OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Persian Letters/Letter 91
#### Letter 91

Usbek to the Same, at Smyrna
FROM the general passion which the French have for glory, there has been developed in the minds of individuals a certain something which they call “the point of honour;” it is properly the characteristic of every profession, but most marked in military men—theirs, indeed, is the point of honour par excellence. It would be very difficult to make you understand what this is, because the idea is so foreign to us.
Formerly the French, especially the aristocracy, obeyed no other laws than those of this point of honour, and by them they regulated the whole conduct of their lives. These laws were so severe, that without incurring a penalty more cruel than death, one might not, I do not say infringe them, but even evade their slightest punctilio.
When they had occasion to arrange their differences, almost the only method of decision prescribed was the duel, which resolved all difficulties. The worst part of it, however, was that frequently the trial took place between other parties than those immediately concerned.
However little one man might know another, he had to enter into the quarrel, and pay with his person as if he himself had been enraged. He always felt himself honoured by such a choice, and a distinction so flattering; and one who would have been unwilling to give four pistols to a man to save him and all his family from the gallows, would make no difficulty in risking his life for him a thousand times.
This method of decision was badly enough conceived; for although a man might be more dexterous and stronger than another, it did not follow that he had more right on his side.
Accordingly the kings prohibited it under very severe penalties, but in vain; honour which wishes always to reign, revolts, and regards not the laws.
On this account violence prevails amongst the French; for these laws of honour require a gentleman to avenge himself when he has been insulted; but, on the other hand, justice punishes him unmercifully when he does so. If one follows the laws of honour, one dies upon the scaffold; if one follows those of justice, one is banished for ever from the society of men: this, then, is the barbarous alternative, either to die, or to be unworthy to live.
Paris, the 18th of the second moon of Gemmadi, 1715.
# Persian Letters/Letter 89
#### Letter 89

Usbek to Rhedi, at Venice
LIBERTY and equality reign in Paris. Birth, worth, even military fame, however brilliant it may be, fail to distinguish a man from the crowd in which he is lost. Jealousy about rank is unknown here. They say that the chief man in Paris is he who has the best horses in his coach.
A great lord is a man who sees the king, who speaks with ministers, who has ancestors, debts, and pensions. If he can, in addition to this, veil his indolence under an appearance of business, or by a feigned attachment to pleasure, he considers himself the happiest of men.
In Persia, we count none great except those on whom the monarch bestows some share in the government. Here there are people who are great by their birth, but they are not esteemed. The kings act like those skilful craftsmen who in executing their works employ always the simplest tools.
Favor is the great goddess of the French; and the Minister is the high-priest who offers her many victims. Those who surround her are not dressed in white; sometimes those who sacrifice, and sometimes the sacrifices offer themselves up to their idol along with the whole people.
Paris, the 9th of the second moon of Gemmadi, 1715.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Nanny's Cow

NANNY’S COW.
Ov all the cows, among the rest War woone that Nanny lik’d the best; An’ after milkèn us’d to stan’ A-veedèn o’ her, vrom her han’, Wi’ grass or haÿ; an’ she know’d Ann,  An’ in the evenèn she did come  The vu’st, a-beatèn up roun’ hwome  Vor Ann to come an’ milk her.
Her back war hollor as a bow, Her lags war short, her body low; Her head wer small, her horns turn’d in Avore her feäce so sharp’s a pin: Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin,  An’ she wer red vrom head to taïl,  An’ didden start nor kick the païl,  When Nanny zot to milk her.
But losses zoon begun to vall On Nanny’s fàther, that wi’ all His tweil he voun’, wi’ breakèn heart, That he mus’ leave his ground, an’ peärt Wi’ all his beäst an’ hoss an’ cart;  An’, what did touch en mwost, to zell  The red cow Nanny lik’d so well,  An’ lik’d vor her to milk her.
Zalt tears did run vrom Nanny’s eyes, To hear her restless father’s sighs. But as vor me, she mid be sure I wont vorzeäke her now she’s poor, Vor I do love her mwore an’ mwore;  An’ if I can but get a cow  An’ parrock, I’ll vulvil my vow,  An’ she shall come an’ milk her.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Night a-zettèn in

NIGHT A-ZETTEN IN.
When leäzers wi’ their laps o’ corn  Noo longer be a-stoopèn, An’ in the stubble, all vorlorn,  Noo poppies be a-droopèn; When theäse young harvest-moon do weäne,  That now’ve his horns so thin, O, We’ll leäve off walkèn in the leäne,  While night’s a zettèn in, O.
When zummer doust is all a-laid  Below our litty shoes, O; When all the raïn-chill’d flow’rs be dead,  That now do drink the dews, O; When beauty’s neck, that’s now a-show’d,  ’S a-muffled to the chin, O; We’ll leäve off walkèn in the road,  When night’s a-zettèn in, O.
But now, while barley by the road  Do hang upon the bough, O, A-pull’d by branches off the lwoad  A-ridèn hwome to mow, O; While spiders roun’ the flower-stalks  Ha’ cobwebs yet to spin, O, We’ll cool ourzelves in out-door walks.  When night’s a-zettèn in, O.
​While down at vword the brook so small,  That leätely wer so high, O, Wi’ little tinklèn sounds do vall  In roun’ the stwones half dry, O; While twilight ha’ sich aïr in store,  To cool our zunburnt skin, O, We’ll have a ramble out o’ door,  When night’s a-zettèn in, O.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Oben Vields

OBEN VIELDS.
Well, you mid keep the town an’ street, Wi’ grassless stwones to beät your veet, An’ zunless windows where your brows Be never cooled by swaÿèn boughs; An’ let me end, as I begun, My days in oben aïr an’ zun, Where zummer win’s a-blowèn sweet, Wi’ blooth o’ trees as white’s a sheet; Or swaÿèn boughs, a-bendèn low Wi’ rip’nèn apples in a row, An’ we a-risèn rathe do meet The bright’nèn dawn wi’ dewy veet, An’ leäve, at night, the vootless groves, To rest ’ithin our thatchen oves. An’ here our childern still do bruise The deäisy buds wi’ tiny shoes, As we did meet avore em, free Vrom ceäre, in play below the tree. An’ there in me’th their lively eyes Do glissen to the zunny skies, As aïr do blow, wi’ leäzy peäce To cool, in sheäde, their burnèn feäce. Where leaves o’ spreadèn docks do hide The zawpit’s timber-lwoaded zide, An’ trees do lie, wi’ scraggy limbs, Among the deäisy’s crimson rims. An’ they, so proud, wi’ eärms a-spread To keep their balance good, do tread Wi’ ceäreful steps o’ tiny zoles The narrow zides o’ trees an’ poles. An’ zoo I’ll leäve vor your light veet The peävement o’ the zunless street, While I do end, as I begun, My days in oben aïr an’ zun.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Our abode in Arby Wood

OUR ABODE IN ARBY WOOD.
Though ice do hang upon the willows  Out bezide the vrozen brook,  An’ storms do roar above our pillows,  Drough the night, ’ithin our nook;  Our evenèn he’th’s a-glowèn warm,  Drough wringèn vrost, an’ roarèn storm. Though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke  In our abode in Arby Wood.
​ An’ there, though we mid hear the timber  Creake avore the windy raïn;  An’ climèn ivy quiver, limber,  Up ageän the window peäne;  Our merry vaïces then do sound,  In rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round; Though wind mid roar, ’ithout the door,  Ov our abode in Arby Wood.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Nanny's new Abode

NANNY’S NEW ABODE.
Now day by day, at lofty height,  O zummer noons, the burnèn zun ’Ve a-show’d avore our eastward zight,  The sky-blue zide ov Hameldon, An’ shone ageän, on new-mow’d ground,  Wi’ haÿ a-piled up grey in pook, An’ down on leäzes, bennet-brown’d,  An’ wheat a-vell avore the hook; Till, under elems tall,  The leaves do lie on leänèn lands, In leäter light o’ Fall.
An’ last year, we did zee the red  O’ dawn vrom Ash-knap’s thatchen oves, An’ walk on crumpled leaves a-laid  In grassy rook-trees’ timber’d groves, Now, here, the cooler days do shrink  To vewer hours o’ zunny sky, While zedge, a-weävèn by the brink  O’ shallow brooks, do slowly die. ​An’ on the timber tall,  The boughs, half beäre, do bend above The bulgèn banks in Fall.
There, we’d a spring o’ water near,  Here, water’s deep in wink-draïn’d wells, The church ’tis true, is nigh out here,  Too nigh wi’ vive loud-boomèn bells. There, naïghbours wer vull wide a-spread,  But vo’k be here too clwose a-stow’d. Vor childern now do stun woone’s head,  Wi’ naïsy plaÿ bezide the road, Where big so well as small,  The little lad, an’ lump’rèn lout, Do leäp an’ laugh theäse Fall.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Nanny Gill

NANNY GILL.
Ah! they wer times, when Nanny Gill Went so’jerèn ageänst her will, Back when the King come down to view His ho’se an’ voot, in red an’ blue,  An’ they did march in rows,  An’ wheel in lines an’ bows,  Below the King’s own nose; An’ guns did pwoint, an’ swords did gleäre, A-fightèn foes that werden there.
Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell In town her glitt’rèn macarel, A-pack’d wi’ ceäre, in even lots, A-ho’seback in a peäir o’ pots.  An’ zoo when she did ride  Between her panniers wide,  Red-cloked in all her pride, Why, who but she, an’ who but broke The road avore her scarlet cloke!
But Nanny’s ho’se that she did ride, Woonce carr’d a sword ageän his zide, An’ had, to prick en into rank, A so’jer’s spurs ageän his flank;  An’ zoo, when he got zight  O’ swords a-gleamèn bright,  An’ men agwaïn to fight, He set his eyes athirt the ground, An’ prick’d his ears to catch the sound.
Then Nanny gi’ed his zide a kick, An’ het en wi’ her limber stick; ​But suddenly a horn did sound, An’ zend the ho’semen on vull bound;  An’ her ho’se at the zight  Went after em, vull flight,  Wi’ Nanny in a fright, A-pullèn, wi’ a scream an’ grin, Her wold brown raïns to hold en in.
But no! he went away vull bound, As vast as he could tear the ground, An’ took, in line, a so’jer’s pleäce, Vor Nanny’s cloke an’ frighten’d feäce;  While vo’k did laugh an’ shout  To zee her cloke stream out,  As she did wheel about, A-cryèn, “Oh! la! dear!” in fright, The while her ho’se did plaÿ sham fight.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Not goo Hwome To-night

NOT GOO HWOME TO-NIGHT.
No, no, why you’ve noo wife at hwome Abidèn up till you do come, Zoo leäve your hat upon the pin, Vor I’m your waïter. Here’s your inn, Wi’ chair to rest, an’ bed to roost; You have but little work to do This vrosty time at hwome in mill, Your vrozen wheel’s a-stannèn still, The sleepèn ice woont grind vor you. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o’ Craglin mill.
As I come by, to-day, where stood Wi’ neäked trees, the purple wood, The scarlet hunter’s ho’ses veet Tore up the sheäkèn ground, wind-fleet, Wi’ reachèn heads, an’ pankèn hides; The while the flat-wing’d rooks in vlock, Did zwim a-sheenèn at their height; But your good river, since last night, War all a-vroze so still’s a rock. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o’ Craglin mill.
Zee how the hufflèn win’ do blow, A-whirlèn down the giddy snow: Zee how the sky’s a-weärèn dim, Behind the elem’s neäked lim’, ​That there do leän above the leane; Zoo teäke your pleäce bezide the dogs, An’ sip a drop o’ hwome-brew’d eäle, An’ zing your zong or tell your teäle, While I do baït the vier wi’ logs. No, no, you woout goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o’ Craglin mill.
Your meäre’s in steäble wi’ her hocks In straw above her vetterlocks, A-reachèn up her meäney neck, An’ pullèn down good haÿ vrom reck, A-meäkfen slight o’ snow an’ sleet; She don’t want you upon her back, To vall upon the slippery stwones On Hollyhill, an’ break your bwones, Or miss, in snow, her hidden track. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o’ Craglin mill.
Here, Jenny, come pull out your key An’ hansel, wi’ zome tidy tea, The zilver pot that we do owe To your prize butter at the show, An’ put zome bread upon the bwoard. Ah! he do smile; now that ’ull do, He’ll staÿ. Here, Polly, bring a light, We’ll have a happy hour to-night, I’m thankvul we be in the lew. No, no, he woont goo hwome to-night, Not Robin White, o’ Craglin mill.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Our Be'thplace

OUR BE’THPLACE.
How dear’s the door a latch do shut, An’ geärden that a hatch do shut, Where vu’st our bloomèn cheäks ha’ prest The pillor ov our childhood’s rest; Or where, wi’ little tooes, we wore The paths our fathers trod avore; Or clim’d the timber’s bark aloft, Below the zingèn lark aloft, The while we heärd the echo sound Drough all the ringèn valley round.
A lwonesome grove o’ woak did rise, To screen our house, where smoke did rise, A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun Did langthen on our childhood’s fun; An’ there, wi’ all the sheäpes an’ sounds O’ life, among the timber’d grounds, The birds upon their boughs did zing, An’ milkmaïds by their cows did zing, Wi’ merry sounds, that softly died, A-ringẁn down the valley zide.
By river banks, wi’ reeds a-bound, An’ sheenèn pools, wi’ weeds a-bound, The long-neck’d gander’s ruddy bill To snow-white geese did cackle sh’ill; An’ stridèn peewits heästen’d by, O’ tiptooe wi’ their screamèn cry; An’ stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud, An’ struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud, Did rouse the echoes up to mock Their mingled sounds by hill an’ rock.
​The stars that clim’d our skies all dark, Above our sleepèn eyes all dark, An’ zuns a-rollèn round to bring The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring, Ha’ vled, wi’ never-restèn flight, Drough green-bough’d day, an’ dark-tree’d night; Till now our childhood’s pleäces there, Be gaÿ wi’ other feäces there, An’ we ourselves do vollow on Our own vorelivers dead an’ gone.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Our Fathers' Works

OUR FATHERS’ WORKS.
Ah! I do think, as I do tread Theäse path, wi’ elems overhead, A-climèn slowly up vrom Bridge, By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge, That all theäse roads that we do bruise Wi’ hosses’ shoes, or heavy lwoads; An’ hedges’ bands, where trees in row Do rise an’ grow aroun’ the lands, Be works that we’ve a-vound a-wrought By our vorefathers’ ceäre an’ thought.
They clear’d the groun’ vor grass to teäke The pleäce that bore the bremble breäke, An’ draïn’d the fen, where water spread, A-lyèn dead, a heäne to men; An’ built the mill, where still the wheel Do grind our meal, below the hill; An’ turn’d the bridge, wi’ arch a-spread, Below a road, vor us to tread.
They vound a pleäce, where we mid seek The gifts o’ greäce vrom week to week; An’ built wi’ stwone, upon the hill, A tow’r we still do call our own; With bells to use, an’ meäke rejaïce, Wi’ giant vaïce at our good news: ​An’ lifted stwones an’ beams to keep The raïn an’ cwold vrom us asleep.
Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget The pattern our vorefathers zet; But each be fäin to underteäke Some work to meäke vor others’ gaïn, That we mid leäve mwore good to sheäre, Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve, An’ when our hands do vall to rest, It mid be vrom a work a-blest.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Naighbour Plaÿmeätes

NAIGHBOUR PLAŸMEÄTES.
O jaÿ betide the dear wold mill,  My naïghbour plaÿmeätes’ happy hwome, Wi’ rollèn wheel, an’ leäpèn foam,  Below the overhangèn hill,  Where, wide an’ slow,  The stream did flow, An’ flags did grow, an’ lightly vlee Below the grey-leav’d withy tree, While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
An’ there in geämes by evenèn skies,  When Meäry zot her down to rest, The broach upon her pankèn breast,  Did quickly vall an’ lightly rise,  While swans did zwim  In steätely trim. An’ swifts did skim the water, bright Wi’ whirlèn froth, in western light; An’ clack, clack, clack, that happy hour, Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
Now mortery jeints, in streaks o’ white,  Along the geärdfen wall do show In Maÿ, an’ cherry boughs do blow,  Wi’ bloomèn tutties, snowy white, ​ Where rollèn round,  Wi’ rumblèn sound, The wheel woonce drown’d the vaïce so dear To me. I faïn would goo to hear The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour, Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour, Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.
But should I vind a-heavèn now  Her breast wi’ air o’ thik dear pleäce? Or zee dark locks by such a brow,  Or het o’ plaÿ on such a feäce?  No! She’s now staïd,  An’ where she plaÿ’d, There’s noo such maïd that now ha’ took The pleäce that she ha’ long vorsook, Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi’ whirlèn stwone an’ streamèn flour, Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.
An’ still the pulley rwope do heist  The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds. An’ ho’ses there wi’ lwoads of grist,  Do stand an’ toss their heavy heads;  But on the vloor,  Or at the door, Do show noo mwore the kindly feäce Her father show’d about the pleäce, As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour, Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.
# Poems (Tynan)/April

MANY MOODS
# Poems (Tynan)/Baby's Song

THE CHILDREN
# Poems of Experience/Life

Oh! I feel the growing glory Of our life upon this sphere, Of the life that like a river Runs forever and forever, From the somewhere to the here, And still on and onward flowing, Leads us out to larger knowing, Through the hidden, to the clear.
And I feel a deep thanksgiving For the sorrows I have known; For the worries and the crosses, And the grieving and the losses, That along my path were sown. Now the great eternal meaning Of each trouble I am gleaning, And the harvest is my own.
I am opulent with knowledge Of the Purpose and the Cause. And I go my way rejoicing, And in singing seek the voicing Of love’s never-failing laws. From the now, unto the Yonder, Full of beauty and of wonder, Life flows ever without pause.
And I feel the exaltation Of a child that loves its play, Though the ranks of friends are thinning, Still the end is but beginning Of a larger, fuller day, And the joy of life is spilling From my spirit, as all willing I go speeding on my way.
# Poems of Experience/Progression

To each progressive soul there comes a day  When all things that have pleased and satisfied Grow flavourless, the springs of joy seem dried.  No more the waters of youth’s fountains play; Yet out of reach, tiptoeing as they may,  The more mature and higher pleasures hide. Life, like a careless nurse, fails to provide  New toys for those the soul has cast away.
Upon a strange land’s border all alone,  Awhile it stands dismayed and desolate. Nude too, since its old garments are outgrown;  Till clothed with strength befitting its estate, It grasps at length those raptures that are known  To souls who learn to labour, and to wait.
# Poems of Experience/Lincoln

When God created this good world A few stupendous peaks were hurled From His strong hand, and they remain The wonder of the level plain. But these colossal heights are rare, While shifting sands are everywhere.
So with the race. The centuries pass And nations fall like leaves of grass. They die, forgotten and unsung; While straight from God some souls are flung, To live immortal and sublime. So lives great Lincoln for all time.
# Poems of Experience/Memories

I am thinking of the Springtime On the farm out in the West, When my world held nothing for me that I wanted, (Save a courage all undaunted), And my foolish little rhymes, Were but heart beats, rung in chimes, That I sounded, just to ease my life’s unrest. Yes, I sang them, and I rang them, Just to ease my youth’s unrest.
When I heard the name of London, In that early day, afar, In that Springtime of my Country over yonder, Then I used to sit and wonder If the day would come to me, When my ship should cross the sea, To the land that seemed as distant as a star. In my dreaming, ever gleaming Like a distant unknown star.
Now in London in the Springtime, I am sitting here, your guest. Nay - I think it is a vision, or a fancy - Part of dreamland Necromancy; And I question: is it true That the great warm hearts of you, Heard the winging of that singing in the West, Heard the chiming of my rhyming From the farmhouse in the West?
Let me linger in the fancy, For the soul of me is stirred As I dream that I am sitting here among you; And the songs that I have sung you Shall grow stronger through the art Of heart speaking unto heart, Through the gladness of the singer who is heard Lo! my songs have crossed the ocean But the voice of my emotion finds no word.
# Poems of Experience/Progress

There is no progress in the world of bees, However wise and wonderful they are. Their wisdom makes not increase. Lies the bar, To wider goals, in that tense strife to please A Sovereign Ruler? Forth from flowers to trees Their little quest is; not from star to star. This is not growth; the mighty avatar Comes not to do his work with such as these.
So in the world of men; when legions toil To feed a Monarch, and begem a crown, They build before high heaven a narrowing wall And the great purpose of Creation spoil. Not on, and upward, is the trend, but down; The Race can rise but with the rise of all.
# Poems of Experience/Read at the Benefit of Clara Morris

The Radiant Rulers of Mystic Regions Where souls of artists are fitted for birth Gathered together their lovely legions And fashioned a woman to shine on earth.  They bathed her in splendour,  They made her tender, They gave her a nature both sweet and wild; They gave her emotions like storm-stirred oceans, And they gave her the heart of a little child.
These Radiant Rulers (who are not human Nor yet divine like the gods above) Poured all their gifts in the soul of woman, That fragile vessel meant only for love.  Still more they taught her,  Still more they brought her, Till they gave her the world for a harp one day:  And they bade her string it,  They bade her ring it, While the stars all wondered to hear her play.
She touched the strings in a master fashion, She uttered the cry of a world’s despair: Its long hid secret, its pent-up passion, She gave to the winds in a vibrant air.  For oh! the heart of her,  That was the art of her. Great with the feeling that makes men kin.  Art unapproachable,  Art all uncoachable, Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.
The earth turns ever an ear unheeding To the sorrows of art, as it cries ‘encore.’ And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding, And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.  She knew the trend of it,  She knew the end of it - Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.  Bound to the altar  Of art, could she falter? Then came a silence - the music was still.
And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it; In waves unbroken it circles the earth: And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit A gleam from the centre that gave her birth.  Still is the fame of her  Felt in the name of her - But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain;  No hand has taken it,  No hand can waken it - For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.