OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Sunlight at evening

SUNLIGHT AT EVENING.
Weary and worn, and old and grey, The light of my young life passed away, But a trace of its radiance lingereth yet, Like the western sky when the sun has set, With the shadows of evening closing round, And its dim mists veiling the dewy ground. Yes! e’en on the verge of the lonely tomb, One vision calls back youth’s rosy bloom; One memory still makes life divine, The dream of the love that once was mine!
Star of my life! yet lead me on, Till the twilight of sorrow is past and gone, And the morning of joy and hope shall break On the night of waiting, for thy dear sake. The undying love in my heart that dwells, Was sealed for thine own by our last farewells; And still shall thy name at morn and even Go up on the wings of prayer to Heaven. Then, e’en if we meet on this earth no more, I shall wait for thee on the deathless shore.
Emma.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/Sonnet from Petrarch (Lady! If I survive this bitter smart)

Translation of Sonnet IX by Petrarch, written about 1331.
SONNET FROM PETRARCH.
“Se la mia vita da l’aspro tormento.”
Lady! if I survive this bitter smart, And struggle on—in spite of wasting tears And weary sighs—to see in future years Youth’s radiant light from those sweet eyes depart Time’s silver mingling with thy golden hair; Thy dainty robes and garlands laid aside; And faded that bright face, that in its pride Doth make me fear to tell my love’s despair. Then shall I grow more bold, and dare at last To utter all my woe—to number o’er The years, the days, the hours that evermore In grief I spend; then, though the time be past For love and love’s warm hopes, yet thou wilt deign Some tardy sighs to pay for so much pain.
W.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Swing song

Contributor unknown.
SWING SONG.
As my little Johnny sat, With the feathers in his hat All a-blow, On the wing,
All a-blow— Through the shifting light and shade By the birchen branches made, To and fro Swang the swing,
To and fro.
If your thought, my bonny lad,
For a penny may be had,
Let me know, Out with it, Let me know— Darling boy, with dreaming eyes, Looking so exceeding wise, To and fro As you flit,
To and fro.
Oh, Papa, I haven’t any Thoughts at all, to earn a penny, To and fro As I fly,
To and fro. If it wasn’t so absurd, I do wish I was a bird,
And could go
Through the sky,
Like a crow.
What? So eager for a start,
Restless little truant-heart
To and fro
Yet awhile,
To and fro— Yet awhile? Ay! old or young,
While on mortal pivot swung,
Joy and woe,
Tear and smile,
Come and go.
Quaint, small, human pendulum,
Lightly may they go and come! Blessings, oh!
May they bring
And bestow;
While the clock-work of the spheres
Ticks away your chequered years— To and fro
As you swing,
To and fro.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Spring

SPRING.
I.
The violet beds are flushed again,
Purple and white commingled run,
And countless yellow daffodils Are flashing in the morning sun!
II.
I take the path beside the brook,
O’ershadowed by the hawthorn tree;
I love to see the crystal stream For ever falling to the sea.
III.
For as I tread the bright green grass,
Shooting towards heaven its tender spears,
Then many happy thoughts come back,
And memories of other years.
IV.
Full fifty winters passed away,
Full fifty summers quickly fled,
And many friends have left me here,
And many, many more, are dead,
V.
And well I mind a day like this,
Now fifty long, long years ago,
I brought my wife this very way To see the early violets blow.
VI.
But she has gone these many years,
(’Twas such another April day),
Into the land beyond the sun,
Where flowers of spring shall bloom for aye.
VII.
And so as spring returns again,
Again I love to wander here;
I think my winter must be gone,
And spring-time drawing very near.
VIII.
I love the flowers, the fields, the grass,
Lit with the happy morning sun,
And think, as by the brook I pass,
Sure, winter must at last be done!
IX.
One gentle lesson still remains,
It comes with every year anew,—
These flowers have waited for the Spring, And I must wait in patience too!
1863. J. A.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/"Taken from life"

“TAKEN FROM LIFE.”
I know quite well just now it’s all the rage (Especially upon the minor stage) To bend the knee to “woman’s heavenly beauty,” And prate about her eyes and not her duty. But, oh, ye men, ye men, if ye but knew How “lovely woman” really laughs at you When all her sterling virtues you ignore And all her petty vanities adore; When trashy compliments you think must please her, Though eight times out of ten they only tease her, ’Tis very like you’ll find to your surprise The real women “worshipping” despise. A woman true, to empty air will scatter Man’s fulsome words that crawl and lie and flatter, Content to be what Heaven’s wisdom made her, And fly the bending fools who but degrade her; Who make her eyes “bright stars,” or “gems of flame,” And find for every grace some sickly name; No “diamonds” shine in her laughing eyes, Nor “purest blue of heaven’s azure skies;” No “rosebuds” fair her “fairy cheeks” adorn, Nor “ruddy mantle of the bashful morn;” Cheeks simply blushing with the wind’s caresses, Eyes bright, and sometimes “silky-looking tresses;” Lips that may sometimes kisses “half invite,” But not “like Cupid’s bow”—that simile’s too trite. She knows that Heaven never meant An “angel” should on earth be sent; Such impious flattery she scorns, And woman’s proper sphere adorns. This is the helpmate that will please a true man, No “angel,” but a simple, loving woman. No “goddess” she, and well, right well, she knows it, In every daily act of life she shows it; A “goddess” cook! the thought is far too cruel, Fancy a “goddess” making water-gruel! A “goddess” hashing up cold legs of mutton! A “goddess” sewing on a stray shirt-button! Nay, nay, a true-soul’d woman well affords To rise above such worship and such words. Happy, if loved where she herself loves best, She’ll live and love, and go without the rest; The angel’s crown on earth she’ll cheerfully resign, Content if, duty done, she wins a crown divine.
Astley H. Baldwin.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/Take warning

The illustration is credited to the unidentified artist "Miss Taylor."
TAKE WARNING.
Once lived a comely maid who, proud Of charms before which all men bow’d, Wax’d over scornful; ’Twas in those good old ages when Our grandsires were but grandchildren, But human nature now as then Of pride is born full.
Altho’ this maid to lovers’ prayer, To lady-killer’s deep-laid snare, Bade bold defiance. She ne’er intended to remain A votary in Diana’s train, But form with some well-favour’d swain A fit alliance.
Years glided by; full many a chime Told new year’s eve when ruthless time Her charms invaded, But thought she not of tell-tale streak Which scarr’d her brow, of sunken cheek, Of pallid lip, of voice grown weak, Attractions faded.
At length still fewer and more few, Behold! aspiring suitors grew; At festive meeting No more did youth on youth advance, To claim her hand for distant dance, Nor combat for one witching glance, With heart high-beating.
“Alas,” quoth she, “I’m sore perplex’d, My beaux desert; the very next Whose means are ample, Woos not in vain:” but ah! no more, Did anxious lover seek her door. Young ladies, in your bosoms store This sad example.
N. J.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The story of Sir Arnulph

THE STORY OF SIR ARNULPH.
[Matt. xxii. 37-39.—"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."]
I.
An earnest man, in long-forgotten years, Relieved the maladies and stanched the tears Of pining multitudes, who sought his aid When death their homesteads threatened to invade.
II.
Blest with one only son (a gentle youth, Trained in the fear of God, and love of Truth,) He fondly hoped that Arnulph might aspire Disease and death to baffle, like his sire.
III.
But the boy, musing gloomily apart, Avowed at length the impulse of his heart: "To some calm cloister, father, I would go, And there serve God." His father answered, "No."
IV.
"Thou doest well to wish to serve the Lord, By thine whole life imperfectly adored; But choose thy work amid the world, and then Thou canst serve God, and bless thy fellow-men."
V.
The boy, still yearning to achieve his plan, Spake,—"It were better to serve God than man." "Pray God for help," the father said, "and He Will solve the riddle of thy doubt to thee."
VI.
So Arnulph to his chamber went, and prayed, That in his doubts the Lord would send him aid; And, in a vision of the silent night, A phantom stood before him, clothed in white— A form for earth too beautiful and grand, With crimson roses blooming in each hand.
VII.
And Arnulph asked the Angel, "Are these flowers Fresh culled from Eden's amaranthine bowers?" He answered, "Nay: these offerings are from all Whom God the doers of His will doth call." "And can I offer nothing?" sighed the boy; "May I not also serve the Lord with joy?" "Surely thou mayst," replied that Seraph fair, "In my left hand, behold, thy gift I bear."
VIII.
Then Arnulph said, "I pray thee, tell me why, In thy left hand the flowers all scentless lie, But in the right they breathe a gracious smell, Which long within the haunted sense doth dwell?"
IX.
The Angel answered, with pathetic tone, "In my left hand I bear the gifts alone Of those who worship God, the Sire above, But for His children testify no love; While these sweet roses, which shall ne'er grow wan, Come from the lovers of both God and man."
X.
The vision faded. Arnulph cried, "Alas! My soul was blind!" And so it came to pass, That the changed boy a cloister entered not, But with God's working-men took part and lot.
G. M.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The earth to the sea

THE EARTH TO THE SEA.
From his rock pillow and his bed of sand Old Neptuue rose just as the blushing Sun Came forth the eastern gate dispensing smiles O'er earth and sea. Old ocean's surface smooth, With azure tint of sky, like mirror shone, And scarce a ripple on its face appear'd, Save by the zephyrs in pellucid rays Disporting in their joy at dawn. Anon A solemn voice was heard upon the shore: 'Twas Earth complaining of the havoc made Upon her sons who travel o'er the deep. "Behold," she said, "though now so hush'd and calm All nature seems, the shore is overstrewn With lifeless men and wreck of argosies, Caused by the tempest which but lately raged. O puissant god! it cannot be that thou Shouldst pleasure take in vengeance on a race Who for a time, and for a purpose wise, Probative here abide, sustaining life By store of food abundantly supplied By teeming earth and sea. I pray thee, then, Consider their sad case, thy fury stay, And let them peacefully pursue their way."
The Seagod thus replied—"Deem not that I, If ever vengeful, war with mortal foe. 'Tis true that my domain is oft, like yours, The battlefield where spirits of the air, Æolus-led, in elemental war Disturb both earth and sea; 'tis also true That creatures of the earth and sea and air In these dire conflicts ofttimes meet their doom. But 'mongst all living things the strong the weak Subdue; and man o'er all lord paramount Holds sway; and, though with reason sole endow'd, In deadly feud against his fellow-man, In one short moon more of his race are slain Than in an age by elemental strife. We know these things have ever been; but then, Their cause and purpose are beyond our ken."
Old Earth thus saw how needless 'twere to roam— That all reform must first commence at home.
T. Farrow.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"Tempora mutantur"

“TEMPORA MUTANTUR.”
“First waltz? let me see; with much pleasure!”
She handed her fan to her aunt;
How we whirl’d to the deux-temps’ swift measure,
I fain would describe; but I can’t.
An oarsman would say that we “spurted;”
A sportsman, we “went like a bird;”
I shall merely remark that we flirted
In a manner extremely absurd.
And when all my twirling was over, And I and my pipe were alone,
My heart, I began to discover, Had ceased to be wholly my own.
As Paddy would say, “More by token,”
Our hearts must be made of tough clay,
For mine’s been a hundred times broken,
And here it is beating to-day!
And now I sit here in my attic, Alone, with a cold in my head,
And think, although somewhat rheumatic,
Of dancing in days that are dead.
A waltz, and but one! ’twas but little To live in my mem’ry so long;
But, at twenty, one’s heart is as brittle
As one’s love of sensation is strong.
I pick’d up a flow’ret which, drooping,
Had fall’n from the wreath it had graced;
At present, just fancy me stooping—
I’m over four feet round the waist!
The programme which held her sweet surname, I gazed on with tenderest looks;
Just now, I am certain that her name Would move me far less than my cook’s.
It comes to us all, that sad season, When a man has his waistcoats made wide, And his wife ceases strumming the keys on,
And carries her keys by her side;
When we will go to sleep after dinner,
And perhaps at odd times in the day;
When the hair on our head’s getting thinner,
And our beard and our whiskers get grey;
When we can’t hold our horse with a snaffle; When our waltzing’s no longer our forte;
These sad recollections I’ll baffle With a bumper of crusted old Port.
M. B.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The Carnival at Venice

​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/693 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/694
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/The Cavalier's escape

​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/697 ​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/698
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The three goblets

​Page:Once a Week Dec 1861 to June 1862.pdf/299
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Dionysius the schoolmaster

DIONYSIUS THE SCHOOLMASTER.
One little year ago and Syracuse, Great Syracuse with all its royal towers, Lay at my feet, as I leant back to hear The Lydian flutes chasing the flying hours: The Cystus-bloom, that scarce a day doth shine, Was not more short-lived than that power of mine.
I looked and saw the triremes in the port, And every trireme bore my purple flag; And everywhere the vineyards caught the eye, Wreathing each clayey cliff and stony crag, And o’er the bay I saw proud Temples rise, Built for my slaves to offer sacrifice.
My garment trailed upon the marble stone Out in the sunshine; but a soft green shade Played round my brows, and from the inner court (On this day year) I mind me that there strayed Ionian music, fluttering from the throat Of a Greek boy, who mocked the thrush’s note.
My cedar chests were brimmed with Persian gold, My vats with wine and oil were running o’er, My Babylonian stuff, my citron woods, Seemed in my treasuries to grow still more: Gold was to me as dust, jewels as stones That strew the weedy coast where ocean moans.
And now I sit upon a fig-tree stool, My sceptre for a ferule well exchanged, Plodding o’er Homer’s verse and Pindar’s hymns, From all my brittle greatness long estranged; And round me press the peasant boys, dismayed At my stern face, the badge of my dull trade.
Under this Ilex we sit hour by hour, The cicale droning on to mock the task That drones below, and in the sunshine fierce The sleeping tortoise crawls to rest and bask, While in the myrtle brake beyond the shade I see the green snake steal towards the glade.
Around me gather all the rosy lads, The stalwart ploughman’s sturdy, restless child, The fisherman’s rough boys, fresh from the gulf, And still from their hard trade loud-voiced and wild. My courtiers nor my parasites are these; Discrowned, disrobed, I still can boast of ease.
This is my tiny world, and this my train Of little subjects, trembling at my frown, Smiling when I smile, as, with weary brain, I hear the stammered lines of Homer’s rhyme, And happier than of old, defying fate, Beneath the Ilex rule my petty state.
And when I die, I shall leave gold enough To buy them wine to hold a village feast Each year upon my grave; and there the boys Shall bask and play, and slay the votive beast; And I beneath shall rest with peaceful face, While rustic music cheers the dim, still place.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The three hunters

Translation of "Der weiße Hirsch" (1815).
THE THREE HUNTERS.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.)
I.
Three hunters a-hunting merrily start: They go out a-hunting the milk-white hart.
II.
They lay them down under a tall fir-tree, And each of the hunters a dream doth see.
III.
FIRST DREAM.
“I dreamt the while I was beating the bush, Thereout in a moment the hart did rush.”
IV.
SECOND DREAM.
“The hounds they yelped, and away he hied, But I wounded him in his milk-white side.”
V.
THIRD DREAM.
“And when I saw him lie dead on the ground, A joyous blast on my bugle I wound.”
VI.
The while the three hunters thus dreaming lie, The milk-white hart runs swiftly by.
VII.
Before the three hunters have opened their eyes, Away far out of their reach he flies.
Blomfield Jackson.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/The three Electors

THE THREE ELECTORS.
(A FAVOURITE ANECDOTE OF LUTHER’S.)
Three princes at the Diet met,
The one was Pfalzgrave of the Rhine,
The second, Lord of Saxony,
The third was of the Nassau line:
And at the twelfth hour of the night,
When deepest grew the revelry,
Over the glasses and the dice,
They came to words both loud and high.
First leaped the Pfalzgrave up, and said,
“You see my country on the Rhine,
Its castled crags, its miles on miles
Of precious purple-laden vine,
Its sloping meadows, seas of corn,
Its mills, its orchards on each hand,
Its clustered villages and spires—
Say, is not mine the fairest land?
But then the lord of Saxony
Rose and rebuked his brother knight,
And cried, “My brother, boast not so!
As sunshine is to the dark night, So are our Saxon hills to yours;
For ours with silver caverns shine,
While your mere slopes of stone and clay
Glow only with the peasant’s vine.”
Then Nassau, last, so calm and grave, Stirred not, but said, “I boast no mine,
My hills know but the herdsman’s huts,
And wear no crown of fruited vine;
But where I dwell, I dwell at peace,
In loneliest cabins dare to sleep;
My crown, hung on a tree, is safe,
For me no trembling children weep.”
The nobles sate with bonnets slouched,
A golden medal bound each plume,
The flagons shone beneath the lights
In that old panelled tavern-room;
And when Nassau had ceased to speak,
The others rose with generous glee, And, clasping hands, cried out aloud,
“His is the best of all the three!”
T. W.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/A thought on Man

Contributor unknown.
A THOUGHT ON MAN.
In the long past, what time fair Science smiled A new-born thing in helpless infant state, One sang of all-inventive Man—how great His skill of art; how he could render mild The rough-maned horse, and bison of the wild, O’erpass the surging deep, could subjugate Earth, sea, and air, all things—save only Fate; How language he had learnt, and laws compiled. Yet scarce the Poet’s prophet-soul divined All that the coming years should bring to light, When matter had been taught to yield to mind, And Science gained the acmè of her might. But what though all else yield him victory? Man’s victor still is Hades—and shall be.
J. B. S.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/The witches' ride

THE WITCHES’ RIDE.
Come, come, gossips, now mount, now mount— Mount, mount, gossips, and spur away, Brown bog-rushes, or broom, or crutch, We’ve far to ride ere the break of day.
Will-o’-the-Wisp has flickered and shone Three times over my drowned babe’s grave; ’Tis time, my gossips, ’tis time to go, The moon is glittering bright on the wave.
Here our sisters come, two and two, The air is alive with their widening ranks; Let the seamen beware the sunken shoals, And the surf that lashes the weltering banks.
Queen Moon rides on, Queen Moon rides on, Where the thin white rack is gliding; We will chase our lady, all through the night, On our horses that need no chiding.
The clouds, like dragons, and camels, and apes, Will be shouldering round and following; Hark! over our heads the jet-black owl To the snow-white owl is halloaing.
Under our feet the tossing sea Is unto the mad wind shouting; O! woe betide the Fifeshire bark, That our mocking light is doubting.
We’ll ride fast after our lady the moon, Till Edinbro’ yonder grows small as your hand, The steeples no bigger than crisping-pins, And a long white strip the Bamboro’ land.
Back, ere the dawn, while the town is dim, With the pennons of smoke all blowing one way; When the stars slink in, and the moon grows pale, When the sun still sleeps, and the clouds are gray.
Come, come, gossips, the steeds are here, And we’ve far to cross into bonny France; We fear no shaft in the southern land, No guard can stop us with sword or lance.
We’ll halt by the way, a knife to toss Through the murderer’s window, to tempt him more; And we’ll drop a rope near the gambler’s bed, It will serve his turn when the game is o’er.
See how the corpse-lights leap and dance! Shining to guide us to horse, to horse; Now then, gossips, we’ll mount at once— For the churchyard ghosts are out in force.
We’ll brew the storms, and we’ll cast the fires, That shall wreck and burn, and smite and slay; King Satan will smile to hear of our work— Mount! sisters, we’ve much to do ere day.
T. W.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Young Nimrod's first love

YOUNG NIMROD’S FIRST LOVE.
PART I.
A summer noon is brightening Upon a joyous scene Of Beauty mid the chestnut glades, And youth upon the green.
One mingles with the festive throng Of girlhood bright and free, And scarce may tell who bears the bell Of that sweet coterie.
But when the light-wing’d hours have fled, The happy fêtes are done, Of forms that seem’d resistless then, His memories seek but one.
One of them all most loveable, One of them all most fair, With the blue of heaven in her eye, Its sunshine in her hair.
He battles with the dream of her, He fears to dream too much: But a soft hand-pressure comes again And thrills him at the touch;
Till in his wild idëal A cottage home is seen (He the proud monarch of the spot, And she its graceful queen):
A paradise where roses climb With music in their leaves; A bower of bliss, all clematis, With swallow-haunted eaves:
Till all the ties, that held so fast The celibate erstwhiles, Are broken by the witchery Of unforgotten smiles.
No after-breakfast stables— No weed at evening hours— But tender nuptial tête-à-têtes, And walks among the flowers.
Oh! Love, young, wayward, wilful Love, So blindly busy there, What wonder manhood waxes weak With maidenhood so fair?
NOVEMBER.
Perish the wild idëal! Perish soft thoughts like these! Let squireen’s stalwart spirit Scorn lover’s Capuan ease!
November’s skies are clouded dun, November’s dead leaves fall; The hound is chafing on the lawn, The hunter in the stall.
The lovesick youth is splendent in A coat of spotless pink; The lovesick youth has ceased to dream, And just begun to think.
And duties, that before were dim, Assert themselves right clear: “Shall rivals win the pride of place While I am mooning here?
“The scent will linger on the turf, The streaming pack’s full cry Will make the laggart’s pulse leap flame, The coward’s heart beat high.
“Stout foxes of the hillside, And did I dare to place In contrast with my love for you That pretty baby-face?
“And dared I rank a maiden’s heart Your noble chace above? And barter you for dalliant dreams And thoughts of cottage-love?
“Married—and lost—and done for— And stranger hands to guide Old Brownlock tho’ the bullfinch, Young Gaylad o’er the tide:—
“Away! the first wide brook may wash The madness from my brain; The first fence tear the fetter loose, And leave me free again.
“Thus, thus I vault upon my steed, Thus, thus I break the spell: My love, I fill my flask to thee; My beautiful, farewell!”
Ralph A. Benson.