OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/Wife and I

WIFE AND I.
I.
We were out of temper, and scarce knew why, Though the cause was trivial and common; But to look in our eyes, you'd have sworn that we both Were a couple of enemies spiteful and wroth,— Not a wedded man and woman.
II.
Tossed her sweet little head in as lofty a way As so little a woman was able; She clenched her lips with a sneer and a frown, While I, being rougher, stamped up and down, Like a careless groom in a stable.
III.
Of little women and little men, You'd have laughed at our spite and passion; And would never have dreamed that a storm like this Would be rainbow'd to tears by that sunlight, a kiss, Till we talked in the old fond fashion.
IV.
And was followed soon by a sunny shower, And that again by embraces; Yet so little the meaning was understood That we almost felt ashamed to be good, And wore a blush on our faces.
V.
And tried to bear the whole weight of the blame, By her kindness herself reproving; When, seeing her humble, and knowing her true, I all at once became humble too, And very contrite and loving.
VI.
She laughed outright with a frolic heart,— A laugh as careless as Cupid; And the laughter wrangled along my brain Till I almost felt in a passion again, And became quite stubborn and stupid.
VII.
Around this stubbornest neck of mine, Like the arms of a maid round a lover; And, feeling them there, with their warmth, you know, I laughed quite a different laugh,—and so The storm (as I called it) was over.
VIII.
And though the passing of storms like these Leaves a certain fond facility Of getting easily angry again, Yet they free the heart and rebuke the brain, And teach us a rough humility.
IX.
You see, we love one another so well,
That we find more comfort than you can tell,
In jingling our bells and corals;
In the fiercer fights of a world so drear,
We keep our spirits so close and clear,
That we need such trivial quarrels.
X.
In the great fierce fights of the world we try
To shield one mother, my wife and I,
Like brave strong man and woman;
But the trivial quarrels o' days and nights
Unshackle our souls for the great fierce fights,
And keep us lowly and human.
XI.
Clouds would grow in the quietest mind,
And make it unmeet to mix with its kind,
Were nature less wine as a mother;
And with storms like ours there must flutter out From the bosom the hoarded-up darkness and doubt— The excess of our love for each other!
R. Williams Buchanan.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/Wein-lied (A wine song)

Translation of “Lied vom Wein.”
WEIN-LIED (A WINE-SONG). FROM THE GERMAN OF EMMANUEL GEIBEL.
God bless thee! heaven descended dew,—
Child of the sun, so warm and true,
The vineyard’s prize and treasure;
Thy glint how genial to behold,
A fountain all a-blaze with gold,
Filling the sheeny measure! Come to my lips, and let me steep
My heart at once with joyous leap
Down to the deep
In all thy tide of pleasure.
Ev’n as we know the topaz bright,
From point to point alive with light,
Shalt thou my spirit brighten;
And in my mind whate’er was dark
Thy liquid flame’s refining spark
Shall clear away and whiten. For this a meed, due long ago, A rapturous roundelay I owe, Whese overflow My bosom’s weight shall lighten.
Great is in joy thy wondrous might,
Great, too, whene’er the lonely wight
In grief’s arrest is drinking
Thou quellest mild the choking care,
Dissolvest in the goblet rare
To tears the bitter thinking.
Oh! then the cup hath noble rank,
As that where Cleopatra drank,
When the pearl sank
Consumed with lustrous blinking!
Sleeps wrapt in thee the olden time,
The joy of joys, the woe sublime,
All tenderest love-fancies;
Sleeps wrapt in thee the modest lay,
The lay whose whisper storms obey,
When life with tumult dances;
Youth springs from thee anew to play,
And twined by thee the garland gay
Of rosy May
The silver hair enhances.
That which to man some god reveals,
But he in his close heart conceals,
Sunk to the world in seeming;
Thou dost with golden finger tap,
Then flies apart the casket-snap,
And all the gems lie gleaming.
Then wisdom’s word is music soft,
Then floats the hoard of Love aloft,
And oft and oft Glimmers divinely beaming.
And art thou not, in truth, Oh, wine!
An image of this life of mine,
And changeful Fate’s true mirror?
Crushed, broken, mangled to the core,
To warmth and spirit thou dost soar,
Sworn foe of pain and error:
Thy luscious fire’s all-conquering name
Tells of our woe and after-fame,
And how the flame
Of Youth surmounts Death’s terror.
So welcome, Heaven-engendered dew,
Child of the sun, as warm and true—
The vineyard’s pride and treasure.
True zest to keep our harp in tune,
For song the one right royal boon,
Thou golden fount of pleasure.
Up, clear and pure in brimming cup,
Blest, and with blessing crowned, mount up!
And let me sup On joy that knows no measure.
G. C. Swayne.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Under an elm

UNDER AN ELM.
Oh, under the boughs let’s glide, All hush, and sly, and unseen, The brown Elm-trunk beside, ’Neath its roofing high of green;
Where, below, sport flimsy flies, In programmes vain to trace, As they dart, poise, dip, and rise, Club, scatter, and wheel, and chase.
There, standing mute as ghosts, Let’s watch the song-birds gay, How they chant and shift their posts ’Mid the leaf-verandah’d day;
Albeit the sun, dense-hid, Oft down the depths lets drop On your cheek and twinkling lid Bright spangles from the top;
Chief when, as now, the flight, That none forestalls or sees, Is felt of that outlaw sprite, The vague I AM of the breeze.
Sibylline, ev’n at best, Are Nature’s sounds and sights; Still something sours the zest Of her bravest of delights.
What a sighing’s now o’erhead! Lo, half the choir have flown! And leaves, all adust and dead, Are earthward whirl’d and strown!
O’er this bower of songs and balm A symboling change hath swept; And we feel a foreboding qualm Of truths but now that slept.
Sad thought-waves, one by one, Joy’s sparkling strand o’erwhelm: Then let’s out, once more, in the sun, Away from this corpse-wood Elm!
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Winter with the Gulf Stream

WINTER WITH THE GULF STREAM.
The boughs, the boughs are bare enough, But earth has not yet felt the snow. Frost-fringed our ivies are, and rough
With spiked rime the brambles show, The hoarse leaves crawl on hissing ground, What time the sighing wind is low.
But if the rain-blasts be unbound, And from dank feathers wring the drops, The clogg’d brook runs with choking sound,
Kneading the mounded mire that stops His channel under clammy coats Of foliage fallen in the copse.
A single passage of weak notes Is all the winter bird dare try. The moon, half-orb’d, ere sunset floats
So glassy-white about the sky, So like a berg of hyaline, Pencill’d with blue so daintily—
I never saw her so divine. But thro’ black branches—rarely drest In streaming scarfs that smoothly shine,
Shot o’er with lights—the emblazon’d west, Where yonder crimson fire-ball sets, Trails forth a purfled-silken vest.
Long beds I see of violets In beryl lakes which they reef o’er: A Pactolean river frets
Against its tawny-golden shore: All ways the molten colours run: Till, sinking ever more and more
Into an azure mist, the sun Drops down engulf’d, his journey done.
G. M. H.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/The Viking's serf

THE VIKING’S SERF.
I.
“Sing me a song that will make me young,” Cried the Dane to the captive boy, “A song that will stir my blood like wine.”
So he sang of peace, and homely joy,
But every Dane, with a frown of scorn, Clash’d on his target and blew his horn.
II.
Then, to soothe those hard and wolfish hearts, He sang them a lullaby,
A rocking tune that mothers sing
To the children upon their knee;
Still they would not listen, the thievish horde,
But beat their knives on the oaken board.
III.
“Sing us a song of youth and love.”
Then he struck his harp with might,
And sang of the eyes that had shot their fire Into his breast that night.
Then the old king kiss’d the ring he wore,
And cried, “My kingdom for me once more.”
IV.
They said, “Sing now of the Saxon shore.” So he sang of those long white walls,
Where the broad surf seethes and the breakers leap, And the galley rises and falls.
Then they roar’d, “Launch out,” and their axes rose
And beat together the wild tune’s close.
V.
“Give us a seaman’s song!” cried they. So he sang of the steady gale,
That fills with a full and constant breath The straining galley’s sail,
And drives, come daylight or come dark, To the Saxon shore, the Danish bark.
VI.
And he sang of the green surge under the cliffs, And the white wave spitting foam O’er the jagged snout of the “shark-tooth” reef, Not a mile from his Cornish home. Then every Viking cried, “To sea!” Hearing that song of pride and glee.
VII.
“Sing us a battle-song!” they said. And he blew them a trumpet blast, Like the shrill night shriek from a burning town, That makes the wolf aghast. Then they cried, “To sea!” and the galleys sprang To the waves’ embrace, as the captive sang.
Walter Thornbury.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"Weep thou no more!"

"WEEP THOU NO MORE!"
Weep thou no more; a common lot is thine! Fold thy meek hands upon thy heaving breast: In alien sympathy can be no rest;
There is no lasting joy but trust divine.
O, heart that long'st for death, but may'st not die!
O, weary heart, all wasted with thy pain,
That striv'st against the stream, yet all in vain, Weep thou no more, none hear thy weary cry!
The cold and distant stars are gazing still,
In the hushed midnight on thy falling tears;
Thus have they gazed, for many thousand years,
On all varieties of human ill;
And yet they shine as on Creation's dawn,
'Midst their eternal music. All things cease,
Sooner or later, lapped in perfect peace,
For nature knows no turning. All things born
Take sorrow for their heirloom with the light,
But wake and cry, and fall to sleep again;
So slumber thou,—in sleep forget thy pain;
White morn is breaking in the darkest night,
The billows fast return upon the shore,
The morn-dew on the myrtle to the sea;
Whence rose thy trust, there only rest can be;
Thither thou driftest fast,—weep thou no more!
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/The two hands

THE TWO HANDS.
A large brown hand by labour stained Four snowy fingers prest, As though a swarthy Cyclops strained A white maid to his breast.
And fondly did that brown hand hold Those fingers white as snow, As though it were a link of gold That would not let them go.
Time passes on. The two hands clasp Another newly given: As though they’d found an angel’s grasp To draw them up to heaven.
Once more the brown hand and the white Are linked. So cold! so fast!— As though true loving hearts unite More closely at the last.
Mark Lemon.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/Till death

TILL DEATH.
Two hands held in one clasp,
Two hearts bound in one chain,
Two bosoms beating warm,
Loving, beloved again.
Two smiles of fervent faith
On each caressing cheek,
Two voices soft and low,
As whispering angels speak.
Two figures kneeling glad
Before the sacred shrine,
Two vows of mutual love
Exchanged in sight divine.
Two coffins, side by side,
Beneath the daisied sod,
Two spirits dwelling in
The perfect rest of God.
Astley H. Baldwin.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/The three statues of Ægina

THE THREE STATUES OF ÆGINA.
Chiron, the sculptor, night and day,
Toils o’er his heaps of Samian clay.
The years of anxious care are past—
A masterpiece is wrought at last.
He breaks the mould, and, lo! appears
A rustic God, with wild goat’s ears.
The judge condemns—and Chiron yet
Over the clay must sigh and sweat;
“Not strength alone but beauty gives
The prize for which the sculptor lives.”
A second trial—Venus he
Has shown us rising from the sea.
Again he fails—for sages say,
“In art that wisdom must have sway.
That beauty, true, is flower and root,
Wisdom alone the ripened fruit.”
Again his lamp burns, day and night,
And, lo! Minerva, mailed in light.   The judges meet—the Archon stands,
The oak-crown in his wrinkled hands.
“All hail to Chiron!” is the cry
That scares the white doves in the sky.
“Why sits he, then, with upturn’d face,
Nor moveth from his resting-place?”   Pluto has call’d him. He is gone.
A shade that victor crown has on.
They bear hale Chiron to the pile,
Where the blue waves unceasing smile;
And there, in sunshine and in gloom,
Those triple statues guard his tomb.
Walter Thornbury.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"Two lives"

“TWO LIVES.”
I.
Two travellers toiling, ever parted, By a deathless love between;— Two travellers toiling—broken-hearted— Their work by each unseen.
II.
Two souls, whose star hath long been clouded,
Praying on separate shores;
Two barks, by love divine enshrouded,
Drift out as the ocean roars.
III.
Two travellers watching, ever parted,
For their love, on a far-off strand;
Two travellers weeping, broken-hearted,
Have met in a far-off land.
IV.
Two graves in one holy sod— Two throbbing hearts, now still;— Two glorious spirits gone to God!
To bless His perfect will!
Clare.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/To the swallow

TO THE SWALLOW.
Swallow, cruel swallow! wherefore dost thou come Glancing in the sunlight, by the gleaming river, Year after year, unto thy northern home, While youth and love are leaving us for ever?
Cruel swallow, calling up the memories Of happy years, of what can never be,— Of friends departed, gone beyond the seas, And faëry days of childhood I never more shall see!
And boyhood’s happy hours, all bright and golden, And love’s young dream in halcyon days of yore, Beside a gleaming river, in summer days of olden, Like a band of early blossoms, gone for evermore!
Glancing in the sunlight, every springtime coming Thou must be some spirit, set for ever free, When the yellow bees are in the meadows humming, And the golden sunlight floods the earth and sea.
Oh! joyous swallow, gliding on careless wing, Happy as the summer hours gone for ever by, Come not, come not back again with the gentle Spring; Stay within thy southern home, beneath thy southern sky.
For youth and friends can never come again; And love, if gone, ’tis gone, alas, for ever! Call not up the memories thou can’st not lull to sleep, Gliding in the sunlight by the gleaming river.
John Andrews.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Tidings

Translation of "Botenart" (1825) by Anastasius Grün
TIDINGS.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF GRÜN.)
From jousting homeward rides the Earl; To meet him comes his trusty churl.
“Halt! halt there! Wherefore run’st thou? Say! O whither wends my churl his way?”
“I stray in quest of roof and bed, I seek for where to lay my head.”
“Of roof and bed! Speak out and tell, Hath aught at home befall’n not well?”
“Not aught of weight. Thy wee white hound Lies deadly hurt upon the ground.”
“My true dog dead upon the ground! Now, tell me, what hath harmed the hound?”
“Thy charger sprang on him in fear;— Then dashed into the drowning weir.”
“My goodly horse! my stable’s pride! What terror drove him to the tide?”
“Methinks in fright I saw him run As from the window fell thy son.”
“My son! He hath not lost his life? Who guards then now mine own true wife?”
“When dead before her feet she spied The little Lord, she swooned and died.”
“If woe on woe so quickly fall, Why stay’st thou not to watch the Hall?”
“The Hall! Alas! what hall? Thine own In dust and ashes down is thrown.
“Thy dead wife sleeps upon her bier; The fire hath caught her robe and hair;
“The flames flare up from tower and stall; Thy men are burned within thy hall:
“Fate me alone hath spared to tell, In gentle words, how all befel.”
B. J.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/To the Alps

TO THE ALPS.
Eternal Alps, in your sublime abode The soul goes forth untrammelled, and, apart From little self, expands and learns of God. There, it forgets awhile the busy mart Where strength, heart, life, are coined with cunning art To common currency; forgets the strife For gold, place, power, and fame; the bitter smart Of disappointment, pain, and sorrow rife, Where poor humanity walks in the paths of life.
Ye are unsullied by the serpent’s trail Of sin and death, with all their weary woes; And ye do minister within the veil Of an eternity that never knows The changes of decay. Time overthrows Man’s proudest glory, but his hand has striven In vain to mar your beauty; as ye rose, When form and light to the young earth were given, Ye stand, with your white brows, by the closed gates of heaven.
Sarah T. Bolton.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Twilight

TWILIGHT.
Dewfall—and I sat and read
A letter wet with tears she shed:
First grief like a blight-wind blows,
Blistering life's summer-rose.   Gun-fire—and I tried to weep
O’er a face that seemed to sleep—
Far away from home and those
Who saw our love grow like a rose.   Sun-down—and a grey-haired man
Pores o’er life’s torn chart and plan;
Traces lines almost erased,
Traces letters half defaced:
By his side a faded rose,
Yellow, withered,—“one of those.”
Walter Thornbury.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/A lost love

A LOST LOVE.
So fair, and yet so desolate;
So wan, and yet so young;
Oh, there is grief too deep for tears,
Too seal’d for tell-tale tongue!
With a faded floweret in her hand,
Poor little hand, so white!
And dim blue eye, from her casement high
She looks upon the night.
Only a little rosebud —
Only a simple flower —
But it blooms no more as it seem’d to bloom
Through many a lone lone hour.
As they float from her fever’d touch away,
The petals wither’d and brown,
All the hopes she deem’d too bright to be dream'd
Sink trembling and fluttering down.
It needs no hush of the Present
To call back the sweet calm Past;
The lightest summer murmuring
May be heard through the wintry blast;
And the wind is rough with sob and with sough
To-night upon gable and tree,
Till the bare elms wail like spectres pale,
And the pines like a passionate sea.
But she thinks of a dreamy twilight:
On the garden walk below,
Of the laurels whispering in their sleep,
And the white rose in full blow.
The early moon had sunk away
Like some pale queen, to die
In the costly shroud of an opal float!
To the June air’s tremulous sigh.
All, all too freshly real;
The soft subdued eclipse,
Hand in hand, and heart in heart
And the thrill of the wedded lips;
Those tender memories, how they flush
Pale cheek and brow again,
Though heart be changed, and lip estranged,
That swore such loving then!
’Tis but the old, old story
Sung so often in vain;
For man all the freedom of passion,
For woman the calm and the pain.
Tell it the soul whose grief is read
In the poor, pale suffering face,
It will still cling on to a love that is gone
With the warmth of its first embrace.
Oh, ’tis well for the careless spirit
To weave the web of rhyme,
And prison the idle memories
That float on the breath of time;
But better for many an aching heart,
If ever it might be so,
To forget, to forget the light that has set,
K. A. B.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"Time's answer"

“TIME’S ANSWER.”
Time, with his hoary head bent on his hand, Dream’d of the buried past and turned his sand; When Folly’s giddy troop, with laughs and jeers, Passed by the Ancient and reviled his years. Next Youth’s discordant train approached the sage; “Youth is the time for mirth,” they cried, “not age.” The busy throng of life next fleeted by— Time marked and passed them for eternity. Evening o’er Mother Earth in silence fell, As a lone traveller approach’d Time’s cell: “Tell me,” he said, “O Father Time, tell me, That which to know I counsel seek of thee; Earth’s choicest gifts on me are free bestowed, I tread on Pleasure’s and Life’s brightest road; Wealth is subservient to my least desire— Love too inflames me with his sacred fire; Fain would I know to what these pleasures tend, Some cloy already—what will be their end?” Time bowed his head, and answered, ’neath his breath, “Youth, all these glories have their end in Death.”
A. M. H.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Aimless

AIMLESS.
Aimless to float upon the tide of life, Aimless, and therefore hopeless—saddest fate That man can ever know—with danger rife, Black danger to the soul’s eternal state.
Better to have creation’s meanest thing On which to lavish thought and energy, Than, bounding wishes in one daily ring, Content oneself to eat, and sleep, and be.
And yet, when darkness brooding o’er my soul. Hides the fair mountain tops where I would climb; When from earth’s valley chilly mists uproll, And my tried land-marks vanish in the rime;
Then, I could almost wish myself a clod, Who lived because he lived—some happy fool, Like sheep who crops from day to day the sod, Or lazy fly upon a stagnant pool,
So I might only be at rest—at rest— Nor blind mine eyes with looking at the light, Nor, struggling for the highest and the best, Fall from the summit of an Alpine height To the deep chasm of a starless night!
Anna Hagedon.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Al fin de la jornada

AL FIN DE LA JORNADA.
The gathered storm was ripe, the big drops fell— And yet she lingered silent as a stone, Gazing with wildered eyes upon the night, Whilst on her burning bosom for a while, Of twilight whispers and deep noonday vows The welcome shadow fell; one tremulous sob Alone convulsed her parted lips, in ruth That she might never see her home again— Her early-loved and late-forgotten home,— Nor the blue sky, nor yet the silent fields, Grey with the dew of eventide, nor hear The chafers humming aye their weary tune, Nor the deep baying of the wakeful hound, Far, far off in the distance, any more.
Anon she rose; a restless impulse urged Her steps towards the river; fast it flowed With current deep as slumber, the faint plash Of the dark restless water surging past, Washing the time-worn arches of the bridge, In concord with the never-ceasing rain, Made fitful harmony. All else was still.
The rain died slowly with the birth of day, The river still flowed on to meet the sea, The bright sky glistened through the frosted panes, And all the sleeping streets awoke, and all The busy hum of men arose to form The orison she might not join again,— She, whose nude shoulders, and long golden hair Slow cradled by the undulating tide, Shone in the early sunlight of the dawn.
F. M.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/"Bye-and-bye"

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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/"The Battle of the Thirty"

Translated from a ballad published by Hersart de la Villemarqué in Barzaz Breiz.
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The castle by the sea

Translation of "Das Schloß am Meere" (1805).
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