OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/John of Padua

JOHN OF PADUA. A LEGEND OF LONGLEAT.
John of Padua duly came, A grave wise man with a dark pale face, He sat him down with a pondering brow, And rule and compass to plan and trace Each door and window, and terrace and wall, And the tower that should rise to crown them all.
Ha! many a summer sunrise found Wise John at his great and patient toil, At his squares, and circles, and legends, and lines, And many a night he burnt the oil: ’Till the house with its pillar’d porch began To slowly grow in the brain of that man.
Long lines of sunny southern wall, With mullioned windows, row on row,
And balustrades and parapets, Where the western wind should wildly blow;
And cresting all the vanes, to burn,
And glisten over miles of fern.
When thirteen Junes had burnt away, The house arose as out of a dream:
Wide and stately, and tall and fair,
With windows to catch the sunset gleam;
Fifteen fair miles of subject lands
Girdle it round where it proudly stands.
Two hundred feet of western front, And chapel and turret, and acres of roof, And porch, and staircase, and welcoming hall,
And gate, that would keep no beggar aloof;
Three kings had died since it began, And John had grown old, and pale, and wan.
One day the builder smiling sat, His red-lined parchments slowly roll’d, His work was ended—the night had come—
He bound and number’d them fold by fold;
And sat so gravely in the sun, As if his toil had scarce begun.
Yes, there his life’s work stately stood,
With its shining acres of beaten lead,
Its glittering windows, row on row, That centuries hence, when he was dead, Should shine as they were shining then: A landmark unto other men.
And there were the long white terraces, And the great wide porch, like an open hand Stretch’d out to welcome, and the tower
That rose like a fountain o’er the land;
And the great elms bosoming round the walls, The singing birds’ green citadels.
They found him there when daybreak came,
In the self-same posture, self-same place,
But the plans had dropp’d from his thin wan hands,
A frozen smile was upon his face;
And when they spoke no word he said, For John of Padua sat there dead.
W. T.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/The head of Bran

THE HEAD OF BRAN.
For an account of this British worthy, see “The Mabinogion,” Lady Charlotte Quest’s translation. He was the son of Llyr, king of Britain, and said to be the first convert to Christianity in these islands. Hence his title, “Bendigeid, the Blessed.” Taliesin, the bard, the “radiant brow,” was one of the seven princes to whom it was committed to carry the head to its resting-place.
The Head was buried, looking towards France, in the Gwnvryn, or White Mount, site of the Tower of London. And this was called “the third goodly concealment of the isles of Britain;” for that no invasion from across sea came to this island while the Head was in that concealment. Arthur, “the blameless king,” had it disinterred, refusing, in his pride, to trust to the charm. And this the Triads term the third ill-fated disclosure of the isles of Britain, invasion and general disaster following it.
I.
When the Head of Bran
Was firm on British shoulders,
God made a man!
Cried all beholders.
Steel could not resist
The weight his arm would rattle;
He, with naked fist,
Has brain’d a knight in battle.
He march’d on the foe,
And never counted numbers;
Foreign widows know
The hosts he sent to slumbers.
As a street you scan,
That’s tower’d by the steeple,
So the Head of Bran
Rose o’er his people.
II.
“Death’s my neighbour,” Quoth Bran the Blest;
“Christian labour
Brings Christian rest.
From the trunk sever
The Head of Bran,
That which never
Has bent to man!
“That which never
To men has bow’d,
Shall live ever
To shame the shroud:
Shall live ever
To face the foe;
Sever it, sever,
And with one blow.
“Be it written,
That all I wrought
Was for Britain,
In deed and thought:
Be it written,
That, while I die,
Glory to Britain!
Is my last cry.
“‘Glory to Britain!’ Death echoes me round.
Glory to Britain!
The world shall resound. Glory to Britain!
In ruin and fall, Glory to Britain!
Is heard over all.”
III.
Burn, Sun, down the sea!
Bran lies low with thee.
Burst, Morn, from the main!
Bran so shall rise again.
Blow, Wind, from the field! Bran’s Head is the Briton’s shield.
Beam, Star, in the west!
Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.
IV.
Crimson-footed, like the stork,
From great ruts of slaughter,
Warriors of the Golden Torque,
Cross the lifting water.
Princes seven, enchaining hands,
Bear the live head homeward.
Lo! it speaks, and still commands;
Gazing far out foamward.
Fiery words of lightning sense,
Down the hollows thunder;
Forest hostels know not whence
Comes the speech, and wonder.
City-castles, on the steep,
Where the faithful Seven
House at midnight, hear, in sleep
Laughter under heaven.
Lilies, swimming on the mere,
In the castle shadow,
Under draw their heads, and Fear
Walks the misty meadow.
Tremble not! it is not Death
Pledging dark espousal:
’Tis the Head of endless breath,
Challenging carousal!
Brim the horn! a health is drunk,
Now, that shall keep going:
Life is but the pebble sunk;
Deeds, the circle growing.
Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran!
While his lead they follow,
Long shall heads in Britain plan
Speech Death cannot swallow!
George Meredith.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/An evening voice

AN EVENING VOICE.
O’er mellow wood and mournful stream
The shades of evening poise and fall,
The distant echoes dimly call,
Like voices in a dream.
The spirit of the dying day
Stirs with soft wave the gleamy grass;
Each flow’ret hears the spirit pass,
And what its whispers say:
“Take, darlings, take my farewell kiss;
Another happy day will shine,
With morning smile as bright as mine, With evening hush’d as this.
“But will it make you fade more fast,
Or pale your bloom, or dim your glow,
To feel that one who loved you so
Is buried in the past?”
The sun sinks down beneath the hill.
From peak to peak, from bole to hole,
Dies out the golden aureole,
And night comes grey and chill—
Beckoning the gentle spirit on,
The plaintive spirit, doom’d to die:
Heedless the drowsy flow’rets lie
Of the sweet presence gone.
O, fond hearts lost with passing pain!
O, slighted smiles that once were ours!
O, loved, that in our happiest hours
May never share again!
Ralph A. Benson.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/A wife

A WIFE.
The wife sat thoughtfully turning over
A book inscribed with the school-girl’s name;
A tear—one tear—fell hot on the cover
She quickly closed when her husband came.
He came, and he went away—it was nothing— With cold calm words upon either side;
But, just at the sound of the room-door shutting,
A dreadful door in her soul stood wide.
Love, she had read of in sweet romances,— Love that could sorrow, but never fail,
Built her own palace of noble fancies,
All the wide world a fairy tale.
Bleak and bitter, and utterly doleful,
Spreads to this woman her map of life;
Hour after hour she looks in her soul, full
Of deep dismay and turbulent strife.
Face in both hands, she knelt on the carpet;
The black cloud loosen’d, the storm-rain fell:
Oh! life has so much to wilder and warp it,— One poor heart’s day what poet could tell?
A.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/The return of the Firefly

THE RETURN OF THE FIREFLY.
“We’re into port at last, Fred, we’ve pass’d the harbour bar, I see the vane upon the spire blaze like a fiery star. The town’s in sight, I see the cliffs, the very torrent’s track, And the windows at St. Arthur’s flashing all the sunlight back.
“Fred, rouse your heart for this, man! just think of mother’s joy, And of our dear blind father’s pride in you, his youngest boy. Fancy how madcap Mary in a breath will laugh and cry, And, more than all, how one you know will greet you by and by.
“Nay, never look so white, man: remember when we lay Becalm’d for five long days and nights in Trinidado’s bay. You said ’twould bring back life and strength to heart and arm once more, Could you but feel the wind that breath’d along our own old shore.
“And now ’tis here: I smell the thyme and broom from off the down, I see the yellow gorse that girds the hilltop like a crown. I cannot blame your weakness, boy, my tears could almost flow, To think of nearing all we left three weary years ago.
“I’m sure they’re thinking of us now with anxious hearts at home, I warrant me they’ve heard long since the gallant Firefly’s come; And little Mary will have been, a hundred times to-day, Begging a peep through Walter’s glass, and watching on the quay.
“We’ll not be half an hour at home ere Katie will be there, Blushing like any half-blown rose, as modest as she’s fair. What! not a word or smile at that? as if I did not know For whom you’ve bought the shawl and wreath you’ve safely stowed below.
“Huzza! we’re come to anchor; I see the steamers’ smoke; A little time, and we shall sit amid our own dear folk. Come let me help you up, Fred, by this you’re rested well.” But the cheery words and loving voice on heedless senses fell.
The sailor boy lay dead and cold upon the sunny deck, A little lock of golden hair hung from his bended neck. ’Twas just as well—he ne’er could know that on his Katie’s breast Another’s child look’d up and smiled before it sank to rest.
A. M.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/A border song

A BORDER SONG.
To horse! For who would idly bide,
With a moon so round and clear? ’Twill merrier be to-night to ride
Than hungry-eyed sit here.
“The board is bare,” my lady pleads,
And shall we fast perforce? Never, while herd in England feeds,
And Harden owns a horse.
What though in our last border fray
We lost a cousin brave? As sound a sleep is his, I say,
As comes to churchyard grave.
Rather than toss on couch of pain,
Sinking by slow degree,
Who would not fall on starlit plain,
Or ’neath the greenwood tree?
The thrall of peace is all I fear;
No battle doom I dread;
There hath not died this many a year
A chief of Scott in bed.
To horse! and use to-night, my friends,
The moonlight as you may,
Till English valleys make amends
For our poor cheer to-day.
D. G. R.
# The Dial (Third Series)/Volume 75/Named Flamingo

NAMED FLAMINGO
BY GLENWAY WESCOTT
He stands on a jointed stick; his neck, the snake of snow black-mouthed, coiled on the almond- shaped body thatched with plumes.
First the yellow rays break (Cézanne said) leaving blue for outline, as of his foot, a flawless bone, fixed in the unhorned water.
Hard bird, he prefers with his eye the oiled silk leaves, the dome, and clouds like fur
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The love-cheat

THE LOVE-CHEAT.
I.
She loved me, she said, and she swore it; She swore it a thousand times:
She treasured my letters like jewels; She learned and repeated my rhymes.
II.
And numberless tokens she gave me; Her kisses were many and sweet;
And I thought her an angel from heaven While she was but a womanly cheat.
III.
She robbed me of rest and of comfort,
And gave me bright hopes in return
And now, by the fireside lonely,
Her letters I smilingly burn.
IV.
For loud are the marriage-bells pealing; The priest, too, is blessing the bride;
And she leans on the arm of another, Who once was my love and my pride.
V.
Ah, well! let her live and be married: Her letters are burnt, and I see
'Tis better be rid of such tokens, And keep the heart healthy and free.
J. A. Langford.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/First love

FIRST LOVE.
She was the first, the only star That shone upon my life, The summer of my days had set Before I called her wife; The leaves have fallen twenty times Beneath our trysting tree, Since the ringers shook the rafters In the belfry by the sea.
The pulses of my heart beat slow, With calm, uuflutter’d stroke, Till with a party from the Grange I pic-nic’d at the Oak; A stranger to our Forest ways, She came with Alan’s bride, One glance—I knew my love was come— The old indifference died.
The park, a summer’s walk across, Was famous in the shire; The porter at the crested gates Grew rich and blessed the Squire; I show’d the glade where ballads say The King met Robin Hood, I took her where, as boys, we cropp’d Wild strawberries in the wood.
The gardens and the orange-trees, The swans upon the lake, The gazing stags among the fern, The pheasants in the brake: These sumptuous signs of wealthy state She saw with sweet surprise, And I—— new light was on them all, Seen with a lover’s eyes.
When Alan blew his warning horn, My chestnut join’d her bay; Down the long grassy “rides” we rode, And watch’d the rabbits play. The dead sun in his crimson shroud Lay buried in the west, And Love was nestling in my heart, An inmate, not a guest.
A gipsy party gaily plann’d, A smile, a soft “good night,” And then I left the low white house, Just as the stars were bright:— Lost in some far, forgotten sea, The sailor on the shore Sights, to his joy, the ship that comes To bear him home once more.
The bride moon with her dower of stars Twice grew to matron age, Before my birdie flew away Back to her northern cage; She knew the abbey pictures well, She dared the haunted room, We laughed around the Oak again, And saw the aloe bloom.
A promise in the oriel won To crown my growing bliss, A drooping head, a circled waist, And such a binding kiss! O, happy time! O, happy time! It never has its fellow,— The one green leaf that hangs among So many sere and yellow.
Before the Autumn spent his wrath Upon the Rectory vine, I claim’d the promise that she made, I went and whisper’d, “mine:” May’s father trembled as he said, “Take her, a trusting wife, And cherish one whose love has thrown A glory round my life.”
Some days beside a lonely mere, (Lured by the waterfall), And then we settled at the Grange, For Alan took the Hall: How swift the lustres pass’d along, Sweet heart, with love and you, For if the sky was sometimes dark, There came a break of blue.
And ever, as the year winds round, And brings the longest day, We gather at the Forest Oak, Where first I met my May; Look, Alan’s boy and our maybud Are coming down the “ride,” Perhaps before another June There ’ll be another bride.
R. F. Sketchley.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/Long expected

LONG EXPECTED.
I.
In expectation, all the year, I watch and wait, I watch and wait; I keep within a court of state; Perchance, e’en now, the time is near.
II.
For who can tell the very day When he shall sail love’s tropic seas, Borne on by sweetest fantasies To golden regions far away?
III.
The spring-time comes, and hope is high, For winter’s snows are past and gone, The summer seems to call me on, The violets whisper “She is nigh.”
IV.
Sweet summer cometh, crowned with flowers, And then my heart of hearts is gay, For to myself I often say, “My love will choose the summer hours.”
V.
But summer fades to autumn’s gold, Yet still I watch and still I wait; I think—“My love, she cometh late, The days are short, the nights are cold.”
VI.
Then winter follows, dark and sere, And then I trim my beacon-light, To guide her through the darkest night, And so I measure out the year.
VII.
And thus the rolling years pass by: At times I think “She will not come, Perchance the way is wearisome And dark, beneath a wintry sky.”
VIII.
But yet I know she comes from far, As surely as the silver light, Flashing for ages through the night, From some yet undiscovered star.
IX.
And so I keep my court of state, With all my heart in solemn dress; With everything in readiness, I watch and wait, I watch and wait;
X.
Gazing towards the eastern sky, Waiting the coming of the morn, The first faint dashing of the dawn, Waiting and watching—till I die.
J. A.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Fair and false

FAIR AND FALSE.
There was a tender beauty in her face, A smile like magic, A mystic light within her soft dark eyes, Half gay—half tragic; As if the better angel of her life At times were grieving, To find that one so fair and young could be Ever deceiving.
For, shame to tell! she trifled with two hearts, With both coquetting, And so I tore her image from my breast, My love forgetting. Yet blame not all because deceit lay shrined In heart so youthful; For one false woman, trust me, you will find Ten thousand truthful!
B. S. Montgomery.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"Long ago"

“LONG AGO.”
I.
I had a friend, long years ago, I thought him all my own;
But he has long forgotten me, And those bright days have flown.
II.
We sat together on the sand,
We heard the billows roar;
We marked the blue waves come and go
Upon the lone sea-shore.
III.
Oh! little dreamt I, as I gazed
Upon that ocean wide,
And fondly thought our love would be
As boundless as its tide,
IV.
That even as the waves effaced
Each mark upon the sand,
So would my joy be reft from me,
By sorrow’s stern demand.
V.
If he were dead, and in the grave
Our friendship buried lay,
I’d still hope on, and patiently
Await a meeting day.
VI.
But he will never call me friend,
E’en though we meet again;
’Tis that that adds to each day’s woe
Its bitterest draught of pain.
VII.
I thought then, in my ignorance,
That we were friends for ever;
And knowing not life’s sharpest pang,
Dreamt only death could sever.
VIII.
But I have learnt, through weary years,
All that my hope was worth;
Now I have nothing to expect
Upon this changeful earth.
IX.
I never can have faith again,
Or trust as once I did;
I knew not what awaited me,
In the dim future hid.
X.
And yet, I know not, if he stood
To-morrow at my side,
If I could coldly turn away,
And spurn him in my pride.
XI.
I know that, if he took my hand,
His voice rang in my ear;
Though he grieved not o’er years of wrong,
But once more called me “dear,”
XII.
I know, I feel it in my heart,
I should be weak again;
And yield me to those tender tones,
Though every word were pain.
XIII.
Oh! no, whate’er may come between,
I never can forget,
Though he has long forgotten them,
Those days when first we met.
XIV.
My trust is gone, but in my heart
My love lies buried deep;
His touch will never wake it more
From its long, lonely sleep.
Iris.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/ANAMNHΣIΣ

ANAMNHΣIΣ.
What is that sacred well,
Wherein, as poets tell
(And they are wise),
Shut in its deeps fair Truth for ever lies? My tongue is silent, but my thought replies—
“Your eyes!”
What are those queenly stars That o’er the violet bars
Of sunset rise, One in the wave, the other on the skies?
How near my lips the loving answer lies—
“Your eyes!”
And what is that clear hue,
That frank wide-open blue,
That still surprise,
When from the lake its fringe of shadow flies?
Low in my heart persistent echo cries—
“Your eyes!”
So many sights around! Such musical soft sound
And witchery
Of airs that rock the blossom and the bee!
Yet nothing shines, or speaks, or sings for me
But she:
All things are shows of her;
And she, the interpreter,
Gliding above
The silent waters, or the sleepy grove,
Doth swiftly make this dead earth live and move
With love.
What if, in such a mood,
Her very womanhood
Should come in view,
With eyes thus bright, thus truthful, and thus blue?
Ah, would she halt and give my spirit true
Its due?
Arthur J. Munby.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Evander

EVANDER.
Silenus! my goblet is brilliant and cool, My bellying goblet of gold; Within and without it is storied about With the gods and the Titans of old:
How the merry light dances and flickers within, ’Ere it melts in a soberer glow. Thorough dark-dinted veins and deep flowery lanes Toward the dusky abysses below!
Silenus, my mother was rosy and fair When she charm’d down her Jove from the skies; She had light soft and rare on her amber-bright hair. And light in the blue of her eyes:
But no gleams ever shone on my mother’s bright hair With a lustre so strangely divine As the splendour that glides down the mellow gold sides Of this dear little goblet of mine;
And no hues were so rich in her beautiful eyes As the colours that vividly roam Through the violet deeps of the wine, as it leaps Round its hissing Charybdis of foam.
Drink! drink! The thick draught on our famishing hearts Like a dew shall fall luscious and clear; As it silently slips through our moist, ruddy lips Not a bubble shall break its career:
And if the sweet current be helpless to cure. What matter? ’Twill carry us yet Through a stormy delight to oblivion and night— And ’tis something, at least, to forget.
Arthur J. Munby.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/The knight's grave

THE KNIGHT’S GRAVE.
I.
Under painted cross and chalice In the flood of light,
Lies in marble, with Dame Alice,
Andrew Welldon, Knight;
Side by side, the legend sayeth,
These two lived and died,
And carved stone o’er mingled bone
Showeth them side by side.
II.
Nothing here, above or under, Of fanatic gloom;
No fool’s fear of death’s deep wonder
Spoils their simple tomb:
Seems it that the sculptor graved it
Only for to show
What the Knight and what his Dame were
Now they are not so.
III.
Merry cheeps of madcap swallows Reach them, darting by,
Changeful shadows from the sallows On their white brows lie; Changeful shadows from the sallows,
Constant from the limes;
For light friends go, if winds do blow, As in their ancient times.
IV.
Certes, lovely was the Lady! Eyes, I guess, whose blue,
Calm, and cold, but gleaming steady, Tender was and true:
Of a noble presence surely,
Dutiful and staid,
Worthinesse was glad before her,
Worthlessnesse afraid.
V.
Read beneath, in golden letters, Proudly written down, Names of all her “sonnes and daughteres,” Each a matron crown:
Deftly cut in ruff and wimple
Kneeling figures show
Small heads over smaller rising,
In a solemn row.
VI.
These her triumphs. Sterner token Chronicles her Lord:
Hangs above him, grim and broken,
Gilded helm and sword.
Sometimes, when with quire and organ All the still air swings,
Red with the rust and grey with the dust, Low rattles that blade, and rings.
VII.
Time was, Knight, that tiny treble Should have stirred thy soul More than drums and trumpets rebel Braying health to Noll.
No more fight now!—nay, nor flight now!
The rest that thou hast given In chancel shade to that good blade God gives thy soul in heaven.
VIII.
Somewhere on this summer morning,
In this English isle,
Blooms a cheek whose rich adorning
Herits, Dame, thy smile:
Some one in the realm whose fathers
Suffered much, and long, Owes that sword and its good lord
Thanks for a righted wrong.
IX.
Therefore, for that maiden say I:
“Dame, God thee assoil;”
Therefore for that freeman pray I:
“Knight, God quit thy toil;” And for all Christian men and me Grace from the gracious Lord To write our name with no more shame,
And sheathe as clean a sword.
Edwin Arnold.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Jeannie

JEANNIE.
Where’s the way to Jeannie’s house? Any child will guide you; Or ye may find the road yoursel’, The river runs beside you.
Where’s the way to Jeannie’s heart? That I canna answer: Hereabout or thereabout, Find it if you can, sir.
Is this the way to Jeannie’s house? As straight as you can go, sir; Down the valley, through the wood, And by the brook below, sir.
What’s the way to Jeannie’s heart? That I canna say, sir; A lang way up, a wee way down, In troth, an unco’ way, sir.
Some on horse, and some on foot, Comes hither many a score, sir: Wha finds the way to Jeannie’s heart, Maun bring a coach and four, sir.
Paul Richardson.