OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/The dying heroes

Translation of "Die sterbenden Helden" (1804).
THE DYING HEROES, FROM UHLAND.
The Scandinavian swords rose midst the host, Like billows toss’d; And in the moonlight, on that bloody plain, The noble twain, Mightier than all, amidst the dead and dying, The beauteous Sven and aged Ulf were lying.
SVEN.
“Oh, Father! must I, in my youth’s bright day, Thus pass away? No more a mother’s hand my locks of gold Will fondly hold; No more my love, whilst other maids are sleeping, Will watch for me—her sweet eyes dim with weeping.”
ULF.
“She’ll deeply mourn—yet still in dreams with thee Will ever be; And be consoled, for soon will that sad smart Break her true heart; And then in Odin’s halls, whilst mead is quaffing, The maid thou’lt meet—the golden-tressed and laughing.”
SVEN.
“Ah! would that I had won myself a name Of deathless fame! To my forefathers equal could I prove In war and love. Neglected now the harps are silent lying, Whilst thro’ their strings the mournful breeze is sighing.”
ULF.
“Now near and nearer draws, in floods of light, Walhalla bright— These high imperial courts, whence bolts are hurled That shake the world. Soon, with the good and great from us departed, We there shall rest, for ever joyous-hearted.”
SVEN.
“Oh, Father! wherefore call me hence away, In youth’s bright day; Ere yet brave deeds on many a battle-field Adorn my shield? Ah! shall I, ’midst those true and mighty spirits, Obtain the place which my high courage merits?”
ULF.
“Yes! there is One who to each noble deed Will give due meed, And crown the man who for his country dies Beyond the skies. Rejoice—rejoice—the vanquished foe is flying! Heav’n opens—see! ’tis there our goal is lying.”
A. L.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Dulce domum!

See also Mackenzie Walcott's article "'Dulce Domum'" inspired by this poem.
DULCE DOMUM!
The fine old fragment, still used as a college chaunt, with the touching refrain of “Dulce, dulce, domum,” is attributed to a youth, who, on being separated from home, to which he was passionately attached, languished and died from the effects of the bereavement. The writer of the following lines has attempted a fuller interpretation of the spirit which pervades the old and almost forgotten lyric.
Ah! racked pine, on the granite steep, Shadowy from each blowing wind, And dashed with dusk from yonder cloud With fires of fading sunset lined, Within my brain your image lies, Transformed; and looms upon mine eyes A castle black against the skies. Dulce, dulce domum.
Up many a terrace, gleaming white, With fronts that glitter to the north; High over leagues of vexèd sea, And purple cliff and roaring forth, It sitteth, like a house of rest, One clot stain on the burning west; Sun, moon, and mist its changing guest. Dulce, dulce domum.
Within the circling garden walls, The cedars brood above the flowers; Across them shadows from the roofs Slide bluely in the lighted hours. I see my sister, cold and fair, Shake in the sun her flaxen hair: Would unto God that I were there. Dulce, dulce domum.
Night, east and west: I hear a step, Come, ghostlike, up the corridor; I see the slender taper stream, Between the chinks, across the floor. O, mother mine, why turn away? Fool to sit dreaming in the day. Great God, her hair was thin and gray! Dulce, dulce domum.
Where fliest thou, gaunt-plumed and swift, Strong eagle, skirring past the stars? Rush on and tell them that my heart Is worn from beating at its bars. Rush past o’er wastes of land and foam, Thy fierce eyes cleave the dayless gloom, Tell them I’m sick to death for home. Dulce, dulce domum.
Ah, woe is me! The thoughts that sit Beside me daily with the sun Take shape and hue, and crowd my brain, When wheels the bat in twilight dun. I climb the terrace, o’er me flows Their laughter, sucked through vine and rose; Sudden, the terrace upward grows. Dulce, dulce domum.
And, beaten down from steep to steep, I see the dizzy walls leap higher; The tender voices sink below The first breath of an Easter choir. Quick, startled by the night-guard’s tramp, Upwards I throw hands, clenched and damp: They strike the bracket of my lamp. Dulce, dulce domum.
Fetch me a leaf of asphodel, I long to feel it in my palm: And, dying, tearful, hear without The mournful Babylonian psalm. While Israel, by the willows’ drowse, Pined for her home, with ash-strewn brows, And I pine for my father’s house. Dulce, dulce domum.
J. F. O’D.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/Earl Strongbow's beacon

Poems / 1864 works
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"The e'en brings a' hame"

“THE E’EN BRINGS A’ HAME.”
I.
I’m dreaming alone on an islet
In the deep and murm’ring sea,
And the song of its rippling waters
Is melody sweet to me.
II.
It rose in rough waves this morning,
That foamed upon its breast,
But a hush has fallen upon it.
Evening has brought it rest.
III.
With white sails furled, the fishermen
Back to the shore have come,
They are resting now at their cabin doors,
Evening has brought them home.
IV.
The sea-bird’s wings are tired at last
Of their flight across the foam,
They are folded now in her rocky nest,
Evening has brought her home.
V.
I’m dreaming of my long journey
Across this stormy world,
And the hour when my boat will anchor,
And its tattered sails be furled.
VI.
Many a friend has gone from me,
Very far away are some, But this whisper dries the tear-drops,
Evening will bring them home.
VII.
Some may have perhaps forgotten me, On the battle field of life,
But a bond unites our severed hearts, We are partners in the strife.
VIII.
And some—their hearts were blighted
In the early dawn of day,
Their sky is dark with stormy clouds, Life is very cold and grey.
IX.
Others are very faint and worn
In the heat of noonday sun,
They raise their burning hands and cry,
O! when will day be done?
X.
Ye may cease your weary moaning,
There are angels at your side,
Who will lead you through this furnace
To the calm, cool eventide.
XI.
Perhaps they had once in sorrow
Across this earth to roam,
But that passed away for ever,
When evening brought them home.
XII.
The crimson cloudlets are glowing
Above the water’s breast,
Over the ripples there is a line
Of gold that leads to rest.
XIII.
The west gets redder and redder,
The shadows are very long,
The time for slumber is coming, And the hour for evensong.
XIV.
Lovely and fair is the morning,
Bright is God’s glorious sun,
But weary spirits rest at eve,
When the long, long day is done.
G. F. G.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Eckart the Trusty

Translation of "Der getreue Eckart" (1815) by Goethe. See also Edgar Alfred Bowring's translation "Faithful Eckart."
ECKART THE TRUSTY. (FROM GOETHE.)
“How dark it is growing—I wish we were back!
They are coming, they’re here, the hobgoblins, alack! The band of the Sorceress Sisters!
See, see, where they come! If they light on us here,
They’ll be certain to drink every drop of the beer
It has cost us such trouble to fetch here.”
So saying, the children push on in affright,
When up from the heath starts a grizzly old wight.
“Stop, stop, child!—my children, be quiet!
They are thirsty and hot, for they come from the chase,
Let them drink what they like without squall or grimace,
And the Grewsome Ones they will be gracious.”
And up come the goblins that moment, and they
Look ghostlike and grewsome, and ghastly and grey,
Yet they revel and riot it roundly.
The beer it has vanish’d, the pitchers are bare,
Then whooping and hooting away through the air,
O’er hill and dale clatter the Weird Ones.
Off homeward, all quaking, the children they hied,
And the kindly old greybeard troops on by their side.
“Do not weep so and whimper, my darlings.”
“They’ll scold us and beat us for this.” “Never fear, All yet will go famously well with the beer,
If you’ll only be mum as young mice, dears.
“Mind you follow my bidding, and surely you may,
I am he who delights with small children to play:
You know me—Old Eckart the Trusty.
Of that wonderful wight you’ve heard many a lay,
But never had proof what he is till to-day:
Now you hold in your hands a most rare one.”
Arrived at their home, each small child, with a face Of terror, his pitcher sets down in its place, And waits to be beaten and scolded. When the old folks they sip: “Oh, what excellent beer!” Three, four times they take a strong pull at the cheer, Yet still do the pitchers brim over.
The miracle lasted that night and next day; And if you should ask, as you very well may, What became, in the end, of the pitchers? The little mice titter, enjoying the joke, But at length, sirs, they stammer’d and stutter’d and spoke, And the pitchers immediately dried up!
And, children, if e’er, looking kindly and true, An old man, or father, or master teach you, Give heed, and do all that he bids you. Though to bridle your tongues it may cost you some pain, Yet to chatter is bad, to be silent is gain, And it makes the beer brim in the pitchers!
Theodore Martin.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The drowning of Kaer-is

Translated from a ballad published by Hersart de la Villemarqué in Barzaz Breiz.
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The light of evening

THE LIGHT OF EVENING.
Why, when the evening comes and the winds are quiet and still, When the sun is down in the west and his light is dying away, Comes there a track of pale green light in the sky far over the hill, When all the heaven is dark and the clouds grow heavy and gray?
Yes, I have often watched for that space of pure heavenly sky, Clear as a placid lake, or a sea of crystal or glass Over the western hills, an image of heaven on high, Stretching a thousand miles behind the clouds as they pass.
Strangely pale and faint, with a soft and luminous light, Yet fairer, oh! fairer far, than the golden light of the day, Flushing and changing ever, and passing into the night, Still lingering over the hills, then fading and dying away.
Is it the type of a calm, of a strange and mysterious rest, Coming before the end ’ere the deep dark river be past, Lighting declining years as the sun illumines the west, With a soft and a beautiful glow, which lingers the brightest and last?
Or is it a foretaste of heaven beyond these dim regions of care, A type of the measureless peace, and calm on Eternity’s shore, Beyond the clouds of the world in a country surpassingly fair, Where that light shines steadfast for ever, and sorrow is heard of no more?
J. A.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/A life story

Contributor unknown.
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/From my window

FROM MY WINDOW.
BEFORE SUNSET.
Framed in the open window, ’Gainst a background of green and red,
The sweep of a flowing garment; And the droop of a queen-like head;
And a delicate hand outstretched To gather the leaves of the rose, And a voice that carols the story Of Love, its joys and its woes.
The clouds are rosy above her, The trees catch the hue of the sky, Where they bend to the distant gable All a-glow with an amethyst dye.
AFTER SUNSET.
A noise at the garden wicket, A heavier step on the ground; Two voices talking in whispers, And one has a deeper sound.
Two figures framed in the window, Blurr’d in with the leaves and sky; The breeze from the grave of the daylight Coming up with an ominous sigh.
The black trees mourn o’er the gable, The mists steam up from the dell; Of two, that are framed in the window, There’s one that loves far too well.
Fred. H. Whymper.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/The Fraülein's hair

THE FRAÜLEIN’S HAIR. AN EPISODE OF THE LIBERATION WAR.
From Moscow the baffled eagle came, And his eye was glazed with a film of shame; His wing was rigid with Arctic rime, And his plumes were strown ere the moulting-time; Yet loftily bears he his battered head, And even Victory shrinks with dread.
So there is muster in Breslau town To strike that Gallic eagle down; And the tocsin sounds, to arms! to arms! Oh, the rapture of such alarms! And Breslau’s youth are up to a man, Eager to stand in the battle’s van; And Breslau’s maids feed their emprize With smiles, and blushes, and tears, and sighs, And each from jewelled store supply The sinews of glorious mutiny.
One brings silver, another gold; Another an heir-loom of trinkets old; But amongst the maiden throng is one Who jewels of gold and silver has none; Dowerless maiden! so poor and fair! Richest of all in the golden hair!
Dowerless maiden! so poor and fair! She drooped with grief in her golden hair, As worthy never more to show A wealth that availed not against the foe; And then with the guilt of her poverty bold, She shore off her tresses of waving gold, That a gift she might give, if they were sold.
Her gift was the greatest, for never, I ween, At auction or mart was such bidding seen; For every youth in the town would wear Some slightest pittance of golden hair.
Of each the portion was costly and small, Nor were there ringlets enough for all; And one who was late was first to advance And open his breast to a Polish lance.
Valour abounded in that stern strife, But the last in battle to think of life, The first to charge, the last to fly, The foremost ever to do or die, The firmest to stand when full in view The shot tore horse and rider through, Were the men whose bosom or head did bear That cognisance of the golden hair.
They the men who cleanly smote To the saddle from the throat; They whose sabre-point did pass Through the trooper’s heart in his cuirass; Who gun from carriage to earth did fling ’Mid the battery’s thunderous bellowing; Always doing, and everywhere, All that heroes can do or dare.
Fraülein von Scheliha! Fraülein, Queen of the Free!
’Twas a matchless deed as ever we read,
Or ever shall live to see.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Egeria

EGERIA.
A dream of that dim legendary time When the gods talked with mortals, and could leave Their starry home to gaze on women’s eyes.
On a fair summer’s morn, when all was still, Save the reed’s rustling in the breeze, which fell Like distant voices murmuring on the ear, Or the shrill halcyon, which sailed slowly by, Tipping his wings with purple in the sun; Once ’neath the golden linden’s glimmering shade, Upon the deep-red summer grass there sat Numa, and near the beating of his heart, With velvet limbs, white as the ocean foam, A nymph of more than mortal mien, whose love Was all too great for heaven, and so she longed To perfect it with sorrow in this world. There, often, she would open Nature’s book, Interpreting its mystic eloquence, Telling him secrets of each living thing, From the grey torrent to the clinging moss,— Or listen, tremulous, in a bright excess Of rosy modesty, the while he spoke, With wistful eagerness; more often full Of gentler thoughts than any this earth knows She sang, Cassandra-like, with dim faint eyes, Whose lids dropped gathered nectar, while the leaves Of amaranth were waving on her brow, How the great golden age had passed away, And how the harmonious chords of peace and love Should be unstrung, and sound again no more.
So Numa, by the music of her voice, In such sweet sorrow was imparadised, That life was like a dream; till in his soul Those sacred germs of nobler birth than dust Grew strong beneath her smiling influence, And left fair deeds of fame to future time. Thus would they talk in language kind and low Like lovers watched, though there was none to hear, And heeded not the hours, till her grey eyes Grew darker in the twilight, and the dew Shone in her hair like drops of silver rain; Till the warm sunset faded, and the stars Peeped forth to watch the dying of the day.
J. M.
# Argosy All-Story Weekly/Volume 186/Issue 5/The Drowned Captain

THE DROWNED CAPTAIN
In blue-green deeps where writhing eels
And ghost-gray fishes turn and glide,
And crusty crabs dance awkward reels,
Balance and pass from side to side,
The old commander sits and stares
With eyes unseeing on the tribe
Of watery creatures, aye, nor cares
What deep-sea potions they imbibe;
For he is dead and drowned and still,
His ship is sunk and with it he
And all his men; they drink their fill
Of that which bore them once, the sea.
He chose it, loved it as a boy,
He sailed its surface many a year,
It was his mate, his life, his joy,
He dwelt with it, nor had a fear.
But now it overmasters him,
He lost one battle with its waves,
And in a place all still and dim,
He and his men have found their graves.
Above, the ripples ride and run,
The lingering furrow leaves its foam,
The surface glistens in the sun,
While far below he glooms, at home.
No more the tempest or the shock
Of thunderous billows troubles him,
For where he sits beside his rock
Not e’en the weeds move on its rim.
Yes, it is quiet there where they,
He and his men have come to bide,
Gray fish and slow crab are more gay
Than he they softly slip beside.
George Jay Smith.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Doubts and hopes

DOUBTS AND HOPES.
Golden daylight, calm and noble, Failing in the purple west, Like the first and mightiest Cæsar Dying in his Tyrian vest!
Golden daylight, now descending Whither none of us can see; But we know ’tis not thine ending, For beyond there lies the sea;
And beyond the sea are rivers, Plains and mountains, lakes and lands, And the Placid Ocean severs These from India’s torrid sands:
Next on classic lands of morning Wilt thou shine before our morn; Then our morrow make, adorning With new beams our sphere forlorn.
Golden daylight, rich in blessing, Shall our life be like thine own? Shall it dawn anew, possessing What is now but half its own?
Are they dreams, those legends olden, Of an age of godlike men? Youth’s imaginations golden, Shall they e’er be truths again?
Shall the wisdom Time produces Still be ours, to live once more, Turning to a myriad uses Years we wasted and deplore?
But, to sight, our days are numbered; We must go, and others come; Children like us, sorely cumbered, Through a cavern passing home.
Happy trees, your leaf renewing, Gaining grace while growing old; Calm Perfection’s plan pursuing, Silent through the moons of cold.
Summer’s growth gives ampler beauty, Winter’s sleep anneals your strength; Nature’s Law is one with Duty, And the crown is gained at length.
Daylight sleeps, yet sleeps to waken; Leaves are changed, yet never cease; Must we envy, God-forsaken, Dayspring and the new-born trees?
G. C. Swayne.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/A definition

A DEFINITION.
She asked the Professor: he shook his white head,
And tried very hard to be firm;
“An Album is not much in my way,” he said:
“Pray, madam, define me the term.”
She smiled on his spectacles: quite shut him up
With a smile that all argument ends:
“Why, Doctor, I thought you’d been better brought up.
An Album’s a handbook of Friends.”
H. M. Moule.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/"Behind the scenes"

"BEHIND THE SCENES."
Long, long ago, I had an aunt, Who took me to the Play,— An act of kindness that I sha'n't Forget for many a day. I was a youngster at the time. Just verging on my teens. And fancied that it must be "prime" To get behind the scenes!
I ventured to express the same, In quite a candid way, And shock'd my aunt—a proper dame, Although she loved the Play. 'Twas just the moment when Macbeth (Whose voice resembled Kean's) Was perpetrating Duncan's death O.P.—behind the scenes!
I recollect that evening yet, And how my aunt was grieved; And, oh! I never can forget The lecture I received. It threw a light upon the class Of knowledge that one gleans, Through being privileged to pass His time behind the scenes!
The Columbine I worshipped then Was forty, I should think; My Count, the commonest of men; My Villain, fond of drink; The Fairies I believed so fair, Were not by any means The sort of people I should care To know behind the scenes!
I cannot boast that I enjoy Those stage-illusions still; I'm getting far too old a boy To laugh or cry at will. And I can look with languid eye On mimic kings and queens, And boast that nothing makes me sigh To go behind the scenes!
Ah, shallow boastings! false regrets! The world is but a stage, Where Man, poor player, struts and frets From infancy to age; And then leaps blindly, in a breath, The space that intervenes Between this stage-career and Death, Who lurks behind the scenes! H.S.Leigh.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Jolly anglers

Contributor unknown.
JOLLY ANGLERS.
Four of us went out fishing, Mary, Fairy, I, and the man: No use in grumble or wishing, People may catch who can.
Mary was lucky that morning, Lucky almost, I think, as the man, And she laughed with her saucy scorning As the fishes they filled her can.
The man was lucky in hooking: Off the perch with his trimmers ran, And he caught us a dish worth cooking, As your Maidenhead fisherman can.
I caught nothing worth keeping, Things about the length of a span; When a gentleman’s heart is leaping He may strike a fish, if he can.
But Fairy, she made a capture, On her darling own original plan, And Fairy’s eyes looked rapture As her great soft violets can.
With a single line she made it, O, such a line you’d have liked to scan! One line, and the lady laid it Where loving young ladies can.
In a gentleman’s hand she placed it Before our Maidenhead fishing began, How his chances of fish were wasted, Tell, lovers—who only can.
Over-night an enraptured dancer Had handed a passionate note in a fan, And the line was this gracious answer— “You may love me—if you can.”
S.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/Delaroche's picture of Marie Antoinette

DELAROCHE’S PICTURE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE.
Fair and fearless, sad and stately, discrowned Queen, so queenly yet,
Awing half the bloody rabble for their fiercest triumph met.
Royal arms down drooping quiet on the dingy prison dress,— Royal forehead showing steadfast ’neath the sorrow-silvered tress.
Wolfish eyes are glaring round her, hatred hisses insult coarse:
She will neither faint nor falter, yielding to the torrent’s force.
Austria’s daughter, France’s lady, pleads not to that common throng:
She will trust to Time and Heaven to avenge her bitter wrong.
On the cheek no flush of terror—on the lip no sobbing breath,
In her calm contemptuous patience, pacing queenly to her death.
Something in her eye has power, even that tossing sea to stem; None of all those clenching fingers dare to touch her garment’s hem.
Oh! the mighty spell of genius! after all these troubled years, At the touch of the enchanter the old drama claims our tears, And the fair proud face shines purely, through a century’s reproach,
Telling truth for future ages by the hand of Delaroche.
Susan K. Phillips.