OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/Invitation to the Birds

46. Invitation to the Birds.
Ye gentle warblers, hither fly,
And shun the noontide heat;
My shrubs a cooling shade supply,
My groves a safe retreat. ​Here freely hop from spray to spray,
And weave the mossy nest;
Here rove and sing the live-long day,
At night here sweetly rest.
Amid this cool transparent rill,
That trickles down the glade,
Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.
Hither the vocal thrush repairs,
Secure the linnet sings;
The goldfinch dreads no slimy snares,
To clog her painted wings.
Sweet nightingale! oh, quit thy haunt,
Yon distant woods among,
And round my friendly grotto chant
Thy sadly pleasing song.
Nor let the harmless redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come
And seek a safe asylum here,
With one that loves his home.
My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve;
Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe,
Come feed without reserve.
For you these cherries I protect,
To you these plums belong;
Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd,
But sweeter far your song.
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/Little Flutt'rer, swiftly flying

40. Little Flutt'rer, swiftly flying.
Little flutt'rer, swiftly flying,
There is none to harm thee near:
Kite not hawk nor schoolboy prying,
Little flutt'rer, cease to fear.
One who would protect thee ever
From the schoolboy, kite, or hawk,
Musing now comes near, but never
Dreamt of plunder in his walk.
​May no cuckoo wand'ring near thee
Lay her egg within thy neat;
Nor thy young ones, born to cheer thee,
Be destroy'd by such a guest.
Little flutt'rer, swiftly flying,
There is none to harm thee near;
Kite nor hawk nor schoolboy prying,
Little flutt'rer, cease to fear.
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/Morning, Noon, and Evening

53. Morning, Noon, and Evening.
Morning.—First Child's Song.
Now the sun shines o'er the hill,
Now the morning breaketh clear,
Chanticleer with clarion shrill
Waketh all the farm-yard near.
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows nursed by night retire,
And the peeping sunbeam now
Paints with gold the village-spire.
From the low-roof'd cottage ridge
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing. ​Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently meets the morning gale,
Lambkins now begin to crop
Daisies on the dewy vale.
(Turning to the company present)
Tell me, sisters, am I wrong?
Has not Morn a pretty song?
Noon.—Second Child's Song.
By the brook the shepherd dines,
From the glowing noontide heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines
Hanging o'er his grassy seat.
Cattle court the breezes bland
Where the streamlet wanders cool,
Or in languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flower.
Now the hill, the hedge, are green,
Now the warbler's throat's in tune
Blithesome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of Noon.
(Turning to the company present)
Gentle sisters, what say you?
Does not Noon sing sweetly too?
Evening.—Third Child's Song.
O'er the heath the heifer strays
Free, her furrow'd task is done;
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun. ​Now the lonely owlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake,
And the blue mist slowly creeps
Curling on the silver lake
As the trout in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs,
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
Freshly plays the Evening air,
Sweetly fall its shadows gray;
Even man forgets his care,
Thoughtless for the coming day.
(Turning to the company present)
Gentle sisters, of the three,
Give you not the prize to me?
Adapted by the Editor from a Pastoral of J. Cunningham.
This song may be sung by three children, personating respectively Morning, Noon, and Evening; and when thus sung, each child at the end of its song may turn to the company present and make its appeal, "Sisters, tell me," &c.
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

6. Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
​This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.
Around, from all the neighb'ring streets,
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That shew'd the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of his bite,
The dog it was that died.
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/God save the Queen

61. God save the Queen.
God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen.
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen.
Thy choicest gifts in store
On fair Victoria pour,
Long may she reign.
May she defend our laws,
And ever give us cause
To sing with heart and voice,
God save the Queen.
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/Begone, Dull Care

59. Begone, Dull Care.
Begone, dull care, I prithee begone from me;
Begone, dull care, you and I shall never agree.
Long time thou hast been tarrying here
And fain thou wouldst me kill,
But i' faith, dull care,
Thou never shalt have thy will.
For too much care is health and strength's decay;
And too much thought, it wears the mind away.
Then away with gloom and sorrow,
And merrily pass the day,
For I hold it one of the wisest things
To drive dull care away.
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/John Barleycorn

24. John Barleycorn.
There went three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
And they have sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn shall die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;
And they have sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn was dead.
​But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.
The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head well arm'd with pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The soher autumn enter'd mild,
And he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Shew'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To shew their deadly rage.
They took a weapon strong and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
They fill'd up then a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
And heav'd in poor John Barleycorn,
To let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.
​They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But the miller used him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they have strain'd his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round,
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
So, neighbours all, make sad lament.
And sorely weep and mourn,
For now you've heard the doleful end
Of bold John Barleycorn.
# A First Series of Hymns and Songs/Descriptive Songs/Lucy Gray

19. Lucy Gray
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew,
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage-door.
You, too, may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green,
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the town must go,
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, father, I will gladly do;
'Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapp'd a faggot-band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand. ​Not blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time;
She wander'd up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reach'd the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood,
That overlook'd the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from the door.
They wept, and turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet!"— When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet!
Half-breathless, from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the footmarks small.
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they cross'd—
The marks were still the same;
They track them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.
They follow'd from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank— And further there were none! ​You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Plesiosaurus (Louis Bouilhet)

THE PLESIOSAURUS.
LOUIS BOUILHET.
(Les Fossiles.)
Sudden upon the shore 'mid dark, dark slime, Lengthened a mass most frightful to behold: Slowly it came, out of the foaming waves. A breath inflated wide its livid flanks, And its huge viscid back, with seaweeds sown, Rose, like a mountain drifted, high in air. It rose! It rose! It covered all the coast; Under its wrinkled belly rang the shells; Its monstrous feet, its big toes hard and scaled, Were spread out heavy on the shingles wet. To sounds of far-off winds sometimes the shape Turned its thin muzzle and its head deformed; Bristled with hair, dilated like dark caves, Its nostrils seemed to suck the whole world up And to despise th' immensities of space; While its eyes round, rimmed with metallic plates, Senseless and glassy, swam like two dead moons. Hideous, it stopped upon the salt sand's edge, While in long folds its tail still dragged the sea. Then grinding fierce its large unmeasured teeth, And wrinkling on its back its serried scales,
With power, it vented out an outcry long, Which spread afar beneath the firmament. By mountains, and by woods of outlines sad, The clamour solemn, like a billow rolled To depths of horrid solitudes tenantless. And the vast universe as in terror heard The cry immense of life spread in the sky.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Rest of Evening (Pierre Dupont)

THE REST OF EVENING.
PIERRE DUPONT.
When the sun sinking to his rest With long rays streaks the plain immense, Like ripened corn glows all the West With purple, red, and gold intense. Deepen the shades, as lustre fades Upon the hills in front,—at last Blue vapours rise in coils and braids, The sky grows gray,—and day is past. Come, let us rest Till dawn again: Repose is blest To toil and pain.
Lies in the furrow till receives The earth its dews again, the plough, Birds go to roost 'mid sheltering leaves; Number the sheep beneath the bough O Shepherds! Maidens, switch in hand, To fords conduct the beasts to drink. How patient there the oxen stand! How snort the steeds beside the brink! Come, let us rest Till dawn again: Repose is blest To toil and pain.
The spindles stop; the bright lamps shine; Curls of white smoke from roofs ascend, Of evening's repast the sign; The clock strikes; work is at an end; The weary workman homeward goes. Home! 'tis a hovel,—but the light Of love, rose-colours round it throws! He hastes;—already 'tis in sight! Come, let us rest Till dawn again: Repose is blest To toil and pain.
The busy wife and children dear Await his presence anxiously, Soon as they see him—'Lo! he's here!' Bursts from their lips the common cry. Sweet kisses,—home-made wine, and food, Revive his pale, pale face again, His children have had bread,—and should A man with such a wife complain? Come, let us rest Till dawn again: Repose is blest To toil and pain.
The hearth-fires all die slowly out, Far off is heard a deadened roar, Engines released from work, no doubt, The hammer strokes resound no more. From noises vain and empty shows, Let us our souls now turn away,
Night, with the starry crown that glows, And Nature silent, seem to pray. Come, let us rest Till dawn again: Repose is blest To toil and pain.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Roses of Saadi (Madame M. Desbordes-Valmore)

THE ROSES OF SAADI.
MADAME M. DESBORDES-VALMORE.
I went early this morning to bring thee fresh roses, But they were so many—burst the band that encloses The flowers I pick daily, and they all flew away.
Some were whirled by the wind, and some fell in the river, They seemed for one moment in its ripples to shiver, Then they followed the stream, winding on in its play;
On the waters they gleamed as in ashes gleam embers, Their sweet fragrance my robe—ah, my robe still remembers, Respire the remembrance as it rustles, I pray.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Poet's Apology for His Short Poems (Nicolas Martin)

THE POET'S APOLOGY FOR HIS SHORT POEMS.
NICOLAS MARTIN.
Why, Poet, so brief is your lay?— Ask rather, as more opportune, Why love flies so swiftly away, And wither the roses so soon!
You love a rich chain-work of gold Set with diamonds, that flash on the view, I love—oh, much more, to behold A drop small and humble of dew.
Resplendent with stars are the skies, But their glory inspires me with fear, Far dearer to me are bright eyes In whose depths there trembles a tear.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Rose and the Tomb (Victor Hugo)

THE ROSE AND THE TOMB.
VICTOR HUGO.
The tomb said to the rose,— Of the tears the night strows, What makest thou, O flower of the dawning? The rose said to the tomb,— Of what falls in thy womb, What makest thou, O gulf ever yawning?
The rose whispered—O tomb! From those tears shed in gloom, Is the scent famed in song and in story. The tomb said—O my pet! Of each soul that I get I create a winged angel of glory.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Political Prisoner (Les Châtiments, Victor Hugo)

THE POLITICAL PRISONER.
VICTOR HUGO.
(Les Châtiments.)
Paths that from trees dark shadows borrow! Green vale and wood and pebbled shore! Wherefore this silence and this sorrow? A step that came here, comes no more.
Closed window, sign of some disaster! Garden, where never flowers are seen! And grey old house—where is the master? Long in his home he has not been.
Mastiff, keep watch. O stranger, rather On desolation look thou here. Child, why weepest thou? For my father. And thou, O Woman? For my dear.
Where is he gone? He left no traces. Whence come ye, waves that thunder loud? We come from earth's dark cruel places. And what bear ye? A hammock-shroud.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Resting-Place of the Kine (Auguste Barbier)

THE RESTING-PLACE OF THE KINE.
AUGUSTE BARBIER.
They rested in the shadow of great oaks. Near them arrived, where moss the small flowers chokes, We stopped awhile to contemplate the group, The tableau of the quiet slumbering troop; Athwart the thickness of the verdant crest Darted the sun, filtering the lustre prest Huge gnarled trunks, and branches stretched out wide, And tipped with gold, horn mouth, or glossy side; Then brought the wind in gusts, by fits intense, The odours of fresh milk that charm the sense. A hundred kine were there, and for their guard One herdsman and a dog,—sole watch and ward. The man upon a small mound peeled a branch, The dog lay close beside, alert and staunch, With ear attentive ever, and his eye Fixed on his loving master, anxiously. Kind salutations and some kind words past; We to the herdsman said, 'To lead so vast A herd, one dog seems scarce sufficient.'—'True,' Replied the herdsman, 'but the dogs are few That equal mine; in forests such as these, Labyrinthine, dense with brushwood as with trees, Three dogs would scarcely be too many: mine Alone can manage and control the kine. But hold—the sun goes down—the herd must feed
A few hours longer on the open mead. If you should like to see it wake and stir, My dog shall show his work and character.' This said, he rose and cried, 'Hola! Bonhomme! We must to work: no dog in Christendom Better deserves the name. Now, jump up! Stand!' A whistle followed, like a last command. Swift as an arrow from the bent bow darts, Ran Bonhomme to the grove's most shadowed parts, Where the cows slumbered with their colours blent And glossy skins, packed close as in a tent. Some time elapsed without the slightest sound, Or slightest movement in the leaf-hid ground. Anon, commenced the tinkling of the bells, And lo! a red flank or a white head swells, Then one by one they step forth on the plain, Sleek, grand, enormous, glad to snuff again The pure air, and enjoy the setting sun. When all were out, his task allotted done, The dog came breathless from the shaded nook With open mouth, and tail that lightly shook, To ask approval from his master's look. Then was it, that the young and happy child Who walked with us, an angel undefiled, Drew from her basket's depth a bit of bread, And in compassion bold, and blushing red, Gave it the dog. He darted at the boon, Thankful to seize it. Suddenly and soon Arose the signal whistle once again; And at that sovereign order, on the plain The faithful servant flew, nor looked behind, The tempting object willingly resigned. No hesitation was there—no delay, Eager he ran, impatient to obey.
The rapid noble movement made us feel A pleasure pure we cared not to conceal, Akin to that which rises up serene In generous hearts divested of the mean, At some heroic action unforeseen. 'Heroic?'—Yes, oh, let th' expression stand, The dog's submission, in our minds, was grand. Hungry, since morning haply in the wood, At work—on watch—forlorn in solitude, Preferred he duty, to the tempting food.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Sleep of the Condor (Leconte de Lisle)

THE SLEEP OF THE CONDOR.
LECONTE DE LISLE.
Beyond the steep ramparts of the high Cordillières, Beyond the dun fogs where the black eagle's eyrie 's, Higher, far higher than the bold craters, like funnels, Whence springs out the lava from its deep boiling tunnels, With wings that hang down, jagged, red in some places, The condor looks silent o'er limitless spaces, Across the New World, to the sun that no longer Blazes bright in his eyes. The shadows grow stronger. Night rolls from the east, against mountains in stories, At whose feet the wild pampas display all their glories, She darkens o'er Chili, its town, and the ocean Which slumbers profound, without ripple or motion; On the continent silent her banner is planted, From the sands to the boulders, up gorges high-slanted From crest unto crest, swell, advance her proud surges, A high-tide of darkness, some power upward urges. On the peak which is topmost, where still a red lustre Stains with a blood-streak the glaciers that shimmer, He waits with a courage he knows how to muster, Alone, like a spectre, growing dimmer and dimmer The blackness that threatens like a sea to surround him: It comes—it is near—at last it has bound him. In the depths of the heavens, on a sudden there lightens The Cross of the South—a pale beacon that brightens!
There's a rattle of pleasure, his neck is erect, Bare, musculous; he peers his flight to direct. He stirs, whipping up, the sharp snow of the Andes, He mounts the blue ether with a hoarse cry that grand is, Far, far from this globe, by night's banner defended, Far, far from its noise, from its strife, its endeavour, A speck, but a speck, and as frozen for ever He sleeps in the air, with his wings wide-extended.
# A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Tonnerre, Grosse Caisse en

[ V. de P. ]
# A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Tonality

[ C. H. H. P. ]
# A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Tonkünstlerverein

[ F. G. ]
# A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Tomkins

​TOMKINS. A family which, in the 16th and 17th centuries, produced many good musicians.
Rev. Thomas Tomkins was chanter and minor canon of Gloucester Cathedral in the latter part of the 16th century. He contributed to 'The Triumphes of Oriana,' 1600, the madrigal 'The faunes and satirs tripping,' commonly attributed to his more celebrated son and namesake.
John Tomkins, Mus. Bac., one of his sons, was probably a chorister of Gloucester Cathedral. He afterwards became a scholar of King's College, Cambridge, of which in 1606 he was appointed organist. He resigned in 1622 upon being chosen organist of St. Paul's Cathedral. In 1625 he was appointed gentleman extraordinary of the Chapel Royal 'for the next place of an organist there,' and in 1625 became Gospeller. He died Sept. 27, 1638, and was buried at St. Paul's. Some anthems by him are contained in Barnard's MS. collection. His son, Robert, was in 1641 one of the King's musicians.
Thomas Tomkins, Mus. Bac., another son of Thomas, was a pupil of Byrd, and graduated at Oxford, July 11, 1607. He soon afterwards became organist of Worcester Cathedral. On Aug. 2, 1621, he was sworn in as one of the organists of the Chapel Royal upon the death of Edmond Hooper. In 1622 he published 'Songs of 3, 4, 5 and 6 parts,' containing 28 madrigals and anthems of a high degree of excellence. He died in June, 1656, and was buried at Martin Hassingtree, Worcestershire. A collection of his church music, comprising 5 services and 68 anthems, was published in 1664 under the title of 'Musica Deo Sacra & Ecclesiæ Anglicanæ; or, Musick dedicated to the Honor and Service of God, and to the Use of Cathedral and other Churches of England, especially to the Chappel Royal of King Charles the First.' A second impression appeared in 1668.
Many MSS. of his music are found in the Tudway collection, at Ely, Ch. Ch. Oxford, etc. At St. John's Coll. Oxford, there is a volume written by him and Este, containing, among other remarkable things, the bass part of a Service by Tallis for 5 voices, otherwise unknown. [See Tallis, vol. iv. p. 54a.]
Giles Tomkins, a third son, succeeded his brother, John, as organist of King's College, Cambridge, in 1622. He afterwards became organist of Salisbury Cathedral, which appointment he held at the time of his death in 1668.
W. H. H. ]
# A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Tonic

[ M. ]