OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night/The Righteousness of King Anoushirwan

First-level story, told by Shehrzad
THE RIGHTEOUSNESS OF KING ANOUSHIRWAN.
It is told of the just King Anoushirwan that he once feigned himself sick and bade his stewards and intendants go round about the provinces of his empire and the quarters of his realm and seek him out a rotten brick from some ruined village, that he might use it as medicine, avouching that the physicians had prescribed this to him. So they went the round of the provinces of his realm and of all the lands under his dominion and returned and said to him, ‘In all the realm we have found no ruined place nor old rotten brick.’ At this he rejoiced and returned thanks to God, saying, ‘I was but minded to prove my kingdom and try my empire, that I might know if there were therein any ruined [or deserted] place, so I ​might rebuild [or repeople] it; but, since there is no place in it but is inhabited, the affairs of the realm are well ordered and accomplished and [its] prosperity hath reached the pitch of perfection.’
‘And know, O king,’ [added Shehrzad] ‘that these kings of time past were not solicitous for the peopling of their kingdoms, but because they knew that the more populous a country is, the more abundant is that which is desired therein, and for that they knew the saying of the wise and the learned to be without doubt true, namely, ‘Religion depends on the King, the King on the troops, the troops on the treasury, the treasury on the populousness [or prosperity] of the country and the latter on the justice of the government.’ Wherefore they upheld no one in tyranny or oppression neither suffered their dependents to do injustice, knowing that kingdoms are not stablished upon tyranny, but that cities and places fall into ruin, when oppressors get the mastery over them, and their inhabitants disperse and flee to other governments, wherefore ruin falls upon the realm, the imports fail, the treasuries become empty and the lives of the subjects are troubled; for that they love not a tyrant and cease not to offer up prayers against him, so that the King hath no ease of his dominion and the shifts of fortune speedily bring about his destruction.’
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night/The Ruined Man Who Became Rich Again Through a Dream

First-level story, told by Shehrzad
THE RUINED MAN WHO BECAME RICH AGAIN THROUGH A DREAM.
There lived once in Baghdad a very wealthy man, who lost all his substance and became so poor, that he could only earn his living by excessive labour. One night, he lay down to sleep, dejected and sick at heart, and saw in a dream one who said to him, ‘Thy fortune is at Cairo; go thither and seek it.’ So he set out for Cairo; but, when he arrived there, night overtook him and he lay down to sleep in a mosque. Presently, as fate would have it, a company of thieves entered the mosque and made their way thence into an adjoining house; but the people of the house, being aroused by the noise, awoke and cried out; whereupon the chief of the police came to their aid with his officers. The robbers made off; but the police entered the mosque and finding the man from Baghdad asleep there, laid hold of him and beat him with palm rods, till he was well-nigh dead. Then they cast him into prison, where he abode three days, after which the chief of the police sent for him and said to him, ‘Whence art thou?’ ‘From Baghdad,’ answered he. ‘And what brought thee to Cairo?’ asked the magistrate. Quoth the Baghdadi, ‘I saw in a dream one who said to me, “Thy fortune is at Cairo; go thither to it.” But when I came hither, the fortune that he promised me proved to be the beating I had of thee.’
The chief of the police laughed, till he showed his ​jaw-teeth, and said, ‘O man of little wit, thrice have I seen in a dream one who said to me, “There is in Baghdad a house of such a fashion and situate so-and-so, in the garden whereof is a fountain and thereunder a great sum of money buried. Go thither and take it.” Yet I went not; but thou, of thy little wit, hast journeyed from place to place, on the faith of a dream, which was but an illusion of sleep.’ Then he gave him money, saying, ‘This is to help thee back to thy native land.’ Night ccclii.Now the house he had described was the man’s own house in Baghdad; so the latter returned thither, and digging underneath the fountain in his garden, discovered a great treasure; and [thus] God gave him abundant fortune.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 5/Writings: Prose and Poems/To The Fourth of July

TO THE FOURTH OF JULY
[It is well known that Swami Vivekananda's death (or resurrection, as some of us would prefer to call it!) took place on the 4th of July, 1902. On the 4th of July, 1898, he was travelling with some American disciples in Kashmir, and as part of a domestic agreement for the celebration of the day—the anniversary of the American Declaration of Independence — he prepared the following poem, to be read aloud at the early breakfast. The poem itself fell to the keeping of Dhirâ Mâtâ.]
   Behold, the dark clouds melt away, That gathered thick at night, and hung So like a gloomy pall above the earth! Before thy magic touch, the world Awakes. The birds in chorus sing. The flowers raise their star-like crowns— Dew-set, and wave thee welcome fair. The lakes are opening wide in love Their hundred thousand lotus-eyes To welcome thee, with all their depth. All hail to thee, thou Lord of Light! A welcome new to thee, today, O Sun! Today thou sheddest Liberty! Bethink thee how the world did wait, And search for thee, through time and clime. Some gave up home and love of friends, And went in quest of thee, self-banished, Through dreary oceans, through primeval forests, Each step a struggle for their life or death; Then came the day when work bore fruit, And worship, love, and sacrifice, Fulfilled, accepted, and complete. Then thou, propitious, rose to shed The light of Freedom on mankind. Move on, O Lord, in thy resistless path! Till thy high noon o'erspreads the world. Till every land reflects thy light, Till men and women, with uplifted head, Behold their shackles broken, and Know, in springing joy, their life renewed!
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 5/Writings: Prose and Poems/Who Knows how Mother Plays!

WHO KNOWS HOW MOTHER PLAYS!
   Perchance a prophet thou — Who knows? Who dares touch The depths where Mother hides Her silent failless bolts!
   Perchance the child had glimpse Of shades, behind the scenes, With eager eyes and strained, Quivering forms—ready To jump in front and be Events! resistless, strong. Who knows but Mother, how, And where, and when, they come?
   Perchance the shining sage Saw more than he could tell; Who knows, what soul, and when, The Mother makes Her throne?
   What law would freedom bind? What merit guide Her will, Whose freak is greatest order, Whose will resistless law?
   To child may glories ope Which father never dreamt; May thousandfold in daughter Her powers Mother store.
# The Cattle Show

The Half-Crown Day :
| (By a Heavy Swell) |||
| No! I'm not in the least democratic, I object to a mob and a crush, My tastes are too aristocratic, My way through a crowd to push. So when to the cattle I take my way, It's either a crown or a half-crown day! | | On the high-priced days c'est une autre Chose tout à fait, if you please Then the place is quite filled with les notres, With the people one everywhere sees, Who, like myself, much prefer to pay To see the show on half-crown day. |
| I in toto object to the "people," They are always so shockingly rude E'en on men on society's steeple Their sad vulgar marks they'll intrude. So you cannot wonder I'd rather pay To see the show on half-crown day. | | Need I say that we don't care a button For the beasts in which farmers delight; As long as the sheep turn to mutton, And the oxen to beef, why it's right! To see and be seen is for what we pay At Islington on the half-crown day. |
| | What to us are the tools used for farming For our tenants they're all very well; But there really cannot be a charm in Such things to the genuine swell. And that being the case I prefer to pay To see the show on half-crown day. | |
| The Shilling Day |||
| (By a very Low Fellow) |||
| Pushing, crushing, panting, squeezing, Fat-faced farmers left and right; Round the beasts scarce room for sneezing, Each one struggling for a sight. That's the style, we like a mob, And we've only paid a bob! | | Passing on, we next a visit To the fatted oxen make; Prime indeed each sleek side is, it Makes us long to cut a steak. Such things are not for the mob, Who have only paid a bob! |
| Into pigs umbrellas poking, Likewise sticks and parasols, They're too fat to mind such joking, Thoughts of oil-cake fill their souls. They are heedless of the mob Who have only paid a bob! | | Then the sheep claim our attention, Southdowns, Devons, Herefords; This a medal's gained, that, mention, Gladness bringing to their lords. What care we? the vulgar mob, Who have only paid a bob! |
| | To the implements for farming Next we turn, and drawing near, Comes the thought there'd be no harm in Half a pie and bottled beer. We eat and feel we're of the mob Who have only paid a bob! | |
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Cats of Ulthar

The Cats of Ulthar is a short story by H. P. Lovecraft, written June 15, 1920, and first published in the November 1920 issue of the amateur press journal Tryout. It belongs in the Dream Cycle series of tales... Warning: template has been deprecated.
* "The Cats of Ulthar" in Weird Tales, 7 (2) (February 1926)
* "The Cats of Ulthar" in Weird Tales, 21 (2) (February 1933)
# The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England

The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England From 1624 to 1684
Edited by Charles Mackay LL.D.
London Griffin Bohn and Co Stationers’ Hall Court 1863.
John Childs and Son, Printers.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Catholic Press

* related portals: Newspapers.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Content exists for this periodical, though at this stage it is not specifically organised beyond a basic hierarchy.
The pages listed below are an automatically generated listing.
Special:PrefixIndex/The Catholic Press/
# The Cherubim (Coates)

"Two angels stood at Eden's gate"
* Coates, Florence Earle (1913), "The Cherubim" in The North American Review (August 1913).
* Coates, Florence Earle (1916), "The Cherubim" in Poems II.

## References

* ↑ View this version at Google Books.
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Cancelled Stanza of the Mask of Anarchy

CANCELLED STANZA OF THE MASK OF ANARCHY
[Published by H. Buxton Forman, The Mask of Anarchy (Facsimile of Shelley's MS.), 1887.]
(For which stanzas LXVIII, LXIX have been substituted.)
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Dirge for the Year

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824, and dated January 1, 1821.]
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Early Poems

EARLY POEMS [1814, 1815]
[The poems which follow appeared, with a few exceptions, either in the volumes published from time to time by Shelley himself, or in the Posthumous Poems of 1824, or in the Poetical Works of 1839, of which a second and enlarged edition was published by Mrs. Shelley in the same year. A few made their first appearance in some fugitive publication—such as Leigh Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book—and were subsequently incorporated in the collective editions. In every case the editio princeps and (where this is possible) the exact date of composition are indicated below the title.]
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Epigrams

EPIGRAMS
[These four Epigrams were published—nos. II and IV without title—by Mrs. Shelley, Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed.]
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Death (2)

DEATH
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.]
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Death in Life

FRAGMENT: DEATH IN LIFE
[Published by Dr. Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862.]
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Cancelled Passage (from The Sensitive Plant)

CANCELLED PASSAGE
# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Death (1)

DEATH
[Published by Mrs. Shelley in Posthumous Poems, 1824.]
# The Clue of the Twisted Candle/Chapter 20

The room was a big one and most of the furniture had been cleared out to admit the guests who had come from the ends of the earth to learn the story of the twisted candles, and to test John Lexman's theory by their own.
They sat around chatting cheerfully of men and crimes, of great coups planned and frustrated, of strange deeds committed and undetected. Scraps of their conversation came to Belinda Mary as she stood in the chintz-draped doorway which led from the drawing-room to the room she used as a study.
". . . do you remember, Sir George, the Bolbrook case! I took the man at Odessa. . . ."
". . . the curious thing was that I found no money on the body, only a small gold charm set with a single emerald, so I knew it was the girl with the fur bonnet who had . . ."
". . . Pinot got away after putting three bullets into me, but I dragged myself to the window and shot him dead—it was a real good shot . . .!"
They rose to meet her and T. X. introduced her to the men. It was at that moment that John Lexman was announced.
He looked tired, but returned the Commissioner's greeting with a cheerful mien. He knew all the men present by name, as they knew him. He had a few sheets of notes, which he laid on the little table which had been placed for him, and when the introductions were finished he went to this and with scarcely any preliminary began.
# The Clue of the Twisted Candle/Chapter 18

T. X. sat at his desk, his chin in his hands, his mind remarkably busy. Grave as the matter was which he was considering, he rose with alacrity to meet the smiling girl who was ushered through the door by Mansus, preternaturally solemn and mysterious.
She was radiant that day. Her eyes were sparkling with an unusual brightness.
"I've got the most wonderful thing to tell you," she said, "and I can't tell you."
"That's a very good beginning," said T. X., taking her muff from her hand.
"Oh, but it's really wonderful," she cried eagerly, "more wonderful than anything you have ever heard about."
"We are interested," said T. X. blandly.
"No, no, you mustn't make fun," she begged, "I can't tell you now, but it is something that will make you simply—" she was at a loss for a simile.
"Jump out of my skin?" suggested T. X.
"I shall astonish you," she nodded her head solemnly.
"I take a lot of astonishing, I warn you," he smiled; "to know you is to exhaust one's capacity for surprise."
"That can be either very, very nice or very, very nasty," she said cautiously.
"But accept it as being very, very nice," he laughed. "Now come, out with this tale of yours."
She shook her head very vigorously.
"I can't possibly tell you anything," she said.
"Then why the dickens do you begin telling anything for?" he complained, not without reason.
"Because I just want you to know that I do know something."
"Oh, Lord!" he groaned. "Of course you know everything. Belinda Mary, you're really the most wonderful child."
He sat on the edge of her arm-chair and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"And you've come to take me out to lunch?"
"What were you worrying about when I came in?" she asked.
He made a little gesture as if to dismiss the subject.
"Nothing very much. You've heard me speak of John Lexman?"
She bent her head.
"Lexman's the writer of a great many mystery stories, but you've probably read his books."
She nodded again, and again T. X. noticed the suppressed eagerness in her eyes.
"You're not ill or sickening for anything, are you?" he asked anxiously; "measles, or mumps or something?"
"Don't be silly," she said; "go on and tell me something about Mr. Lexman."
"He's going to America," said T. X., "and before he goes he wants to give a little lecture."
"A lecture?"
"It sounds rum, doesn't it, but that's just what he wants to do."
"Why is he doing it!" she asked.
T. X. made a gesture of despair.
"That is one of the mysteries which may never be revealed to me, except—" he pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the girl. "There are times," he said, "when there is a great struggle going on inside a man between all the human and better part of him and the baser professional part of him. One side of me wants to hear this lecture of John Lexman's very much, the other shrinks from the ordeal."
"Let us talk it over at lunch," she said practically, and carried him off.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Homestead

THE HOMESTEAD
Against the wooded hills it stands, Ghost of a dead home, staring through Its broken lights on wasted lands Where old-time harvests grew.
Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn, The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie, Once rich and rife with golden corn And pale green breadths of rye.
Of healthful herb and flower bereft, The garden plot no housewife keeps; Through weeds and tangle only left, The snake, its tenant, creeps.
A lilac spray, still blossom-clad, Sways slow before the empty rooms; Beside the roofless porch a sad Pathetic red rose blooms.
His track, in mould and dust of drouth, On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves, And in the fireless chimney’s mouth His web the spider weaves.
The leaning barn, about to fall, Resounds no more on husking eves; No cattle low in yard or stall, No thresher beats his sheaves.
So sad, so drear! It seems almost Some haunting Presence makes its sign; That down yon shadowy lane some ghost Might drive his spectral kine!
O home so desolate and lorn! Did all thy memories die with thee? Were any wed, were any born, Beneath this low roof-tree?
Whose axe the wall of forest broke, And let the waiting sunshine through? What goodwife sent the earliest smoke Up the great chimney flue?
Did rustic lovers hither come? Did maidens, swaying back and forth In rhythmic grace, at wheel and loom, Make light their toil with mirth?
Did child feet patter on the stair? Did boyhood frolic in the snow? Did gray age, in her elbow chair, Knit, rocking to and fro?
The murmuring brook, the sighing breeze, The pine’s slow whisper, cannot tell; Low mounds beneath the hemlock-trees Keep the home secrets well.
Cease, mother-land, to fondly boast Of sons far off who strive and thrive, Forgetful that each swarming host Must leave an emptier hive!
O wanderers from ancestral soil, Leave noisome mill and chaffering store: Gird up your loins for sturdier toil, And build the home once more!
Come back to bayberry-scented slopes, And fragrant fern, and ground-nut vine; Breathe airs blown over holt and copse Sweet with black birch and pine.
What matter if the gains are small That life’s essential wants supply? Your homestead’s title gives you all That idle wealth can buy.
All that the many-dollared crave, The brick-walled slaves of ’Change and mart, Lawns, trees, fresh air, and flowers, you have, More dear for lack of art.
Your own sole masters, freedom-willed, With none to bid you go or stay, Till the old fields your fathers tilled, As manly men as they!
With skill that spares your toiling hands, And chemic aid that science brings, Reclaim the waste and outworn lands, And reign thereon as kings!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Hunters of Men

THE HUNTERS OF MEN
These lines were written when the orators of the American Colonization Society were demanding that the free blacks should be sent to Africa, and opposing Emancipation unless expatriation followed. See the report of the proceedings of the society at its annual meeting in 1834.
Have ye heard of our hunting, o’er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest,—the hunting of men? The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn; Hark! the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the whip, And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match, Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch. So speed to their hunting, o’er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest,—the hunting of men!
Gay luck to our hunters! how nobly they ride In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride! The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind, Just screening the politic statesman behind; The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer, The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. And woman, kind woman, wife, widow, and maid, For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid: Her foot ’s in the stirrup, her hand on the rein, How blithely she rides to the hunting of men!
Oh, goodly and grand is our hunting to see, In this “land of the brave and this home of the free.” Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine, All mounting the saddle, all grasping the rein; Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin! Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay! Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey? Will their hearts fail within them? their nerves tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of men?
Ho! alms for our hunters! all weary and faint, Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint. The horn is wound faintly, the echoes are still, Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. Haste, alms for our hunters! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore: What right have they here in the home of the white, Shadowed o’er by our banner of Freedom and Right? Ho! alms for the hunters! or never again Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men!
Alms, alms for our hunters! why will ye delay, When their pride and their glory are melting away? The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own,
Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone? The politic statesman looks back with a sigh, There is doubt in his heart, there is fear in his eye. Oh, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. Oh, haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then, For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men?