OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/I've lost my heart

I’VE LOST MY HEART.
Where is my heart? Alas! not here. It wander’d from my careful keeping, And “stole away” one summer’s eve When I was too securely sleeping.
I called it back. Ah, truant heart, It would not heed the timely warning, But vow’d, with many a blush and smile, It would return before the morning.
The morning came; but not my heart; I’ve never seen the wanderer since, And can’t forgive the faithless elf For keeping me in such suspense.
I’ve lost my heart. What must be done? ’Tis plain I cannot live without it; Perchance, someday it may return, If I don’t say too much about it.
For hearts, I know, are so perverse, That if they think you prize them highly, They give themselves conceited airs, And very often treat you vilely.
And so I’ll try to hear my loss, My wounded feelings I must smother, I may, perhaps, repair my loss, And some day find myself another. Will no one volunteer a loan Until I can get back my own?
The heart I’ve lost is warm and light, And has a trick of loving blindly, If you should find the wayward sprite, I hope you’ll treat it very kindly.
Should you neglect it, ’twill rebel, And surely die if you are cruel; But if you understand it well, You’ll find this heart a priceless jewel.
So if it chance to come your way, Don’t keep it there at any cost, Unless you’ll use it tenderly, But send me back the heart I’ve lost!
Jessica Rankin.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Little rogue!

LITTLE ROGUE!
was sitting beside
My destined bride,
One still sentimental day:
“How I long,” said I,
“But to make you cry,
And I’d kiss the bright tears away!”
Fair Cecily blush’d,
Her voice grew hush’d,
I thought she would cry to be sure:
But she lisp’d to me,
Pouting prettily,
“Prevention is better than cure!”
J. S.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/"Little wife"

​Page:Once a Week Dec 1861 to June 1862.pdf/276
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"The little lovers"

“THE LITTLE LOVERS.”
“Little Boy-sailor, with jacket of blue,
Fond hearts at home have been thinking of you;
Dreaming the long nights, and thinking all day,
Of a darling boy-sailor, while he was away;
And when the ship sail’d away, oh! how they cried,
Mother and sister, and—some one beside.”
“Dear little Golden-hair, I will tell thee
What I saw, what I heard, on the deep sea:
As I sat all alone, on the mast high,
A sea-maiden, singing and swimming, came by;
Combing her tangled and silken-green hair,
Thus she sang sweetly, that sea-maiden fair:   “‘Little Boy-sailor, with jacket of blue,
Mother and sister are thinking of you;
He, too, forgets not, where’er he may roam,
Mother and sister, and sweet, sweet home;
But a something makes little boy-sailor’s eyes dim,
When he’s thinking of some one—who’s thinking of him.’   “So she pass’d swimming, and swimming she sang;
And in mine ears the sweet music still rang;
And I felt, on the mast as I sat all alone,
Millions of tiny threads over me thrown;
Threads by the silk-worm in Fairyland spun— I felt them all over, but couldn’t see one;
But I knew that the magic web only could be
Thrown by kind Fairies across the wide sea,
To bind little Golden-hair closer to me.”
T.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/September

SEPTEMBER.
The harvest moon stands on the sea, Her golden rim’s adrip; She lights the sheaves on many a lea, The sails on many a ship; Glitter, sweet Queen, upon the spray, And glimmer on the heather; Right fair thy ray to gild the way Where lovers walk together.
The red wheat rustles, and the vines Are purple to the foot, And true-love, waiting patient, wins Its blessed time of fruit: Lamp of all lovers, Lady-moon, Light these ripe lips together Which reap alone a harvest sown Long ere September weather.
Edwin Arnold.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/A score of years ago

A SCORE OF YEARS AGO.
Down by the breaking waves we stood, Upon the rocky shore; The brave waves whisper’d courage, And hid with friendly roar The falt’ring words that told the tale I dared not tell before.
I ask’d, if with the priceless gift, Her love, my life she’d bless? Was it her voice, or some fair wave,— For, sooth, I scarce may guess,— Some murmuring wave, or her sweet voice, That lisp’d so sweetly “Yes.”
And then, in happy silence, too, I clasp’d her fair wee hand; And long we stood there, carelessly, While o’er the darkening land The sun set, and the fishing-boats Were sailing from the strand.
It seems not many days ago— Like yesterday,—no more, Since thus we stood, my love and I, Upon the rocky shore; But I was four-and-twenty then, And now I’m forty-four.
The lily hand is thinner now, And in her sunny hair I see some silvery lines, and on Her brow some lines of care; But, wrinkled brow, or silver locks, She’s not one whit less fair.
The fishing-boats a score of years Go sailing from the strand; The crimson sun a score of years Sets o’er the darkening land; And here to-night upon the cliff We’re standing hand-in-hand.
“My darling, there’s our eldest girl, Down on the rocks below; What’s Stanley doing by her side?” My wife says, “You should know: He’s telling her what you told me A score of years ago.”
W. L. W.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Won!

WON!
A start—a pause—a flutter and a sigh,
A voice that trembles in the common greeting;
The hurried clasp of an unready hand,
That once was frankly offered at your meeting.
I saw you, little Annie-yes, I know,
He’s Charlie’s friend, just landed from Bengal,
He’s very fond of Charlie, ah! and so
He stay’d till last at Charlie’s sister’s ball.
You danced eight times together-am I right
“He’s such a perfect waltzer”—nothing more?
You met a week ago this very night,
And I have—known you all your lifetime o’er!
Forgive me that I played the list’ner, dear, And heard him win your love, amongst your flowers; You had forgotten I was prisoned here,
A poor lone cripple all these festive hours.
He’s very winsome, honest-eyed, and tall,
The cross for valour’s roll contains his story.
On my pain-stricken brow no wreath will fall,
I reap in Life’s grim battle all but glory.
Dearie, don’t kneel, and hide those kind grey eyes
I am not grieving, look me in the face.
Why, who am I, that I should claim the prize, Who never could have started in the race?
He’s waiting for you, Annie—leave me now
Alone with what must he a happy past.
A brother’s kiss I claim upon your brow, God bless you, Annie, ’tis my first—and last.
A. F.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/She and I

SHE AND I.
Now married half a score of years, With children growing tall, I muse on former hopes and fears, On long past smiles and sighs and tears, And bygone days recall.
Yes! twelve, twelve months have passed away, Since “She and I” first met, But still the dress she wore that day, And almost all she chanced to say, I well remember yet.
Of course I cannot tell if she Was conscious of her power; I know that on that day for me Commenced a long captivity Which lasts until this hour.
My love was faint and feeble then, And almost self-denied; Yet still I’d jealous promptings when I chanced to witness other men Attentive at her side.
And, oh! what jealous pangs I bore As love increased in force; I often turned and left her door, With firm resolve to go no more,— And went next day of course.
What trifling matters then inclined My hopes to rise or fall; It wasn’t difficult to find A plea for my sad state of mind In anything at all.
While I was in this wretched state, Some friends, one summer day, Arranged a little rural fête; I made a sham of self-debate, But went—I needn’t say.
Although I own that in my eyes A pic-nic’s no great treat; I don’t like gnats, or wasps, or flies, Or dust that spreads, or damps that rise, Or rain, or broiling heat.
Well! at this fête—tho’ what about I’ve not discovered yet— Clara began to sulk and pout, And I, from sympathy, no doubt, Began to fume and fret.
Our words were very sharp and curt, We spoke, and nothing more; And then, I always will assert, That she began to laugh and flirt With people by the score.
(I do sometimes assert it now— It’s not a bit of use— She positively won’t allow One single thing, but asks me how I can be such a goose.)
What happen’d next I cannot say, Except from what I hear: I’m told that I was very gay, And chatter’d in the wildest way With everybody near.
The sequence of events I own I’ve never understood, But when my mind regain’d its tone, I found that we were quite alone, And walking in a wood.
Yes, there we were, with no one by, No sound the silence broke, Till Clara gave a little sigh, Which startled me so much that I Took heart of grace, and spoke.
I sought a smile, I fear’d a frown, But scarce had I begun, When she, to veil her face, shook down Those clust’ring curls, in shadow brown, But golden in the sun.
Ah, then came bliss, so long deferr’d, Which paid for everything! What joy one little whisper’d word, So low it scarcely can be heard, Is large enough to bring!
O, what a calm, delicious change From jealousy to rest! And then the trifles to arrange, So numerous, so sweet, and strange, Which give love half its zest.
The slender ring, the stolen tress, (Inestimable prize!) The loving glance, the shy caress: If such as these be foolishness, I envy not the wise.
No bitter memories remain Of all that stormy past; May those who feel a kindred pain By fortune’s kindly aid attain A kindred joy at last!
C. P. William.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/The press-gang

Translation of 石壕吏 ("Shihao press-gang") by Du Fu.
THE PRESS-GANG. FROM THE CHINESE OF THOU-FOU, A POPULAR POET OF THE EIGHTH CENTURY.
The summer sun was sinking low As I went up and down, To find a place where I might rest Within Chekäo’s town.
The Royal Press-gang, at that hour, Came up the self-same way, Who in the time of darkness make The sons of men their prey.
An old man saw, and fled in haste, Vaulting the village gate; From the same house an aged crone Marched out to meet them straight.
Their leader shouted in his wrath,— How savage were his tones! The woman poured her sorrow forth With shrill and bitter moans:—
Quoth she—“Mark well the words of her Who cometh at your call: Three sons I had, the Emperor’s camp Has now devoured them all.
“From the last left a letter came, To say his brothers twain On the same battle-field were laid, Among the heaps of slain.
“Not long can he elude Death’s grasp, Who liveth yet in gloom; And for the two, their lot is fixed Unchanging in the tomb.
“In our sad house no male is left For war to claim and kill, Except my little grandson, whom His mother suckles still.
“That mother would have fled long since,— Fled to return no more,— But that she has not fitting clothes To pass beyond the door.
“I have grown very old, my limbs Are wasted now and weak; Still I can follow in your track, And join the camp ye seek.
“Among the troops I shall not be Idle or useless there; For I can cook them rice, and well The morning meal prepare.”
On rolled the night—both shouts and screams Died off to silence deep; Still, ever and anon, I heard Choked sobbings round me creep.
But when the morning dawned, and I My journey thence began, Nought living did I leave behind But that forlorn old man.
F. H. Doyle.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"One in a thousand"

“ONE IN A THOUSAND.”
Roses, roses, oh! brilliant and bright In the gorgeous month of June, Raising your blushing queenly heads In the glare of summer noon.
There are roses crimson, roses red, Roses of amber hue, Gazing with upturned loveliness On heaven’s deep azure blue.
Stately in presence, dazzling in tint, Shaming the setting sun, From the rounded cup of the open flow’r To the bud but scarce begun.
Too bright are ye in your conscious pride, And your wealth of summer hue; No bond, no tie, could ever unite This weary heart and you.
There’s a little rose, by a little house, On a little plot of ground, Whose every root, and every branch, Around my heart is wound.
’Tis a fair small thing of tender pink— With no flaunting crimson dye— And a world of sunny sweetness looks From out its modest eye.
Unseen, maybe, by many who pass, And known, perhaps, by few— Oh! little rose, thou know’st full well The tie betwixt me and you.
Oh! roses brilliant, and roses bright, All lovely though ye be, That little rose by the little house Is the only rose for me!
T. D.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/On the river

ON THE RIVER.
I.
Side by side in our tiny skiff Floating along with the tide, My love and I watched the fading light
Of the summer eve die into the night,
And the moon through her queendom glide.
II.
Floating along where the flexile trees
To the river’s brink had grown;
And with drooping branches the waters brushed
As in mimic rapids they brawled and rushed
On a fallen tree or a stone.
III.
Then I turned away from the starry heavens
To gaze in my dear one’s eyes;
But they met not mine in their calm repose,
For troubled gleams in their depths arose,
And her smiles gave place to sighs.
IV.
Close to my side she shuddering clung,
And told her fears on my breast; “Beneath these waters that round us play,
The tangled weed and the darkness stay,
And the dead in their shadows rest!
V.
“Side by side could we float for aye,
Calm river and peaceful sky!
But alas! our life like the surface gleams, But to merge our fates in the turbid streams
That under its surface lie!
VI.
“And I shrink, I shrink from the coming storms,
Thy courage may haply brave— Lest these clinging arms in my selfish dread,
When the smiling moments of youth have fled
May gulph thee, too, in the wave!”
VII.
Then up I raised the face of my love
Till the moonbeams tinted her brow; Till the gloomy shadow of bending trees
And the haze of the night no more she sees,
Nor the treacherous current below.
VIII.
And the genial warmth of a trusting heart
Came back to her radiant eyes;
And her hand clasps mine, as borne by the tide
Wherever it listeth, through life we glide
Our gaze on the changeless skies!
Louisa Crow.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"No change!"

“NO CHANGE!”
I.
I’m standing by the little school,
Where I stood five long years ago— Five years—ay, more! for then the snow
Lay gleaming in the light of yule.
The grey old church across the way
Had sunset-fires upon its panes— The Parsonage, so bare to-day,
Was garlanded with holly-chains.
II.
Ah! let me see, in this old room
That night there was a “fancy-fair”— Gay lights had eaten up the gloom
That lived in cobwebb’d corners there;
Gay stalls were planted on each side,
Loaded with many curious things,
And Charity, the gentle-eyed,
Of course looked on with outspread wings!
III.
I know that many a goddess seemed,
That night, behind the stalls to stand;
I know that while I looked I dreamed
It was the old, old fairyland!
Though certainly it did seem strange,
That goddesses should come to earth,
To sell small caps for twice their worth,
And, when you paid them, give no change!
IV.
I think the object of the thing
Was the extension of a wall,
Or building on the school a wing,
To shelter and to form the small.
I know, whate’er it was, ’twas good,
And when a sweet young curate came,
And led me on to where there stood
A lady whom “I dare not name,”
V.
And tempted me, young curate-wise,
To buy a dress—a little one:
I turned and only saw her eyes— She gave no “change”—I wanted none!
Oh! curate with the sunny hair,
And looks so wickedly demure,
You could not guess what form should wear
That little garment, I am sure.
VI.
Was it her palm’s electric touch
That thrilled me as I gave the gold— So soft and velvety—as such
Young palms are ever? Was I bold
To glide behind the little stall,
And help to sell her dainty wares?
“Without reserve” we sold them all;
The “sacrifice,” of course, in shares.
VII.
And when they brought a cup of tea,
’Twas her refreshment, and ’twas mine— I took the cup, the saucer she:
’Twas Congou (bad), it seemed like wine.
Oh! dream of other days (ah! when
Shall we not dream?)—there stands a crowd
Of babbling imps where she stood then,
And cobwebs half the window shroud.
VIII.
I’ve said the “cause” I cannot tell
For which those pretty things were made,
For which white fingers worked so well,
In mysteries of beads and braid. I know it did not fail—the tall
Young curate said so. I, for one,
Gained, at that dear old corner stall,
Love without change—I wanted none!
A. B.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/Niobe

Translation of a Greek epigram, whose author is uncertain: perhaps Agathias (c. AD 530–c. AD 580).
NIOBE. (FROM THE GREEK.)
Within this tomb no corpse was ever laid,
To hold this corpse no tomb was ever made,
But tomb and corpse in one are here display’d.
E. A. Bowring.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Night and morning

NIGHT AND MORNING.
So they’ve sent you a card, my Adonis, For the Countess’s ball of to-night; You fancy no fate like your own is, No future so charmingly bright.
It costs half-a-crown for a Hansom To go to that beautiful ball, Though shortly a duchess’s ransom You’d give to have not gone at all.
For you dance with some lovely young creature With a winning soft grace and a smile; And you dwell on each look and each feature As if Paradise opened the while:
You clasp her slight waist in the “Dewdrop,” Though you feel that your touch is profane, And think that fair burthen ere you’d drop You would die to the cornet’s wild strain.
The cornet blows louder and brisker, She grows more confiding and weak, Her soft tresses tickle your whisker, Her soft breath is warm on your cheek;
And in the excitement grown bolder, You murmur soft words in her ear, And in blushes quite low on your shoulder She replies what Mamma must not hear;
Replies: “I delight in these crushes, One can talk though the dances are full; You don’t go next week to the duchess? Then I’m sure I shall find it quite dull.”
But now for the next dance they’re starting, She shrinks to the chaperon’s wings; You press the small hand in the parting, And her eyes say unspeakable things.
You cherish for many days after The look that so lovingly beams: ’Tis a sorrow that stifles your laughter, ’Tis a joy that is bright on your dreams.
You fancy, so lightly she dances, Her dear little foot on your stair; You people with those sunny glances A sweet little home in May Fair:
You saw that all eyes were upon her As she moved down that glittering room, And you fancy, when once you have won her, How pretty she’ll look in your brougham.
O! visions that madly you cherish; O! smile that was cruelly false; O! hopes that were born but to perish; O! dream that has fled with the valse!
When next you meet, doffing your beaver, You look for her bow—but in vain— The dear little ball-room deceiver Doesn’t offer to know you again.
Can it be you have flirted together?— Now she on her hack canters by; And you’re not worth one wave of her feather; You’re not worth one glance of her eye.
Then, like ships without sailors to man ’em, Your visions seem drifting away, And you count your few hundreds per annum, And their fractions at each Quarter-day.
And this, when you sum the case up, is The result (though your feelings it hurts),— All men are self-confident puppies, All women are frivolous flirts!
R. Benson.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/New Year's Eve

NEW YEAR’S EVE.
Goodbye, strange year, so fierce and yet so tender— So hot with battle and so blind with tears; To-day is thine, to-night the Almighty Lender Resumes thee back into the timeless years: Goodbye!
Not in a waste of sheeted snow thou diest, Nor ’mid tumultuous echoes of the deep; Grey placid evening folds thee where thou liest, And modest airs caress thee into sleep: Goodbye!
How calm a death for such insatiate warrior! But sternest souls and maddest in the fray Oft, ere they float beyond life’s viewless barrier, Reveal to love their chasten’d eyes, and say Goodbye!
So, leave a blessing ere thou part for heaven; Tell the fond earth she is not always thus; Let some kind spirit with the morn be given, And not to her alone, but ah, to us— Goodbye!
To us, who long to go where thou art going, To rise from self, and be for ever free; To see the land with milk and honey flowing, And say to memory, as we say to thee, Goodbye!
Arthur J. Munby.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Non satis

NON SATIS.
’Tis not enough to see thee, like a star That rises on our sight when eve is clear, Which all may view—but all must view afar. ’Tis not enough to watch thee, as the moon Gazes on earth with stedfast face, but ne’er May voice with voice exchange and intertune.
’Tis not enough to meet thee as by chance In lighted rooms, and feign a cold repose,— Whereas I tremble to thy slightest glance. ’Tis not enough to cross thee in the glare Of day, when serried friends thy path inclose,— Content the sunlight of thy smile to share.
No! I am jealous of all senseless things That near and touch thee—of the fluttering wind That dallies round with fond, familiar wings, And dares to kiss thine eyes and lift the tress From thy blue temple;—of the jewel blind Upon thy bosom pillow’d, passionless.
And I could rend the flower that thou dost pluck, And drink its odour with thy nostrils fine, And taste its honey which the bee did suck. Oh! I could kill thy sleek caressing hound That feels thy hand, and blameless may entwine Thy foot, whene’er he choose to bound.
For I would have thee, as the miser hoards His idol gold, lock’d close with ponderous key, In chest of brazen bands round ebon boards. I could not rest until with sails unfurl’d I bore my treasure o’er the secret sea, To some oasis of the desert world.
Because I want thee ALL;—and nothing less Than thy whole being would my heart suffice,— Thee and thy love entire I must possess. No jot withheld,—no atom of thy love Passing the sphere of adamantine ice, Within whose vault we must in oneness move.
Berni.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Not mourn for thee?

NOT MOURN FOR THEE?
Not mourn for thee? Though tears be vain, Our bursting hearts refute The frigid philosophic strain, That deepest woes are mute. However stoic Reason preach, Warm Nature will rebel, And grief must strive to vent in speech What words are vain to tell, Mary!
Not mourn for thee? It may be, Time, That dries all human tears, Will bid the flood of passion’s prime Ebb with the healing years. But still from out our hearts will well One low, undying strain, A plaint, as of the murmuring shell That ever mourns the main, Mary!
Not mourn for thee? It may be, Earth Will circle as of yore, And leaf, and flower, and fruit, have birth As bounteous as before; But we shall mark a charm the less In earth, and sea, and sky, Missed from that perfect loveliness They wore when thou wert by, Mary!
Not mourn for thee? Ah, lying grief! The tears which will have way, O’erburden’d Nature’s kind relief, But seem to disobey. It is but for ourselves we weep, For our own loss repine; Ah, God! unwittingly we keep That dying charge of thine, Mary!
If, in that better world on high, Where thou art dwelling now, Thou yet canst bend a pitying eye On us who weep below; Oh, whisper, from that glorious sphere The selfish love forgiven That would have bound a Martyr here, And grudged a Saint to Heaven, Mary!
Harry Leroy Temple.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Not yet

NOT YET.
Not yet, not yet. Ah! let me gaze once more Into those eyes, those earnest truthful eyes, A little while, and then my dream is o’er; And I, a wanderer under alien skies, Shall see thy face no more, nor hear thy low replies.
See, in the west, the sun grows broad and red; His golden glory rests upon thy brow, And makes a halo round thy down-bent head, And glimmers o’er thy soft dark locks that flow In waves of light above, in waves of shade below.
That setting sun will rise again in might, Will dry the tears the sorrowing night hath shed; Will wake the world to gladness and to light. What sun, the summer of the heart once fled, Can brighten into spring its winter, cold and dead?
The red light fades: go forth upon thy way Thro’ the dim eve, and leave me here alone; A deeper night than follows after day Will darken o’er my soul when thou art gone— A night no wakening dawn will ever rise upon.
None.