OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 1/Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; ​With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine: How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recall the past, And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, "Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,— If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,— To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell; With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die— And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd; Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd; ​Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Deplor'd by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside.
September 2, 1807.
* ↑ Lines written beneath an Elm In the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill September 2, 1807.—[Poems O. and T.]
* ↑ [On the death of his daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822, Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, "where," he says, in a letter to Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he wrote, May 26, "a spot in the churchyard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the church." No tablet was, however, erected, and Allegra sleeps in her unmarked grave inside the church, a few feet to the right of the entrance.]
# The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 5

V. HERE BEOWULF MAKES ANSWER TO THE LAND-WARDEN, WHO SHOWETH HIM THE WAY TO THE KING'S ABODE.
# The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 8

VIII. HROTHGAR ANSWERETH BEOWULF AND BIDDETH HIM SIT TO THE FEAST.
# The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 6

VI. BEOWULF AND THE GEATS COME INTO HART.
# The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 7

VII. BEOWULF SPEAKETH WITH HROTHGAR, AND TELLETH HOW HE WILL MEET GRENDEL.
# The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 9

IX. UNFERTH CONTENDETH IN WORDS WITH BEOWULF.
# The Tale of Beowulf/Glossary

THE MEANING OF SOME WORDS NOT COMMONLY USED NOW
(Numbers refer to Pages)
* A-banning, the work was (5), orders for the work were given.
* Arede (118), possess.
* Atheling, prince, noble, noble warrior.
* Barm, lap, bosom.
* Behalsed (5), embraced by the neck.
* Berne, man, warrior, hero.
* Bestead (143), served.
* Beswealed, scorched, burnt.
* Beswinked, sweated.
* Birlers, cup-bearers.
* Board, shield.
* Bode, announce.
* Bollen, swollen, angry.
* Boot (9), compensation.
* Boun (18), made ready.
* Braided (147), drew, lifted.
* Brim, sea.
* Brook, use, enjoy.
* Burg, fortified place, stronghold, mount, barrow; protection; protector; family (163).
* Byrny, coat of mail.
* Devil-dray, nest of devils. Cf. squirrel's-dray, common in Berks; used by Cowper.
* Dreary, bloody.
* Dree, do, accomplish, suffer, enjoy, spend (155).
* Ealdor, chief, lord.
* Eme, uncle.
* Eoten, giant, monster, enemy.
* Fathom, embrace.
* Feeless, not to be atoned for with money.
* Ferry, bring, carry.
* Fifel, monster.
* Flyting, contending, scolding.
* Fold, the earth.
* Forheed, disregard. ​
* Forwritten, proscribed.
* Frist, space of time, delay.
* Gar, spear.
* Graithly, readily, well.
* Halse, neck.
* Hand-shoal, band of warriors.
* Hery, praise.
* Hild-play, battle.
* Holm, ocean, sea.
* Holm-throng, eddy of the sea.
* Holt, wood.
* Hote, call.
* Howe, mound, burial-mound.
* Hythe, ferry, haven.
* Kemp, champion, fighter.
* Lithe, slope.
* Loom, heirloom.
* Low (133), flame.
* Lyke, body.
* Moody, brave, proud.
* Nicors, sea-monsters.
* Nithing (12), spite, malice.
* O'erthinking, overweening, arrogance.
* Rail, railings, coat, armour.
* Rimed, counted, reckoned.
* Sea-lode, sea-voyage.
* Sin, malice, hatred, hostility.
* Skinked, poured out.
* Slot, track.
* Staple, threshold.
* Stone-bow, arch of stone.
* Sty, stride, ascend, descend.
* Sweal, burn.
* Through-witting, understanding.
* Undern, from 9 o'clock till 12 o'clock; "at undren and at middai," O.E. Miscellany.
* Warths, shores, still in use at Wick St. Lawrence, in Somerset.
* Wick, dwelling.
* Wick-stead, dwelling-place.
* Wise, direct, show.
* Wit-lust, curiosity.
* Worth, shall be.
* Wreak, utter.
* Wyte, blame, charge with.
* Yare, ready.
* Yode, went.
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. Edinburgh & London
# The Tale of Gamelyn (Chaucer)

part of The Canterbury Tales
# The Tale of Genji

English-language translations of 源氏物語 include:
* Genji Monogatari (1882), translated by Suyematz Kenchio (HathiTrust)
* The Tale of Genji, translated by Arthur Waley:
** The Tale of Genji (1925)
** The Sacred Tree (1926)
** A Wreath of Cloud (1927)
** Blue Trousers (1928) (HathiTrust)
** The Lady of the Boat (1932) (HathiTrust)
** The Bridge of Dreams (1944) (HathiTrust)
* The Tale of Genji, translated by the Wikisource community
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Desecraters

Witness all: that unrepenting,  Feathers flying, music high, I go down to death unshaken  By your mean philosophy.
For your wages, take my body,  That at least to you I leave; Set the sulky plumes upon it,  Bid the grinning mummers grieve.
Stand in silence: steep your raiment  In the night that hath no star; Don the mortal dress of devils,  Blacker than their spirits are.
Since ye may not, of your mercy,  Ere I lie on such a hearse, Hurl me to the living jackals  God hath built for sepulchres.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Donkey

When fishes flew and forests walked  And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood  Then surely I was born;
With monstrous head and sickening cry  And ears like errant wings, The devil's walking parody  On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,  Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,  I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;  One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears,  And palms before my feet.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Earth’s Shame

Name not his deed: in shuddering and in haste  We dragged him darkly o'er the windy fell: That night there was a gibbet in the waste,  And a new sin in hell.
Be his deed hid from commonwealths and kings,  By all men born be one true tale forgot; But three things, braver than all earthly things,  Faced him and feared him not.
Above his head and sunken secret face  Nested the sparrow's young and dropped not dead. From the red blood and slime of that lost place  Grew daisies white, not red.
And from high heaven looking upon him,  Slowly upon the face of God did come A smile the cherubim and seraphim  Hid all their faces from.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The End of Fear

Though the whole heaven be one-eyed with the moon,  Though the dead landscape seem a thing possessed,  Yet I go singing through that land oppressed As one that singeth through the flowers of June.
No more, with forest-fingers crawling free  O'er dark flint wall that seems a wall of eyes,  Shall evil break my soul with mysteries Of some world-poison maddening bush and tree.
No more shall leering ghosts of pimp and king  With bloody secrets veiled before me stand.  Last night I held all evil in my hand Closed: and behold it was a little thing.
I broke the infernal gates and looked on him  Who fronts the strong creation with a curse;  Even the god of a lost universe, Smiling above his hideous cherubim.
And pierced far down in his soul's crypt unriven  The last black crooked sympathy and shame,  And hailed him with that ringing rainbow name Erased upon the oldest book in heaven.
Like emptied idiot masks, sin's loves and wars  Stare at me now: for in the night I broke  The bubble of a great world's jest, and woke Laughing with laughter such as shakes the stars.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Beatific Vision

Through what fierce incarnations, furled  In fire and darkness, did I go, Ere I was worthy in the world  To see a dandelion grow?
Well, if in any woes or wars  I bought my naked right to be, Grew worthy of the grass, nor gave  The wren, my brother, shame for me.
But what shall God not ask of him  In the last time when all is told, Who saw her stand beside the hearth,  The firelight garbing her in gold?
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Fish

Dark the sea was: but I saw him,  One great head with goggle eyes, Like a diabolic cherub  Flying in those fallen skies.
I have heard the hoarse deniers,  I have known the wordy wars; I have seen a man, by shouting,  Seek to orphan all the stars.
I have seen a fool half-fashioned  Borrow from the heavens a tongue, So to curse them more at leisure -  - And I trod him not as dung.
For I saw that finny goblin  Hidden in the abyss untrod; And I knew there can be laughter  On the secret face of God.
Blow the trumpets, crown the sages,  Bring the age by reason fed! (He that sitteth in the heavens,  'He shall laugh' - the prophet said.)
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Holy of Holies

'Elder father, though thine eyes Shine with hoary mysteries, Canst thou tell what in the heart Of a cowslip blossom lies?
'Smaller than all lives that be, Secret as the deepest sea, Stands a little house of seeds, Like an elfin's granary,
'Speller of the stones and weeds, Skilled in Nature's crafts and creeds, Tell me what is in the heart Of the smallest of the seeds.'
'God Almighty, and with Him Cherubim and Seraphim, Filling all eternity - Adonai Elohim.'
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Hope of the Streets

The still sweet meadows shimmered: and I stood  And cursed them, bloom of hedge and bird of tree, And bright and high beyond the hunch-backed wood  The thunder and the splendour of the sea.
Give back the Babylon where I was born,  The lips that gape give back, the hands that grope, And noise and blood and suffocating scorn  An eddy of fierce faces - and a hope
That 'mid those myriad heads one head find place,  With brown hair curled like breakers of the sea, And two eyes set so strangely in the face  That all things else are nothing suddenly.
# The Wild Knight and Other Poems/The Happy Man

To teach the grey earth like a child,  To bid the heavens repent, I only ask from Fate the gift  Of one man well content.
Him will I find: though when in vain  I search the feast and mart, The fading flowers of liberty,  The painted masks of art.
I only find him at the last,  On one old hill where nod Golgotha's ghastly trinity-  Three persons and one god.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/Underwoods/Book 3/Ditty

XIII
DITTY
(TO AN AIR FROM BACH)
THE cock shall crow In the morning grey, The bugles blow At the break of day: The cock shall sing and the merry bugles ring, And all the little brown birds sing upon the spray.
The thorn shall blow In the month of May, And my love shall go In her holiday array: But I shall lie in the kirkyard nigh While all the little brown birds sing upon the spray.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/Who would think, herein to look

CLXXV
WHO would think, herein to look, That from these exiguous bounds, I have dug a printed book And a cheque for twenty pounds? Thus do those who trust the Lord Go rejoicing on their way And receive a great reward For having been so kind as lay.
Had the fun of the voyage Had the sport of the boats ​Who could have hoped in addition The pleasure of fing'ring the notes?
Yes, sir, I wrote the book; I own the fact; It was perhaps, sir, an unworthy act. Have you perused it, sir?—You have?—indeed! Then between you and me there no debate is. I did a silly act, but I was fee'd; You did a sillier, and you did it gratis!
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/The pleasant river gushes

CLXXXI
THE pleasant river gushes Among the meadows green; At home the author tushes; For him it flows unseen.
​The Birds among the Bushes May wanton on the spray; But vain for him who tushes The brightness of the day!
The frog among the rushes Sits singing in the blue. By 'r la'kin! but these tushes Are wearisome to do!
The task entirely crushes The spirit of the bard: God pity him who tushes— His task is very hard.
The filthy gutter slushes, The clouds are full of rain, But doomed is he who tushes To tush and tush again.
At morn with his hair-brushes, Still "tush" he says, and weeps, At night again he tushes, And tushes till he sleeps.
And when at length he pushes Beyond the river dark— 'Las, to the man who tushes, "Tush" shall be God's remark!
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/To Henry James

CLXXXVIII
TO HENRY JAMES
ADELA, Adela, Adela Chart, What have you done to my elderly heart? Of all the ladies of paper and ink I count you the paragon, call you the pink. The word of your brother depicts you in part: "You raving maniac!" Adela Chart: But in all the asylums that cumber the ground, So delightful a maniac was ne'er to be found.
​I pore on you, dote on you, clasp you to heart, I laud, love, and laugh at you, Adela Chart, And thank my dear Maker the while I admire That I can be neither your husband nor sire. Your husband's, your sire's were a difficult part; You're a byway to suicide, Adela Chart; But to read of, depicted by exquisite James, O, sure you're the flower and quintessence of dames.
Eructavit cor meum.
Though oft I've been touched by the volatile dart To none have I grovelled but Adela Chart. There are passable ladies, no question, in art— But where is the marrow of Adela Chart? I dreamed that to Tyburn I passed in the cart— I dreamed I was married to Adela Chart: From the first I awoke with a palpable start, The second dumbfoundered me, Adela Chart!
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/To Master Andrew Lang

CLXXII
TO MASTER ANDREW LANG
ON HIS RE-EDITING OF "CUPID AND PSYCHE."
YOU, that are much a fisher in the pool Of things forgotten, and from thence bring up Gold of old song, and diamonds of dead speech, The scholar, and the angler, and the friend Of the pale past, this unremembered tale Restore, and this dead author re-inspire; And lo, Oblivion the iniquitous Remembers, and the stone is rolled away. And he, the long asleep, sees once again The busy bookshop, once again is read. ​Brave as at first, in his new garb of print, Shines forth the Elizabethan. But when Death, The unforgettable shepherd, shall have come And numbered us with these, the numberless, The inheritors of slumber and neglect— O correspondent of the immortal dead, Shall any pious hand re-edit us?
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/To Miss Rawlinson

CLXXX
TO MISS RAWLINSON
OF the many flowers you brought me, Only some were meant to stay, And the flower I thought the sweetest Was the flower that went away.
Of the many flowers you brought me, All were fair and fresh and gay, But the flower I thought the sweetest Was the blossom of the May.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/To Rosabelle

CVII
TO ROSABELLE
WHEN my young lady has grown great and staid, And in long raiment wondrously arrayed, She may take pleasure with a smile to know How she delighted men-folk long ago. For her long after, then, this tale I tell Of the two fans and fairy Rosabelle. Hot was the day; her weary sire and I Sat in our chairs companionably nigh, Each with a headache sat her sire and I.
Instant the hostess waked: she viewed the scene, Divined the giants' languor by their mien, And ... with hospitable care Tackles at once an Atlantean chair. Her pigmy stature scarce attained the seat— She dragged it where she would, and with her feet Surmounted; thence, a Phaeton launched, she crowned The vast plateau of the piano, found And culled a pair of fans; wherewith equipped, Our mountaineer back to the level slipped;
​And being landed, with considerate eyes, Betwixt her elders dealt her double prize; The small to me, the greater to her sire. As painters now advance and now retire Before the growing canvas, and anon Once more approach and put the climax on: So she a while withdrew, her piece she viewed— For half a moment half supposed it good— Spied her mistake, nor sooner spied than ran To remedy; and with the greater fan, In gracious better thought, equipped the guest.
From ill to well, from better on to best, Arts move; the homely, like the plastic kind; And high ideals fired that infant mind. Once more she backed, once more a space apart Considered and reviewed her work of art: Doubtful at first, and gravely yet a while; Till all her features blossomed in a smile. And the child, waking at the call of bliss, To each she ran, and took and gave a kiss.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/To H. C. Bunner

VIII
TO H. C. BUNNER
YOU know the way to Arcady Where I was born; You have been there, and fain Would there return. Some that go thither bring with them Red rose or jewelled diadem As secrets of the secret king: I, only what a child would bring. Yet I do think my song is true; For this is how the children do; This is the tune to which they go In sunny pastures high and low; The treble pipes not otherwise Sing daily under sunny skies In Arcady the dear; And you who have been there before, And love that country evermore, May not disdain to hear.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/To the Stormy Petrel

CLXXIII
TO THE STORMY PETREL
TO HIS WIFE, ON HER BIRTHDAY.
EVER perilous And precious, like an ember from the fire Or gem from a volcano, we to-day When the drums of war reverberate in the land And every face is for the battle blacked— No less the sky, that over sodden woods Menaces now in the disconsolate calm The hurly-burly of the hurricane, Do now most fitly celebrate your day.
Yet amid turmoil keep for me, my dear, The kind domestic faggot. Let the hearth Shine ever as (I praise my honest gods) In peace and tempest it has ever shone.
March 10th, 1894.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/Verses written in 1872

VII
VERSES WRITTEN IN 1872
1
THOUGH he that ever kind and true, Kept stoutly step by step with you Your whole long gusty lifetime through Be gone a while before, Be now a moment gone before, Yet, doubt not, soon the seasons shall restore Your friend to you.
2
He has but turned a corner—still He pushes on with right good will, Thro' mire and marsh, by heugh and hill That self-same arduous way,— That self-same upland hopeful way, That you and he through many a doubtful day Attempted still.
3
He is not dead, this friend—not dead, But, in the path we mortals tread, Got some few, trifling steps ahead, And nearer to the end, So that you, too, once past the bend, Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend You fancy dead.
4
Push gayly on, strong heart! The while You travel forward mile by mile, He loiters with a backward smile Till you can overtake, And strains his eyes, to search his wake, Or whistling, as he sees you through the brake, Waits on a stile.
# The Works of Virgil (Dryden)/Poem 2

To Mr. Dryden, on his Translation of VIRGIL.
WE read, how Dreams and Visions heretofore, The Prophet, and the Poet cou'd inspire; And make 'em in unusual Rapture soar, With Rage Divine, and with Poetick Fire.
II.
But for a while vouchsafe to bear the Light; To grace my Numbers, and that Muse to aid, Who sings the Poet, that has done him right.
III.
To lye at ev'ry dull Translator's Will; Long, long his Muse has groan'd beneath the weight Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous Quill.
IV.
The Father now is righted by the Son: And while his Muse endeavours to disclose That Poet's Beauties, she declares her own.
V.
Each Thought, betrays such a Majestick Touch; He cou'd not, had he finish'd his Design, Have wisht it better, or have done so much.
VI.
And disentangl'd from the War of Wit; You, who secure might others danger see, And safe from all malicious Censure sit:
VII.
O'erlay'd by Fools, was ready to expire: To risque your Fame again, you boldly chuse, Or to redeem, or perish with your Sire.
VIII.
For that his Æneids miss'd their threatned Fate, Was———that his Friends by some Prediction knew, Hereafter who correcting should translate.
IX.
Unless like him thou cou'dst a Verse indite: To think his Fancy to describe, is vain, Since nothing can discover Light, but Light.
X.
'Tis Fear my Praise shou'd make your Glory less. And therefore, like the modest Painter, I Must draw the Vail, where I cannot express.
Henry Grahme.
# The Works of Virgil (Dryden)/Poem 3

To Mr. DRYDEN.
NO undisputed Monarch Govern'd yet With Universal Sway the Realms of Wit: Nature cou'd never such Expence afford, Each several Province own'd a several Lord. A Poet then had his Poetick Wife, One Muse embrac'd, and Married for his Life. By the stale thing his appetite was cloy'd, His Fancy lessned, and his Fire destroy'd. But Nature grown extravagantly kind, With all her Treasures did adorn your Mind.
The different Powers were then united found, And you Wit's Universal Monarch Crown'd. Your Mighty Sway your great Desert secures, And ev'ry Muse and ev'ry Grace is yours. To none confin'd, by turns you all enjoy, Sated with this, you to another flye. So Sultan-like in your Seraglio stand, While wishing Muses wait for your Command. Thus no decay, no want of vigour find, Sublime your Fancy, boundless is your Mind. Not all the blasts of time can do you wrong, Young spight of Age, in spight of Weakness strong. Time like Alcides, strikes you to the ground, You like Antæus from each fall rebound.
H. St. John.
# The Works of Virgil (Dryden)/Poem 4

To Mr. Dryden on his VIRGIL.
TIS said that Phidias gave such living Grace, To the carv'd Image of a beauteous Face, That the cold Marble might even seem to be The Life, and the true Life, the Imag'ry.
You pass that Artist, Sir, and all his Powers, Making the best of Roman Poets ours; With such Effect, we know not which to call The Imitation, which th' Original.
What Virgil lent, you pay in equal Weight, The charming Beauty of the Coin no less; And such the Majesty of your Impress, You seem the very Author you translate.
Tis certain, were he now alive with us, And did revolving Destiny constrain, To dress his Thoughts in English o'er again, Himself cou'd write no otherwise than thus.
His old Encomium never did appear So true as now; Romans and Greeks submit, Something of late is in our Language writ, More nobly great than the fam'd Iliads were.
Ja. Wright.