laid she thus their burdens to her heart
Forgetful of youth's pleasures? Did some voice
Prophetic warn her of that hasting clime
Where are no sick to comfort, and no poor
To need a garment? Felt she that her step
Was near that threshhold where the weary rest?
—We may not say what light was in her soul,—
For that Blest Book which speaks the Eternal Mind
Was her close counsellor, and night and day
She woo'd its wisdom with a childlike love,
'Till the wild gladness of her nature took
A deeper and a holier tint, like one
Who girds his Sabbath-mantle meekly on,
To tread God's courts.
 Come! 'tis a holy hour,
For Easter-morn is purpling the far hills,
And She, our Church, a weeping pilgrim long,
Fast by the footsteps of her suffering Lord,
Up to his cross, and downward to his tomb,
Doth hail his rising. Lo! her feast is spread,
And her anointed herald hath announc'd
In "Christ's behalf," the invitation blest—
Come, thou art bidden, daughter. 'Twas thy prayer
To lift thy young heart's banner up this day,
Before his altar, and to join the host
Who follow him to death. Behold, they kneel
With meek obedience to their Master's voice,
And through the consecrated emblems seek
Remission of their sins. Why lingerest thou?
—They pointed to a chamber and a couch,
Where fever with its red and quenchless fires
Wrought in Life's citadel. Yet 'mid the pain
And tossing of that sleepless agony
When every nerve was quivering, and the veins
Shrank from the lava-tide that thro' them flow'd
There rose a prayer to Jesus, and those lips
So parch'd and pallid, spake the words of Heaven.
Death drew the curtain, and she slept in peace:
But tears are flowing 'mid the pleasant halls
Where her affections rested, shedding forth
Fresh brilliance, like some never-setting star.
—Yes, there are lingering sighs of mournful thought
Where Poverty doth trim its naked hearth,
And frequent lispings of her name from babes
Who by the robes that shield them from the storm,
And by the holy lessons that she taught
Upon the day of God, remember her.
—But keener grief doth dwell in one lone heart,
Which by the strongest links of earthly hope
Had bound her to its love, so that each scene
Of bright futurity, the Pastor's home,
Altar and flock, and household hymn at eve
Came coupled with her image.
 —Of such woe
Weak language speaketh not. But ye who give
Your angel-welcome to each happy guest
That from time's tribulation riseth pure,
Vouchsafe some echo from your thrilling harps,
That at Heaven's bliss, these woes of earth may fade.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of Wilberforce

DEATH OF WILBERFORCE.
I heard loud praise of heroes. But I saw
The blood-stain on their tablet. Then I marked
A torrent rushing from its mountain height,
Bearing the uptorn laurel, while its strength
Among the arid sands of Vanity
Did spend itself, and lo! a warning voice
Sighed o'er the Ocean of Eternity,
"Behold the warrior's glory."
 History came,
Sublimely soaring on her wing of light,
And many a name of palatine and peer,
Monarch and prince on her proud scroll she bore,
Blazoned by fame. But, 'mid the sea of time,
Helmet, and coronet and diadem
Rose boastful up, and shone, and disappeared,
Like the white foam-crest on the tossing wave,
Forgotten, while beheld.
 I heard a knell
Toll slow amid the consecrated aisles
Where slumber England's dead. A solemn dirge
Broke forth amid the tomb of kings, and said
That man was dust. And then a nation's tears
Fell down like rain, for it was meet to mourn.
But from the land of palm-trees, where doth flow
Sweet incense forth from grove, and gum, and flower,
Came richer tribute, breathing o'er that tomb
A prostrate nation's thanks.
 Yes, Afric knelt,
That mourning mother, and throughout the earth
Taught her unfettered children to repeat
The name of Wilberforce, and bless the spot
Made sacred by his ashes. Yea, the World
Arose upon her crumbling throne, to praise
The lofty mind that never knew to swerve
Though holy truth should summon it to meet
The frown of the embattled universe.
And so I bowed me down in this far nook
Of the far West, and proudly traced the name
Of Wilberforce upon my country's scroll,
To be her guide, as she unchained the slave,
And the bright model of her sons who seek
True glory. And from every village-haunt
And school, where rustic Science quaintly reigns,
I called the little ones, and forth they came
To hear of Afric's champion, and to bless
The firm in purpose and the full of days.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of a Young Wife

DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE.
Why is the green earth broken? Yon tall grass
Which in its ripeness woo'd the mower's hand,
And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom'd,
Why are their roots uptorn? Why swells a mound
Of new-made turf among them?
 Ask of him
Who in his lonely chamber weeps so long
At morning's dawn and evening's pensive hour,
Whose bosom's planted hopes might scarcely boast
More firmness, than yon riven flower of grass.
Yet hath not Memory stores whereon to feed,
When Joy's young harvest fails as clings the bee
To the sweet calyx of some smitten flower?
—Still is remembrance,—grief. The tender smile
Of young, confiding Love, its winning tones,
Its self-devotion, its delight to seek
Another's good, its ministry to sooth
The hour of pain, come o'er the hermit heart
To claim its bitterest tear.
 But that meek Faith,
Which all distrustful of its holiest deeds
So strongly clasp'd a Saviour's feet, when Death
Rang the crush'd heart-strings like a broken harp,
That Hope which shed its seraph-benison
On all who wept around, that smile which left
Heaven's stainless semblance on the breathless clay,
These are the tokens to the soul bereav'd,
To gird itself invincibly, and seek
A deathless union with the parted bride.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of a Son of the late Honorable Fisher Ames

DEATH OF A SON OF THE LATE HONORABLE FISHER AMES.
'Tis o'er. The bolt that rends the sky
 And rives the lordly tree,
Doth scarcely work so strange a deed
 As Death hath done for thee:
And so we lay thee in the tomb,
 Son of a patriot line,
Let not majestic manhood boast
 Who sees a grave like thine.
And She is there, that honor'd form
 O'er whom thy filial care,
Did shed such hallow'd charm as made
 Life's lonely winter fair;
That mother mourns, whose hand so oft
 Within this funeral shade,
Hath with a meek, unchanging trust
 Her cherish'd idols laid.
We go the way their steps have trod,
 From love's forsaken bowers:
Their simple shroud, their narrow house,
 Their lowly bed are ours;
And in those mansions of the soul
 Where tear was never shed,
Doubt not there yet is room for us,
 For so the Saviour said.
Oh could we cheerfully to God
 Yield back the friends he gave,
Or with such tear as Jesus shed
 Bedew their peaceful grave,
How pure from the Refiner's hand
 The spirits gold would rise,
And Faith from transient sorrow gain
 New fitness for the skies.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of Mrs. Harriet W. L. Winslow, Missionary to Ceylon

DEATH OF MRS. HARRIET W. L. WINSLOW, MISSIONARY TO CEYLON.
Thy name hath power like magic. Back it brings
The earliest pictures hung in Memory s halls,
Tinting them freshly o'er:—the rugged cliff,
The towering trees, the wintry walk to school,
The page so often conn'd, the needle's task
Achiev'd with weariness, the hour of sport
Well earn'd and dearly priz'd, the sparkling brook
Making its slight cascade, the darker rush
Of the pent river thro' its rocky pass,
Our violet-gatherings 'mid the vernal banks,
When our young hearts did ope their chrystal gates
To every simple joy.
 I little deem'd
'Mid all that gay and gentle fellowship
That Asia's sun would beam upon thy grave,
Tho' even then, from thy dark, serious eye
There was a glancing forth of glorious thought,
That scorn'd earth's vanities. I saw thee stand
With but a few brief summers o'er thy head,
And in the consecrated courts of God
Confess thy Saviour's name. And they who mark'd
The deep devotion and the high resolve
Of that young half-blown bud, did wondering ask
What its full bloom must be. But now thy couch
Is with thine infant train, where the sad voice
Of the poor Ceylon mother tells her child
Of all thy prayers and labors. Yes, thy rest
Is in the bosom of that fragrant isle
Where heathen man with lavish nature strives,
To blot the lesson she would teach of God.
Thy pensive sisters pause upon thy tomb
To catch the spirit that did bear thee through
All tribulation, till thy robes were white,
To join the angelic train. And so farewell,
My childhood's playmate, and my sainted friend,
Whose bright example, not without rebuke
Admonisheth, that home and ease and wealth
And native land, are well exchang'd for Heaven.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of a Wife during the Absence of her Husband

DEATH OF A WIFE DURING THE ABSENCE OF HER HUSBAND.
The Man of God, from distant toil
 To his sweet home drew nigh,
And kindling expectation rose
 With brightness to his eye,—
But She, the sharer of his joy,
 The solace of his care,—
Whose smile of welcome, woke his soul
 To rapture, was not there.
He entered and his darling boys
 Came gathering to his side,—
Tears glitter'd on their cheeks of rose,—
 Why were those tears undry'd?
And one a stranger to its sire,—
 A new born babe was there,—
Its feeble wailing pierced his ear,—
 Where was its mother?—where?—
They told him,—and he hasted down
 To that oblivious cell,—
From whence no tenant e'er return'd
 Among mankind to dwell,—
And there, the glory of his house,
 A lifeless ruin lay,—
And bowing down in bitter woe
 He kiss'd the unanswering clay.
But had not Faith and Hope been there,
 Whose strong, inspiring breath
Had borne that parted friend above
 The agony of death;—
Had they not stood divinely near
 To yield a sure relief,—
What else could hold the soul unwreck'd
 Amid that tide of grief?
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of a Young Musician

DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN.
Music was in thy heart, and fast entwin'd,
And closely knotted with its infant strings,
Were the rich chords of melody. When youth
And Science led thee to their classic bower
A pale and patient student, the lone lamp
Of midnight vigil, found thee pouring out
Thy soul in dulcet sound. In Memory's cell,
Still live those thrilling tones, as erst they broke
Beguiling with sweet choral symphonies
The festal hour. But lo! while thou didst wake
The solemn organ to entrancing power,
Tracing the secret spells of harmony,
On through deep rapture's labyrinthine maze,
Devotion came, and breath'd upon thy brow,
And made her temple in thy tuneful breast.
So, Music led thee to thy Saviour's feet,
Serene and true disciple, and their harps
Who fondly hold untiring guardianship
O'er frail man's pilgrim-path, were tremulous
With joy for thee.
 Nor vainly to thy soul
Came Heaven's high message, wrapp'd in minstrelsy,
For to its service, with unshrinking zeal
The blossom of thy life was dedicate.
Thy hand was on God's altar, when a touch
Sudden and strange and icy-cold, unloos'd
Its fervent grasp. Thy gentle heart was glad
With the soft promise of a hallow'd love.
But stern Death dash'd it out. Now there are tears
In tenderest eyes for thee.
 —Yet we, who know
That Earth hath many discords for a soul
Fine-ton'd and seraph-strung, and that the feet
Which fain would follow Christ, are sometimes held
In the dark meshes of a downward course
Till strong repentance turn them back with tears,
Do feel thy gain.
 'Tis well thou art at home,
Spirit of melody and peace and love.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of Mr. Oliver D. Cooke

DEATH OF MR. OLIVER D. COOKE.
Death's shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts
Where least we dread him, and where most the soul
Doth lull itself to fond security
Reveal his ministry; and were not man
Blind to the future, he might see the sky
Even in the glory of its cloudless prime
Dark with that arrow-flight.
 They deemed it so,
Who marked thee like a stately column fall,
And in the twinkling of an eye yield back
Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes,—they felt,
Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chained
Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek
Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn'd,
How awful such a rush from time must be.
Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast
Were ranklings of a recent grief for her
The idol of thy tenderness, with whom
Life had been one long scene of changeless love.
Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger
In sleepless agony, that bore her hence,—
And when the eye did darken, from whose beams
Thine own had drank from youth its dearest joy,
Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God,
Bowing thy spirit to His righteous will.
The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not staunched,
Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere Death's dire frost
Congeal'd the fount of life.
Thy toil had been
In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants
From the sweet garden which she loved to tend,
And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom.
But ere the young rose, or the willow-tree
Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid
Low by her side. It was a pleasant place
Methought to rest,—earth’s weary labor done,
Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs,
And in her company, whom thou didst choose
From all the world, to travel by thy side,
Confidingly,—by deep affection cheer'd,
And in thy faith a sharer.
 From the haunts
Of living men thine image may not fleet
Noteless away. They will remember thee,
By many a word of witness for the truth,
And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere
Of those sublimer charities that gird
The mind—the soul—thine was the ready hand:
And for the hasting of that day of peace
Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer.
In thine own house and in the church of God
There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more
Around thine altar, shalt delight to see
Thy children, and thy children's children come
To take thy patriarch blessing,—and no more
Bring duly to yon consecrated courts
Thy Sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest
Which earthly Sabbaths dimly shadow forth,
And to that ransomed family art risen,
Which have no need of prayer.
But thou, oh man!
Whose hold on life is like the spider's web,
Who hast thy footing 'mid so many snares,
So many pitfalls, yet perceivest them not,—
Seek peace with Him who made thee,—bind the shield
Of faith in Christ more firmly o'er thy breast,
That when its pulse stands still, thy soul may pass
Unshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed,
Into the fullness of the light of Heaven.
# United States Statutes at Large/Volume 6/8th Congress/2nd Session/Chapter 13

Chap. XIII.—An Act for the relief of John Steele.
Services as Secretary of the Mississippi territory.Be it enacted, &c., That the proper accounting officers liquidate and settle the account of John Steele, for his services as Secretary of the Mississippi Territory, from the seventh day of May, eighteen hundred ​and two, to the second day of March, eighteen hundred and three, inclusively; and that there be paid to him for his salary and official expenditures, such compensation as is by law allowed to persons acting in that capacity.
Approved, January 31, 1805.