OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Young Knight

SONG OF THE YOUNG KNIGHT.
Your scarf is bound upon my breast, Your colours dance upon my crest,— They have been soil'd by dust and rain, And they must wear a darker stain.
I mark'd thy tears as fast they fell, I saw but heard not thy farewell, I gave my steed the spur and rein,— I dared not look on thee again.
My cheek is pale, but not with fears, And I have dash'd aside my tears; This woman's softness of my breast Will vanish when my spear's in rest
I know that farewell was our last, That life and love from me are past; For I have heard the fated sign That speaks the downfall of our line.
I slept the soldier's tired sleep; But yet I heard the music sweep, Dim, faint, as when I stood beside The bed whereon my father died.
Farewell, sweet love! never again Will thine ear listen to the strain With which so oft at midnight's hour I've waked the silence of thy bower.
Farewell! I would not tears should stain Thy fair cheek with their burning rain:
Tears, sweet! would an ill offering be To one whose death was worthy thee.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Troubadour

THE SONG OF THE TROUBADOUR.
In some valley low and lone,  Where I was the only one  Of the human dwellers there,  Would I dream away my care:  I'd forget how in the world  Snakes lay amid roses curl'd,  I'd forget my once distress  For young Love's insidiousness.  False foes, and yet falser friends,  Seeming but for their own ends;  Pleasures known but by their wings,  Yet remember'd by their stings;  Gold's decrease, and health's decay,  I will fly like these away,
To some lovely solitude,  Where the nightingale's young brood  Lives amid the shrine of leaves,  Which the wild rose round them weaves,  And my dwelling shall be made  Underneath the beech-tree's shade.  Twining ivy for the walls  Over which the jasmine falls,  Like a tapestry work'd with gold  And pearls around each emerald fold:  And my couches shall be set  With the purple violet,  And the white ones too, inside  Each a blush to suit a bride.  That flower which of all that live,  Lovers, should be those who give,
Primroses, for each appears  Pale and wet with many tears.  Alas tears and pallid check  All too often love bespeak!  There the gilderose should fling  Silver treasures to the spring,  And the bright laburnum's tresess  Seeking the young wind's caresses;  In the midst an azure lake,  Where no oar e'er dips to break  The clear bed of its blue rest,  Where the halcyon builds her nest;  And amid the sedges green,  And the water-flag's thick screen,  The solitary swan resides;  And the bright kingfisher hides,
With its colours rich like those  Which the bird of India shows.—  Once I thought that I would seek  Some fair creature, young and meek,  Whose most gentle smile would bless  My too utter loneliness;  But I then remember'd all  I had suffer'd from Love's thrall,  And I thought I 'd not again  Enter in the lion's den;  But, with my wrung heart now free,  So I thought I still will be.  Love is like a kingly dome,  Yet too often sorrow's home;  Sometimes smiles, but oftener tears,  Jealousies, and hopes, and fears,
A sweet liquor sparkling up,  But drank from a poison'd cup.  Would you guard your heart from care  Love must never enter there.  I will dwell with summer flowers,  Fit friends for the summer hours,  My companions honey-bees,  And birds, and buds, and leaves, and trees,  And the dew of the twilight,  And the thousand stars of night:  I will cherish that sweet gift,  The least earthly one now left  Of the gems of Paradise,  Poesy's delicious sighs.  Ill may that soft spirit bear  Crowds' or cities' healthless air;
Was not her sweet breathing meant  To echo the low murmur sent  By the flowers, and by the rill,  When all save the wind is still?  As if to tell of those fair things  High thoughts, pure imaginings,  That recall how bright, how fair,  In our other state we were.  And at last, when I have spent  A calm life in mild content,  May my spirit pass away  As the early leaves decay:  Spring shakes her gay coronal,  One sweet breath, and then they fall.  Only let the red-breast bring  Moss to strew me with, and sing
One low mournful dirge to tell  I have bid the world farewell.
# The Troubadour and Richard Cœur de Lion

* The Troubadour, and Richard Cœur de Lion, in Tales and Historic Scenes, 1819.
* The Troubadour and Richard Cœur de Lion, in The Literary Souvenir, 1826.
# The Works of Thomas Carlyle/Volume 6/Letter 84

To T. St. Nicholas, Esq.: Knottingley, 25 Nov. 1648
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The Army came to Windsor on Saturday the 25th; on which same day Oliver, from Knottingley, is writing a remarkable Letter, the last of the series, to Hammond in the Isle of Wight, who seems to be in much strait about ‘that Person’ and futile Treaty, now under his keeping there.
First, however, read this Note, of like date, on a local matter: one of many Notes which a vigilant Lieutenant-General, be where he may, has to importune the Governing Powers with. Hull Garrison and Governor Overton, like most garrisons and persons, are short of pay. Grocers’ Hall, Haberdashers’ Hall, or some section of the Finance Department, ought absolutely to take thought of it.
FOR MY NOBLE FRIEND THOMAS ST. NICHOLAS, ESQUIRE: “THESE, AT LONDON”
Knottingley, 25th Nov. 1648.
Sir,—I suppose it’s not unknown to you how much the Country is in arrear to the Garrison of Hull;—as likewise how probable it is that the Garrison will break, unless some speedy course be taken to get them money; the soldiers at the present being ready to mutiny, as not having money to buy them bread; and without money the stubborn Townspeople will not trust them for the worth of a penny.
Sir, I must beg of you that, as you tender the good of the Country, so far as the security of that Garrison is motioned, you would give your assistance to the helping of them to their money which the Country owes them. The Governor will apply himself to you, either in person or by letter. I pray you do for him herein as in a business of very high consequence. I am the more earnest with you, as having a very deep sense how dangerous the event may be, of their being neglected in the ​matter of their pay. I rest upon your favour herein;—and subscribe myself, Sir, your very humble servant,
OLIVER CROMWELL.
Hull Garrison does not ‘break’: doubtless St. Nicholas, a chief Clerk, of weight in his department, did what he could. A Kentish man this St. Nicholas, if any one could be supposed to care what he was; came to be Recorder of Canterbury, and even refractory Member for Canterbury; has his seat, for the present, in the Grocers’-Hall region, among the budgets or ‘bottomless bags,’ as Independency Walker calls them. And now for the remarkable Letter contemporaneous with this:
* ↑ Kimber’s (anonymous) Life of Cromwell (4th edition, London, 1741), p. 92: Not given in the 1st edition; no notice whence.
* ↑ Whitlocke, September 1656 (2d edition, p. 642); Parliamentary History, xxi. 8; and Commons Journals, vii. 650, 730.
# The Works of Thomas Carlyle/Volume 6/Letter 83

To Lord Fairfax: Knottingley, 20 Nov. 1648
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‘All the Regiments here have petitioned my Lord General against the Treaty’ at Newport, ‘and for Justice and a Settlement of the Kingdom. They desired the Lieutenant-General to recommend their Petition; which he hath done in the Letter following’;—which is of the same date, and goes, in the same bag with that to Jenner and Ashe, just given.
FOR HIS EXCELLENCY THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX, “AT ST. ALBAN’S: THESE”
Knottingley, 20th Nov. 1648.
My Lord,—I find in the Officers of the Regiments a very great sense of the sufferings of this poor Kingdom; and in them all a very great zeal to have impartial Justice done upon Offenders. And I must confess, I do in all, from my heart, concur with them; and I verily think and am persuaded they are things which God puts into our hearts.
I shall not need to offer anything to your Excellency: I know God teaches you; and that He hath manifested His presence so to you as that you will give glory to Him in the eyes of all the world. I held it my duty, having received these Petitions and Letters, and being “so” desired by the framers thereof,—to present them to you. The good Lord work His will upon your heart, enabling you to it; and the presence of Almighty God go along with you! Thus prays, my Lord, your most humble and faithful servant,
OLIVER CROMWELL.
This same day, Monday 20th November 1648, the Army from St. Albans, by Colonel Ewer and a Deputation, presents its humble unanimous ‘Remonstrance’ to the House; craving that the same be taken ‘into speedy and serious consideration.’ It is indeed a most serious Document; tending to the dread Unknown! Whereupon ensue ‘high debates,’ Whether we shall take it into consideration? Debates to be resumed this day week. ‘The Army, before this day week, moves up to Windsor; will see a little what consideration there is. Newport Treaty is just expiring; Presbyterian Royalism, on the brink of desperate crisis, adds still two days of life to it.
* ↑ Rushworth, vii. 1339.
* ↑ Commons Journals, vi. 81; Remonstrance itself in Rushworth, vii. 1330.
# The Works of Thomas Carlyle/Volume 6/Letter 80

To Governor Morris: Pontefract, 9 Nov. 1648
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The Governor of Pontefract Castle is one Morris, once the Earl of Strafford’s servant; a desperate man: this is the Lieutenant-General’s summons to him.
FOR THE GOVERNOR OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE
“Pontefract,” 9th Nov. 1648.
Sir,— Being come hither for the reduction of this place, I thought fit to summon you to deliver your Garrison to me, for the use of the Parliament. Those gentlemen and soldiers with you may have better terms than if you should hold it to extremity. I expect your answer this day, and rest, your servant,
OLIVER CROMWELL.
Governor Morris stiffly refuses; holds-out yet a good while,—and at last loses his head at York assizes by the business. Royalism is getting desperate; has taken to highway robbery; is assassinating, and extensively attempting to assassinate. Two weeks ago, Sunday 29th October, a Party sallied from this very Castle of Pontefract; rode into Doncaster in disguise, and there, about five in the afternoon, getting into Colonel Rainsborough’s lodging, stabbed him dead:—murder, or a very questionable kind of homicide!
* ↑ Newspapers (Cromwelliana, p. 48); Rushworth, vii. 1325.
* ↑ State Trials.
* ↑ Rushworth, vii. 1279 etc., 1315.
# The Works of Thomas Carlyle/Volume 6/Letter 86

To Master and Fellows of Trinity Hall. Cambridge: London, 18 Dec. 1648
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Dutch Dorislaus, the learned Doctor, late Judge-Advocate, employed in many weighty things, and soon to be employed in the weightiest, wants now a very small accommodation which is in the gift of certain Cambridge people. A busy Lieutenant-General, while the world-whirlwind is piping loud, has to write for him this small Note withal:
TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL THE MASTER AND FELLOWS OF TRINITY HALL IN CAMBRIDGE: THESE
“London,” 18th Dec. 1648.
Gentlemen,—I am given to understand that by the late decease of Dr. Duck, his Chamber hath become vacant in the Doctors Commons “here”;—to which Dr. Dorislaus now desireth to be your tenant: who hath done service unto the Parliament from the beginning of these Wars, and hath been constantly employed by the Parliament in many weighty affairs; and especially of late, beyond the seas, with the States General of the United Provinces.
If you please to prefer him before any other, paying rent and fine to your College, I shall take it as a courtesy at your hand; whereby you will oblige, your assured friend and servant,
OLIVER CROMWELL.
Whether Dorislaus got Duck’s Chamber, we shall not ask; being, some three weeks hence, employed as Advocate in the King’s Trial, and shortly after assassinated at the Hague for that work, it proved to be of no importance to Dorislaus. The loud world-whirlwind pipes as before.
* ↑ Trinity-Hall Mss.: in Cambridge Portfolio (London, 1840), ii. 390.
* ↑ Antea, p. 287; Wood, iii. 666-8.
# The Unexpected

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Unexpected."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Unexpected", a short story by Kate Chopin
* "The Unexpected", a short story by Jack London
# The Undivine Comedy, and Other Poems/In Memoriam

IN MEMORIAM.
This volume was prepared by the gifted translator as an offering to departed worth and genius, in the person of its author, Count Sigismund Krasinski, and also as opening to her compatriots a glimpse into the rich and peculiar literature of that most unfortunate of modern nations, unhappy Poland.
The translation was with her a labor of love, and its only reward, the pleasure of well-doing and the hope that the work might bear fruit in the hearts of her countrymen. She had been warned repeatedly that the chords were too finely strung to awaken many echoes, but she felt confident that there must be a considerable number of Americans to whom the volume would speak in tones readily understood and warmly welcomed.
She did not live to oversee the issuing of the work, and hence there may remain imperfections which her taste and judgment would finally have eliminated. It seems fitting that we should in this place say a few words with regard to one who labored so assiduously and conscientiously in the cause of simple justice.
Mrs. Martha Walker Cook was born in 1807, at Northumberland, Penna. Her father was Judge J. H. Walker, one of the pioneers of civilization and legal and classical learning in Western Pennsylvania. The career of her brother, Hon. Robert J. Walker, is identified with the history of his country during many eventful years, and the State of New Jersey will not soon forget the varied services of her husband. General William Cook. Rather shrinking from, than occupying, the place thus naturally open to her in the great world, she devoted much time to the improvement of her mind and the instruction of ​her children. Accomplished in many ways, her epistolary and conversational gifts were of the highest order. She possessed the rare quality of drawing forth from her associates the best that was in them, and the meanest intelligence expanded in her presence as in the sunshine of sympathy and ready comprehension.
Having had her attention called many years ago to the actual condition of Polish music and literature, she was naturally led to a study of the people and their history. The knowledge thus acquired determined her to spare no pains in the diffusion of correct ideas on a subject regarding which there are but few sources of information in the English tongue. Not only did she advocate the cause of Poland by every means in her power, but she always stood ready to welcome the Polish emigrant to America, giving sympathy, friendly counsel, and such aid as the limited circle of her influence would permit. It was one of her most heartfelt gratifications to know that her name was held in esteem and veneration by the Poles on both sides of the Atlantic.
She passed away from the scene of her activity on the 15th of September, 1874.
This work is issued in accordance with her desires, and as a tribute of honor to disinterested labor and love of abstract justice.
EDITOR.
THE END.
# The World Factbook (1990)/Paracel Islands

page 247
​Paracel Islands
See regional map IX
Geography
Total area: undetermined
Comparative area: undetermined
Land boundaries: none
Coastline: 518 km
Maritime claims: undetermined
Disputes: occupied by China, but claimed by Taiwan and Vietnam
Climate: tropical
Terrain: undetermined
Natural resources: none
Land use: 0% arable land; 0% permanent crops; 0% meadows and pastures; 0% forest and woodland; 100% other
Environment: subject to typhoons
Note: located 400 km east of Vietnam in the South China Sea about one-third of the way between Vietnam and the Philippines
People
Population: no permanent inhabitants
Government
Long-form name: none
Economy
Overview: no economic activity
Communications
Ports: none; offshore anchorage only
Defense Forces
Note: occupied by China
# The town down the river; a book of poems/The Sunken Crown

THE SUNKEN CROWN
Nothing will hold him longer—let him go; Let him go down where others have gone down; Little he cares whether we smile or frown, Or if we know, or if we think we know. The call is on him for his overthrow, Say we; so let him rise, or let him drown. Poor fool! He plunges for the sunken crown, And we— we wait for what the plunge may show.
Well, we are safe enough. Why linger, then? The watery chance was his, not ours. Poor fool! Poor truant, poor Narcissus out of school; Poor jest of Askelon; poor king of men.— The crown, if he be wearing it, may cool His arrogance, and he may sleep again.
# The town down the river; a book of poems/The White Lights

THE WHITE LIGHTS
(BROADWAY, 1906)
When in from Delos came the gold That held the dream of Pericles, When first Athenian ears were told The tumult of Euripides, When men met Aristophanes, Who fledged them with immortal quills— Here, where the time knew none of these, There were some islands and some hills.
When Rome went ravening to see The sons of mothers end their days, When Flaccus bade Leuconoë To banish her Chaldean ways, When first the pearled, alembic phrase Of Maro into music ran— Here there was neither blame nor praise For Rome, or for the Mantuan.
When Avon, like a faery floor, Lay freighted, for the eyes of One, With galleons laden long before By moonlit wharves in Avalon— Here, where the white lights have begun To seethe a way for something fair, No prophet knew, from what was done, That there was triumph in the air.
# The town down the river; a book of poems/The master

THE MASTER (LINCOLN)
A flying word from here and there Had sown the name at which we sneered, But soon the name was everywhere, To be reviled and then revered: A presence to be loved and feared, We cannot hide it, or deny That we, the gentlemen who jeered, May be forgotten by and by.
He came when days were perilous And hearts of men were sore beguiled; And having made his note of us, He pondered and was reconciled. Was ever master yet so mild As he, and so untamable? We doubted, even when he smiled, Not knowing what he knew so well.
He knew that undeceiving fate Would shame us whom he served unsought; He knew that he must wince and wait— The jest of those for whom he fought; He knew devoutly what he thought Of us and of our ridicule; He knew that we must all be taught Like little children in a school.
We gave a glamour to the task That he encountered and saw through, But little of us did he ask, And little did we ever do. And what appears if we review The season when we railed and chaffed? It is the face of one who knew That we were learning while we laughed.
The face that in our vision feels Again the venom that we flung, Transfigured to the world reveals The vigilance to which we clung. Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among The mysteries that are untold, The face we see was never young Nor could it ever have been old.
For he, to whom we had applied Our shopman's test of age and worth, Was elemental when he died, As he was ancient at his birth: The saddest among kings of earth, Bowed with a galling crown, this man Met rancor with a cryptic mirth, Laconic—and Olympian.
The love, the grandeur, and the fame Are bounded by the world alone; The calm, the smouldering, and the flame Of awful patience were his own: With him they are forever flown Past all our fond self-shadowings, Wherewith we cumber the Unknown As with inept, Icarian wings.
For we were not as other men: 'Twas ours to soar and his to see But we are coming down again, And we shall come down pleasantly; Nor shall we longer disagree On what it is to be sublime, But flourish in our perigee And have one Titan at a time.
# The town down the river; a book of poems/Uncle Ananias

UNCLE ANANIAS
His words were magic and his heart was true, And everywhere he wandered he was blessed. Out of all ancient men my childhood knew I choose him and I mark him for the best. Of all authoritative liars, too, I crown him loveliest.
How fondly I remember the delight That always glorified him in the spring; The joyous courage and the benedight Profusion of his faith in everything! He was a good old man, and it was right That he should have his fling.
And often, underneath the apple-trees, When we surprised him in the summer time, With what superb magnificence and ease He sinned enough to make the day sublime! And if he liked us there about his knees, Truly it was no crime.
All summer long we loved him for the same Perennial inspiration of his lies; And when the russet wealth of autumn came, There flew but fairer visions to our eyes— Multiple, tropical, winged with a feathery flame, Like birds of paradise.
So to the sheltered end of many a year He charmed the seasons out with pageantry, Wearing upon his forehead, with no fear, The laurel of approved iniquity. And every child who knew him, far or near, Did love him faithfully.
# The town down the river; a book of poems/The Pilot

THE PILOT
From the Past and Unavailing Out of cloudland we are steering; After groping, after fearing, Into starlight we come trailing, And we find the stars are true. Still, O comrade, what of you? You are gone, but we are sailing, And the old ways are all new.
For the Lost and Unreturning We have drifted, we have waited; Uncommanded and unrated, We have tossed and wandered, yearning For a charm that comes no more From the old lights by the shore: We have shamed ourselves in learning What you knew so long before.
For the Breed of the Far-going Who are strangers, and all brothers, May forget no more than others Who look seaward with eyes flowing. But are brothers to bewail One who fought so foul a gale? You have won beyond our knowing, You are gone, but yet we sail.
# The town down the river; a book of poems/The Whip

THE WHIP
The doubt you fought so long, The cynic net you cast, The tyranny, the wrong, The ruin, they are past; And here you are at last, Your blood no longer vexed. The coffin has you fast, The clod will have you next.
But fear you not the clod, Nor ever doubt the grave: The roses and the sod Will not forswear the wave. The gift the river gave Is now but theirs to cover: The mistress and the slave Are gone now, and the lover.
You left the two to find Their own way to the brink: Then—shall I call you blind?— You chose to plunge and sink. God knows the gall we drink Is not the mead we cry for, Nor was it, I should think— For you—a thing to die for.
Could we have done the same, Had we been in your place?— This funeral of your name Throws no light on the case.— Could we have made the chase, And felt then as you felt?— But what's this on your face, Blue, curious, like a welt?
There were some ropes of sand Recorded long ago, But none, I understand, Of water. Is it so? And she—she struck the blow, You but a neck behind. . . You saw the river flow— Still, shall I call you blind?
# The town down the river; a book of poems/The Wise Brothers

THE WISE BROTHERS
FIRST VOICE
So long adrift, so fast aground, What foam and ruin have we found— We, the Wise Brothers? Could heaven and earth be framed amiss, That we should land in fine like this— We, and no others?
SECOND VOICE
Convoyed by what accursed thing Made we this evil reckoning— We, the Wise Brothers?
And if the failure be complete, Why look we forward from defeat— We, and what others?
THIRD VOICE
Blown far from harbors once in sight, May we not, going far, go right,— We, the Wise Brothers? Companioned by the whirling spheres, Have we no more than what appears— We, and all others?