OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Hoffman)/Old Modoc

​OLD MODOC
("UKIAH, Cal, Aug. 20.—A fire occurred at the Yokayo Indian reservation last night which resulted in the death of two Indians and the practical destruction of the entire village. The rancheria is situated about six miles south of this city, and at the time the conflagration started the major portion of the population was at work in the various hopfields in this valley.
An old and infirm Indian was confined by illness in one of the straw-thatched huts, and in some manner a spark from a slumbering fire was blown to the roof of the cabin. In almost an instant the flimsy structure was in flames.
It chanced at this time that a Modoc Indian named Will-TiMo had returned to the village on an errand, and as soon as he discovered the cabin of the old Indian on fire he rushed to the rescue. The intense heat drove him back at first, but he no sooner recovered his breath than he rushed through the door and into the blazing cabin. He seized the old Indian by the hair and started to drag him out. By the time he reached the door his clothes were on fire and he fell back into the cabin. A moment later the roof of the hut fell in and the blazing mass covered the two Indians.
The flames by this time had practically destroyed the house and help came in time to remove the two dying men from the glowing embers. Will-Ti-Mo, the Modoc brave, was burned almost to a crisp, but he was still living when taken from the glowing building. The other Indian was dead. All night long the death song of the Indians could be heard. The hopfields were deserted and Yokayos, Sanels and a few Klamaths gathered around the charred bodies to mourn."—Ukiah Press.)
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/There is a bondage

XIX.
There is a bondage which is worse to bear Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall, Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall: 'Tis his who walks about in the open air, One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear Their fetters in their Souls. For who could be, Who, even the best, in such condition, free From self-reproach, reproach which he must share With Human Nature? Never be it ours To see the Sun how brightly it will shine, And know that noble Feelings, manly Powers, Instead of gathering strength must droop and pine, And Earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers Fade, and participate in Man's decline.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/To -

XXXVI.
TO ———
From the dark chambers of dejection freed, Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care Rise, **** rise: the gales of youth shall bear Thy genius forward like a winged steed. Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, Yet a high guerdon waits on minds that dare, If aught be in them of immortal seed, And reason govern that audacious flight Which heav'n-ward they direct.—Then droop not thou, Erroneously renewing a sad vow In the low dell mid Roslin's fading grove: A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The two Thieves

V.
THE TWO THIEVES,
OR,
THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE.
O now that the genius of Bewick were mine, And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne! Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose.
What feats would I work with my magical hand! Book-learning and books should be banished the land: And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls! Every Ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.
The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care; For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves, Ob, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?
​Little Dan is unbreeched, he is three birth-days old; His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather Between them, and both go a-stealing together.
With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor? Is a cart-load of peats at an old Woman's door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide; And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.
Old Daniel begins, he stops short—and his eye Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly. 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.
Dan once had a heart which was moved by the wires Of manifold pleasures and many desires: And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas no more Than treading a path trod by thousands before.
'Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one Who went something further than others have gone: And now with old Daniel you see how it fares; You see to what end he has brought his gray hairs.
​The Pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun Has peered o'er the beeches their work is begun: And yet, into whatever sin they may fall, This Child but half knows it, and that not at all.
They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, And each in his turn is both leader and led; And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.
Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam; For gray-headed Dan has a daughter at home, Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done; And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one.
Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed, I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side: Long yet mayst thou live! for a teacher we see That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/These words

XII.
. . . . . .they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away.
These words were uttered in a pensive mood, Mine eyes yet lingering on that solemn sight: A contrast and reproach to gross delight, And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd! But now upon this thought I cannot brood; It is unstable, and deserts me quite: Nor will I praise a Cloud, however bright, Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome, Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home: The immortal Mind craves objects that endure: These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/These times

XX.
October, 1803.
These times touch money'd Worldlings with dismay: Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air With words of apprehension and despair: While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, Men unto whom sufficient for the day And minds not stinted or untilled are given, Sound, healthy Children of the God of Heaven, Are cheerful as the rising Sun in May. What do we gather hence but firmer faith That every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath; That virtue and the faculties within Are vital,—and that riches are akin To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/There is an Eminence

III.
There is an Eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our Orchard-seat; And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And She who dwells with me, whom 1 have loved With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath to this lonely summit given my Name.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/To M. H.

V.
TO M. H.
Our walk was far among the ancient trees; There was no road, nor any wood-man's path; But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, on the soft green turf Beneath the branches of itself had made A track, which brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods. All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a Well, Or some Stone-bason which the Herdsman's hand Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun Or wind from any quarter ever come, But as a blessing, to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself. The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain ​Unknown to them: but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still nook With all its beeches we have named from You.
# Poems (Van Vorst)/The Song of the Wheat

THE SONG OF THE WHEAT
# Persian Letters/Letter 25
#### Letter 25

Usbek to Ibben, at Smyrna
I HAVE received a letter from your nephew, Rhedi, in which he informs me that he has left Smyrna intending to visit Italy; and that the sole object of his voyage is to improve himself, and so render himself worthier of you. I congratulate you on having a nephew who will some day be the consolation of your old age.
Rica tells me he wrote you a long letter full of details about this country. The liveliness of his intellect makes him a keen observer: I, whose mind moves slowly, am in no case to write of anything.
We often speak of you with warm affection; and are never done recalling the welcome you gave us in Smyrna, and the services your friendship rendered us daily. May you, generous Ibben, find friends everywhere as grateful and as faithful as we are!
I hope to see you soon again, and to enjoy once more those happy days which pass so pleasantly between two friends. Farewell.
Paris, the 4th of the second moon of Rebiab, 1712.
# Persian Letters/Letter 22
#### Letter 22

Jaron to the first Eunuch
The further Usbek journeys from the seraglio, the more he thinks of these devoted women: he sighs; he weeps; his grief becomes embittered, and his suspicions grow stronger. He wishes to increase the number of their guardians. He intends to send me back, with all the blacks who accompany him. It is not for himself he fears, but for that which is to him a thousand times dearer.
I return then to live under your laws, and to share your cares. Great God! What a world of things is necessary for one man’s happiness!
Nature, which seems originally to have placed women in a state of dependence, afterwards withdrew them from it, with the result that dissensions arose between the sexes because of their mutual rights. The sexes now live in a new kind of unity: hatred is the link between women and men, love is the bond.
My brow begins to wear a constant frown. My eyes dart forth somber glances, and joy forsakes my lips. Outwardly I appear calm; within unrest reigns. Grief will furrow my face long before wrinkles of old age appear.
I should have greatly enjoyed accompanying my master in his western journey, but my will belongs to him. He wishes me to guard his wives; I shall watch over them faithfully. I know how to behave towards that sex, which, when not allowed to be vain, turns haughty, and which it is easier to break than to bend. I prostrate myself before you.
Smyrna, the 12th moon of Zilcade, 1711.
# Persian Letters/Letter 23
#### Letter 23

Usbek to his friend Ibben, at Smyrna
We have now arrived at Leghorn after a forty days’ voyage. It is a new town and bears witness to the genius of the dukes of Tuscany, who, from a marshy village, have made it the most flourishing town in Italy.
The women here enjoy much liberty: they are allowed to look at men through a species of window called jalousie: they have permission to go out every day in the company of some old women: they wear only one veil. Their brothers-in-law, their uncles, and their nephews, are allowed to visit them, and this hardly ever troubles their husbands.
The first sight of a Christian town is, for a Mohammedan, a wonderful spectacle. I do not mean only those things that strike the eye at once, such as the difference in the buildings, the dresses, and the chief customs: there is, even in the merest trifles, a singularity, which I feel, but cannot describe.
We set out to-morrow for Marseilles, where our sojourn will be brief. Rica’s intention and mine is to get at once to Paris, the capital of the European empire. Travelers are always anxious to visit great cities, because they are a sort of common country to all strangers. Farewell, Rest assured that I shall never cease to love you.
Leghorn, the 12th of the moon of Saphar, 1712.
# Persian Letters/Letter 3
#### Letter 3

Zachi to Usbek, At Tauris
We instructed the chief of the eunuchs to take us into the country; he will inform you that we arrived there without accident. When we had to leave our litters in order to cross the river, we went, as usual, into boxes: two slaves carried us on their shoulders, and we were seen by nobody.
Dear Usbek, how I can endure existence in your seraglio at Ispahan! It recalls everlastingly my past happiness, provoking daily my desires with renewed vehemence.
I wander from room to room, always searching for you; mocked at my every turn by the cruel memory of my vanished bliss. Sometimes I behold you in that spot where I first received you in my arms; again I see you in the room where you decided that famous quarrel among your women. Each of us asserted a superiority in beauty. We came just before you, after having exhausted our fancy in decking ourselves with jewelry and adornments. You noted with pleasure the marvels of our art; you were astonished at the height to which we had carried our desire to please you. But you soon made those borrowed graces give way to more natural charms; you destroyed the result of our labours: we were compelled to despoil ourselves of those ornaments, now become tiresome to you, and to appear before you in the simplicity of nature. For me, modesty counted as nothing; I thought only of conquest. Happy Usbek! What charms did you then behold. Long you wandered from enchantment to enchantment, unable to control your roving fancy; each new grace required your willing tribute; in an instant you covered us all with your kisses; your eager looks strayed into the recesses of our charms; you made us vary our attitudes a thousand times; and new commands brought forth new obedience. I avow it, Usbek, a passion stronger even than ambition filled me with a desire to please you. Gradually I saw myself become your heart’s mistress; you chose me, left me, returned your love to me, and I knew now to keep your love: my triumph was the despair of my rivals. You and I felt as it we were the sole inhabitants of the world: nothing but ourselves deserved a moment’s thought. Would to Heaven my rivals had been brave enough to witness all the proofs of love you gave me! Had they watched well my transports they would have felt the difference between their love and mine; it would have been plain to them that, though they might dispute the palm of beauty, they could not vie with me in tenderness…But what is this? Where has this vain rehearsal led me? It is a misfortunate not to be loved, but to have love withdrawn from one is an outrage. You abandon us, Usbek, to wander in barbarous climes. What! Do you count it as nothing to be loved? Alas! You do not even know what it is you lose! The sighs I heave there is none to hear; my falling tears are not by to pity. Your insensibility takes you further and further from the love that throbs for your in your seraglio. Ah! My beloved Usbek, if you only knew your happiness!
The Seraglio at Fatme, the 21st of the moon of Maharram, 1711.
# Persian Letters/Letter 27
#### Letter 27

Usbek to Nessir, at Ispahan
We are now at Paris, that proud rival of the city of the sun.
When I left Smyrna, I commissioned my friend Ibben to forward to you a box, containing some presents for you, which you will receive along with this letter. Although I am five or six hundred leagues distant from him, we exchange news as easily as if he were at Ispahan and I at Koum. I send my letters to Marseilles, whence vessels are constantly sailing for Smyrna: from Smyrna he despatches those destined for Persia by the Armenian caravans which start every day for Ispahan.
Rica enjoys the best of health: the strength of his constitution, his youth, and his natural gaiety enable him to pass unhurt through every ordeal.
I, however, am far from well; depressed both in body and mind, I surrender myself to reflections which become daily more melancholy. My impaired health makes me long for my own land, and adds to the strangeness of this one.
But I conjure you, dear Nessir, on no account to let my wives know how depressed I am. If they love me, I would spare their tears; and if not, I have no desire to increase their frowardness.
If my eunuchs believed me in danger, if they dared hope that a base compliance would pass unpunished, they would soon cease to be deaf to the seductive voice of that sex, which can melt rocks, and move inanimate things.
Farewell, Nessir. It is a great happiness to me that I can confide in you.
Paris, the 5th of the moon of Chahban, 1712.
# Persian Letters/Letter 30
#### Letter 30

Rica to the Same, at Smyrna
The curiosity of the people of Paris exceeds all bounds. When I arrived, they stared at me as if a I had dropped form the sky: old and young, men, women, and children, were all agog to see me. If I went abroad, everybody flew to the window. If I visited the Tuileries, I was immediately surrounded by a circle of gazers, the women forming a rainbow woven of a thousand colours. When I went sight-seeing, a hundred lorgnettes were speedily leveled at me: in fact, never was a man so stared at as I have been. I smiled frequently when I heard people who had never traveled beyond their own door, saying to each other, “He certainly looks very like a Persian.” One thing struck me: I found my portraits everywhere-in all the shops, on every mantelpiece-so fearful were they lest they should not see enough of me.
So much distinction could not fail to be burdensome. I do not consider myself such a rare and wonderful specimen of humanity; and although I have a very good opinion of myself, I would never have dreamt that I could have disturbed the peace of a great city, where I was quite unknown. I therefore resolved to change my Persian dress for a European one, in order to see if my countenance would still strike people as wonderful. This experiment made me acquainted with my true value. Divested of everything foreign in my garb, I found myself estimated at my proper rate. I had reason to complain of my tailor, who had made me lose so suddenly the attention and good opinion of the public; for I sank immediately into the merest nonentity. Sometimes I would be as much as an hour in a given company, without attracting the least notice, or having an opportunity given me to speak; but, if any one chanced to inform the company that I was a Persian I soon overheard a murmur all round me, “Oh! ah! A Persian, is he? Most amazing! However can anybody be a Persian?”
Paris, the 6th of the moon of Chalval, 1712.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from Flowers of Loveliness, 1838/The Hyacinth

* HYACINTH
* Artist T. UwinsEngraver W. H. Egleton
From The New Yorker, 23rd December 1837. Page 630
THE HYACINTH.
Where is the bee its sweetest music bringing?  The music living in its busy wings;
Like the small fountain's low, perpetual singing,
 Counting the quiet hours that noon-tide brings?
It is the Hyacinth, whose sweet bells stooping,  
 Bend with the odours heavy in their cells;   Amid the shadows of their fragrant drooping,  
 Memory, that is itself a shadow, dwells.
Ah! do not wreathe it 'mid the golden tresses  
 That mock the sunshine on that childish head;   Bind there the meadow flowers the wind caresses,  
 Around a thousand careless blossoms shed:
But not the Hyacinth, whose purple sadness  
 To an old world long since gone by appeals;   What hath the child's one hour of eager gladness  
 To do with all that haunted flower reveals?
Life gave its first deep colour to that blossom;  
 Life, in an evil hour untimely shed;   Down to the earth inclines its fragrant bosom,  
 As heavy with the memory of the dead.
Deep in the twilight depths of those dark flowers  
 Are mystic characters amid them furled;
 Are they the language of ancestral hours,—  
 The records of a younger, lovelier world?
What is the secret written in their numbers,  Strange as the figures on Egyptian shrines? What marvel of the ancient earth now slumbers  In the obscurity of those dim times?
Little we know the secrets that surround us,
 And much has vanished from our later day;
Mature with many a mystery has bound us,
 And much of our old love has passed away.
No ancient voices, in the dim woods crying
 Reveal the hidden world—no prophet's eye
Asks the foreseeing stars for their replying,
 And reads the Future in the midnight sky.
Many the lovely things which now are banished
 From our harsh path—the actual and the cold;
The angel and the spirit, each are vanished;
 Where are the beautiful that were of old?
Vain, though so lovely, was this old believing,
 But not thus vain the faith that gave it birth;
It was the beauty of the far-off—leaving
 The presence of the spiritual on earth.L. E. L. Flowers of Loveliness for 1838.
* ↑ Landon's original spelling; odors in the American version
* ↑ Landon's original spelling; color in the American version
* ↑ Sypher has 'lines' here, rhyming with shrines
* ↑ Sypher has 'that' here'
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from Flowers of Loveliness, 1838/The Iris

* IRIS
* Artist Thos. UwinsEngraver Jas. Thomson
Transcribed from F. J. Sypher
THE IRIS
It boots not keeping back the scroll,  I know thy tender words, (“My life, my idol, and my soul!”)  Its scented page affords. There—give it me, that I may fling  Its fragments on the wind, A faithless and a worthless thing  For such a fate designed.
What tho’ the Iris in my room  Bids Hope’s sweet promise live, I take no lesson from its bloom,  I have no hope to give. Soon, with the summer sun’s control,  Those azure leaves decay; And yet the words on yonder scroll  Are more short-lived than they.
I care not for a love that springs  Where other fancies dwell, The rainbow’s hue upon its wings,  The rainbow’s date as well; By Vanity and Folly nurst:  Of happiness it dies: It springeth from a fancy first,  And with a fancy flies.
Ay, let them prettily complain,  With graceful sorrow strive; They should be glad of my disdain,  It keeps their love alive. I gave the ribbon from my hair,  The blossom from my hand, But I have not a thought to spare  For any of their band.
The love that haunts my midnight hour,  A dream—and yet, how true! Belongs to a diviner power,  Than vanity e’er knew: It giveth, like the pale pure star,  A loveliness to night, And winneth from the world afar,  Its own eternal light.
It bringeth to our earth again  The heavens it dwells among:— Not to the worldly and the vain  Can such a love belong: High, holy as the heaven above,  Yet sharing life’s worst part, Until I meet with such a love  I cannot give my heart.